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El Maleficio de la Mariposa: Primera obra teatral de Lorca

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Federico García Lorca

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“Lorca’s Spain: A Homage” Beginning with olive trees. Shadows. Beginning with roosters. Crystal. Beginning with castanets & almonds. Fishes. This is a homage to Spain. This mists dogs. This silences rubber. This is Saturn. Beginning with yellow. Eclipse. Beginning with needles. Insomnia. Beginning with baskets. The Moon. Who is naked? The imagination (wrote Lorca) is seared. This is a homage to water. Beginning & end.”

PoetryWaterSpainLorca
Book:The Lorca Variations
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“Oh amapola roja que ves todo el prado, Como tú de linda yo quisiera ser! Pintas sobre el cielo tu traje encarnado Llorando el rocío del amanecer. Eres tú la estrella que alumbra a la aldea, Sol del gusanito buen madrugador. ¡Que cieguen mis ojos antes que te vea Con hojas marchitas y turbio color! ¡Quién fuera una hormiga para poder verte Sin que se tronchara tu tallo sutil! Yo siempre a mi lado quisiera tenerte Para darte besos con miel del abril. Pues mis besos tienen la tibia dulzura Del fuego en que vive mi rara pasión; Y hasta que me lleven a la sepultura Latirá por ti este corazón...”

AmorLorcaEl Maleficio De La Mariposa
Book:El Maleficio de la Mariposa: Primera obra teatral de Lorca
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“Federico García Lorca, poeta e intelectual muy vinculado a la República, había llevado el teatro a través de su compañía La Barraca a las zonas más desfavorecidas de los pueblos españoles. Nada más comenzar la contienda, había sido fusilado sin más contemplaciones. No existía delito; tampoco acusación. Quizás, la falta que había cometido y que le había costado la vida no estuviese aún recogida en los libros de leyes: la incomprensión. Muchos hombres y mujeres con nombres menos conocidos, descansaban en fosas comunes diseminadas por los caminos de España. (p. 117)”

LorcaFedericoGarcíaRevolución Intelectual
Book:Tres cipreses: Novela
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“Those are juice glasses," she said. I smiled. "Right," I said. "This is how we drank it in Baghdad." I put down the steaming glass in front of her and wrapped the oven mitt around the bowl of bamia and brought that too, smelling it on the way. "Heaven," I said. I watched her as she ate until I caught myself. "I haven't made this in years," I said. Lorca lifted her shoulders, cocked her head, asking why. "I don't know," I said. "I should have. There's a saying in Arabic: Bukra fil mish mish. 'Tomorrow, when the apricots bloom.' Or, in other words, maybe tomorrow. I kept thinking that. I'd do it tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow." I was thinking of Lorca, of cooking again. But I thought of Joseph too. No more tomorrows with him.”

TomorrowBook TitleLorcaVictoria Shohet
Book:Tomorrow There Will Be Apricots
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“We didn't have wooden stakes in the ground. We didn't have burning brushwood either. We didn't have fish from the Tigris or the Euphrates. We did have fresh red snapper from Citarella, which I butterflied down the back; tamarind paste from Fairway; hand-skimmed olive oil from Tunisia. We had a small fire when Victoria's sleeve brushed past the stove. And when I threw a glass of water at her, we had a fit of laughter so overpowering that I had to help her into a chair.”

CookingGood TimesLorcaVictoria Shohet
Book:Tomorrow There Will Be Apricots
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