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Quote by Enric Sòria

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Enric Sòria

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“Her Her thoughts fall like rain drops from somewhere above, And they remind me of her and our moments of love, Her memories rain as kisses covering my every thought, And they remind me of the battles of love by us together fought, Her smiles spread like the sunshine that lights up everything, And among this array of things, my heart too is one thing, Her eyes steal every view floating in my vision, And it feels like the most welcome treason, Her voice sounds like a conversation between the rose and a butterfly, And I wish she were a butterfly and this rose were I, Her presence feels like the most beautiful wonder of reality, And when I look at her, she appears to be bathed in superlative sublimity, Her tenderly moving lips remind me of Eden, And I wonder if she is the one, originally created by God as the most beautiful maiden, Her movements feel like romantic shaking of flowers by the slow breeze, To watch her in this graceful act puts my heart and mind at an eternal ease, Her expressions that adorn her face, Make me believe, that it is in her, Eden somehow hid its every grace, Her everything, her every act, her every movement, Wants me to steal her from time’s every moment, Her wonder invades me subtly and then completely, And I claim, “Irma I love you totally!”

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Book:They Loved in 2075!
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“Pensaba que las tendencias clásica y romántica eran representativas de dos estados mentales constantes, una acosada por el materialismo, la otra por la incoherencia. Acusaba al romanticismo de ser impaciente (para él “el pecado literario contra el Espíritu Santo”) y de crear símbolos ideales que oscurecen la luz. El clasicismo, declara, acepta sin violencia el lugar que nos corresponde en la naturaleza, y así moldea los acontecimientos de la vida de tal manera que la inteligencia capta su significado, aunque no esté expresado. Esta intuición del significado profundo de la vida y la consiguiente elevación del pensamiento es lo que entendía por poesía; porque la más alta poesía y la filosofía responden a leyes inflexibles. La poesía es una rebelión contra el artificio y en cierto sentido contra la realidad.”

PoesíaJames Joyce
Book:Mi Hermano James Joyce
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“En días que de Cristo florecían las semillas, Más de un ilustre monje, hoy poco citado, Tomando por taller el campo santo, Glorificaba la Muerte con simplicidad. —Mi alma es una tumba que, pésimo cenobita, Desde la eternidad recorro y habito; Nada embellece los muros de este claustro odioso. ¡Oh, monje holgazán! ¿Cuándo sabré yo hacer Del espectáculo vivido de mi triste miseria El trabajo de mis manos y el amor de mis ojos? El mal monje”

Poesía
Book:Las flores del mal - Baudelaire
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