All One's Personality Is Embedded In Gloves

The Duende....where Is The Duende? Through The Empty Archway A Wind Of The Spirit Enters, Blowing Insistently Over The Heads Of The Dead, In Search Of New Landscapes And Unknown Accents: A Wind With The Odour Of A Child's Saliva, Crushed Grass, And Medusa's Veil, Announcing The Endless Baptism Of Freshly Created Things.

The One Thing Life Has Taught Me Is That Most People Spend Their Lives Bottled Up Inside Their Houses Doing The Things They Hate.

Only Mystery Allows Us To Live, Only Mystery.

A Nation That Does Not Support And Encourage Its Theater Is - If Not Dead - Dying; Just As A Theater That Does Not Capture With Laughter And Tears The Social And Historical Pulse, The Drama Of Its People, The Genuine Color Of The Spiritual And Natural Landscape, Has No Right To Call Itself Theater; But Only A Place For Amusement.

Not For A Moment, Beautiful Aged Walt Whitman, Have I Failed To See Your Beard Full Of Butterflies.