Besides Black Art, There Is Only Automation

In Spain, The Dead Are More Alive Than The Dead Of Any Other Country In The World.

There's No Doubt That I Really Have A Feeling For The Theater. These Past Few Days It Has Occurred To Me To Do A Comedy Whose Chief Characters Are Photographic Enlargements. Those People We See In Doorways. Newlyweds, Sergeants, Dead Girls, An Anonymous Crowd Full Of Mustaches And Wrinkles. It Should Be Terrible. If I Focus It Well, It Will Possess Pathos Without Consolation. In The Midst Of Those People I Will Place An Authentic Fairy.

Understand One Single Day Fully, So You Can Love Every Night.

Angel And Muse Approach From Without; The Angel Sheds Light And The Muse Gives Form (hesiod Learned Of Them). Gold Leaf Or Chiton-folds: The Poet Finds His Models In His Laurel Coppice. But The Duende, On The Other Hand, Must Come To Life In The Nethermost Recesses Of The Blood.

Night Of Sleepless Love The Night Above. We Two. Full Moon. I Started To Weep, You Laughed. Your Scorn Was A God, My Laments Moments And Doves In A Chain. The Night Below. We Two. Crystal Of Pain. You Wept Over Great Distances. My Ache Was A Clutch Of Agonies Over Your Sickly Heart Of Sand. Dawn Married Us On The Bed, Our Mouths To The Frozen Spout Of Unstaunched Blood. The Sun Came Through The Shuttered Balcony And The Coral Of Life Opened Its Branches Over My Shrouded Heart.