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At five in the afternoon. It was exactly five in the afternoon. A boy brought the white sheet at five in the afternoon. A frail of lime ready prepared at five in the afternoon. The rest was death, and death alone
Federico Garcia Lorca
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Federico Garcia Lorca
Age: 38 †
Born: 1898
Born: June 5
Died: 1936
Died: August 19
Author
Drawer
Lyricist
Musician
Playwright
Poet
Theatrical Director
Madrid
Spain
García Lorca
García Lorca
Federico
G. F. Lorca
Federiḳo Garsiyah Lorḳah
Federiko Garsii︠a︡ Lorka
Federiko Garsia Lorka
Federico Carcía Lorca
Phenteriko Gkarthia Lorka
Lorka
Phederiko Gkarthia Lorka
F. García Lorca
Federico Garcia Lorca
F. G. Lorca
Frederico Garcia Lorca
Lorca
Federico Garciá Lorca
Federico del Sagrado Corazon de Je
Ready
Frail
Alone
Sheets
Five
Afternoon
White
Brought
Death
Prepared
Exactly
Lime
Boys
Limes
Rest
Sheet
More quotes by Federico Garcia Lorca
The one thing life has taught me is that most people spend their lives bottled up inside their houses doing the things they hate.
Federico Garcia Lorca
Only mystery allows us to live, only mystery.
Federico Garcia Lorca
If blue is dream what then innocence? What awaits the heart if Love bears no arrows?
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The gitano is the most distinguished, profound and aristocratic element in my country, the one that most represents its Way of being and best preserves the fire, the blood and the alphabet of Andalusian and universal truth.
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I will always be on the side of those who have nothing and who are not even allowed to enjoy the nothing they have in peace.
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Just as the light and weightless vegetation of saltpeter floats over the old walls of houses as soon as the owner gets careless, so the literary vocation springs up in you.
Federico Garcia Lorca
In Spain, the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world.
Federico Garcia Lorca
The wounds were burning like suns at five in the afternoon, and the crowd broke the windows At five in the afternoon. Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon! It was five by all the clocks! It was five in the shade of the afternoon!
Federico Garcia Lorca
At the heart of all great art is an essential melancholy.
Federico Garcia Lorca
Everyone understands the pain that accompanies death, but genuine pain doesn't live in the spirit, nor in the air, nor in our lives, nor on these terraces of billowing smoke. The genuine pain that keeps everything awake is a tiny, infinite burn on the innocent eyes of other systems.
Federico Garcia Lorca
Little black horse. Where are you taking your dead rider?
Federico Garcia Lorca
What shall I say about poetry? What shall I say about those clouds, or about the sky? Look look at them look at it! And nothing more. Don't you understand anything about poetry? Leave that to the critics and the professors. For neither you, nor I, nor any poet knows what poetry is.
Federico Garcia Lorca
I'm satisfied. I am progressively making my life and my name in the surest and purest manner. If I catch on in the theater, as I think I will, all the doors will gladly open wide for me.
Federico Garcia Lorca
A poet must be a professor of the five senses and must open doors among them.
Federico Garcia Lorca
The moon carries the masks of meningitis into bedrooms, fills the wombs of pregnant women with cold water and, as soon as I'm not careful, throws handfuls of grass on my shoulders.
Federico Garcia Lorca
With their souls of patent leather, they come down the road. Hunched and nocturnal, where they breathe they impose, silence of dark rubber, and fear of fine sand.
Federico Garcia Lorca
Life is laughter amid a rosary of death.
Federico Garcia Lorca
Relish the fresh landscape of my wound, break rushes and delicate rivulets, drink blood poured on honeyed thigh.
Federico Garcia Lorca
Oh honey, there's nothing new on this earth when it comes to what men and women do in the dark. First love is when you learn. So you've learned that love can open you up like spring sun on a wee primrose. Good. Remember that. You know how to love.
Federico Garcia Lorca
While the poet wrestles with the horses on his brain and the sculptor wounds his eyes on the hard spark of alabaster, the dancer battles the air around her, air that threatens at any moment to destroy her harmony or to open huge open empty spaces where her rhythm will be annihilated.
Federico Garcia Lorca