Quote

Woodcutter. Cut my shadow from me. Free me from the torment of being without fruit. Why was I born among mirrors? Day goes round and round me. The night copies me in all its stars. I want to live without my reflection. And then let me dream that ants and thistledown are my leaves and my parrots.

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
Night
Fruit
Ants
Dream
Shadow
Torment
Live
Cutting
Copies
Without
Among
Round
Goes
Rounds
Stars
Leaves
Free
Mirrors
Born
Reflection
Parrots

More quotes by Federico Garcia Lorca

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Men like to pleasure us, girl. They like to undo our plaits and give us water to drink from their own mouths. That's what makes the world go round.
Federico Garcia Lorca
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I was lucky enough to see with my own eyes the recent stock-market crash, where they lost several million dollars, a rabble of dead money that went sliding off into the sea.
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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.
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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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If blue is dream what then innocence? What awaits the heart if Love bears no arrows?
Federico Garcia Lorca
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The dancer's trembling heart must bring everything into harmony, from the tips of her shoes to the flutter of her eyelashes, from the ruffles of her dress to the incessant play of her fingers.
Federico Garcia Lorca
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If I told you the whole story it would never end...What's happened to me has happened to a thousand woman.
Federico Garcia Lorca
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There is nothing more poetic and terrible than the skyscrapers' battle with the heavens that cover them. Snow, rain, and mist highlight, drench, or conceal the vast towers, but those towers, hostile to mystery and blind to any sort of play, shear off the rain's tresses and shine their three thousand swords through the soft swan of the fog.
Federico Garcia Lorca
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Green how I love you green. Green wind. Green boughs. The ship on the sea And the horse on the mountain.
Federico Garcia Lorca
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...I am the immense shadow of my tears
Federico Garcia Lorca
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Hail, mute devil! You are the most intense animal. An eternal mystic of the fleshly inferno.
Federico Garcia Lorca
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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
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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
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To see you naked is to recall the Earth.
Federico Garcia Lorca
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Life is laughter amid a rosary of death.
Federico Garcia Lorca
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Little black horse. Where are you taking your dead rider?
Federico Garcia Lorca
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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
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At the heart of all great art is an essential melancholy.
Federico Garcia Lorca
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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
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My head is full of fire and grief and my tongue runs wild, pierced with shards of glass.
Federico Garcia Lorca