Last month, I received a gift from my friend Simón, who, knowing my predilection for Joaquín Sorolla, sent a postcard...
Arabia is configured in this monological song through the trade that has fallen to him, the craft that leads him to a...
We lived at a ranch near Balcarce, at I don’t know how many hundred kilometres from Mar del Plata.
At that time of the afternoon when things wear out, / The labyrinths of six strings were drawn by the fire.
There are sounds we carry / Like hidden larks in our chest: / Larks that fly over underground streams.
The hierarchies are blurred by Gutierrez, and cooks, medics, widows, captives, high rank soldiers, low rank soldiers...
From the beauty of an idea, comes the beauty of its parts, and not the other way round.
In the middle of a night walk, / A bolt has retrieved the light of the streets; / And out there, in the abysmal strait
The blaze of a hummingbird hints in sweet shade, / Among brief petals that the year has brought, / Rolling out
O! King of time and fortune, / Listen, for I’m losing sanity / In seeing how, to a face sculpted
Translations of a series of Spanish poems by different writers based around guitars and music
Reading the pages in which Borges goes over the traditions of time, I decided to learn about the work of one Carlos Bruno, of whom he talked in some passages.
She looked from the 9th floor in the cross street of Virrey del Pino and Superí, with a green tea in hand and barefoot.
By the time Fellini was working on 8 ½, he couldn’t decide what the protagonist did for a living: “I felt myself blundering, I was on the brink of abandoning the project”.
For many years I have turned to this poem just to read that metaphor which I find one among the most beautiful: the brief lips as the fugacious red handkerchief; the impression of space into time, taking advantage of the coincidence in forms and turning the material reality into a spiritual one. Un brevísimo pañuelo rojo... que ondea en un adiós de sangre...
Historians look at the advances on their field by writers from other disciplines as mere fiction or entertainment. I — not being a historian — am able to find certain truth in the beauty of some works. History is science, it is art, it is philosophy, and to write history is to compose with these potencies.
There’s a moment in which the treasures of life are unveiled before two eyes and an unprepared soul...