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; things which the globe kept and prepared throughout the centuries, so that it took presence in a sudden gift, sublime instant in which by his gigantic and noiseless brushstroke, God shows us his major productions!