Quote of the Week:
[the bugler]…pitched his notes carefully to the freezing stars and drew them out like threads of Venetian glass.
(Laurie Lee: A Moment of War)
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The Bugler
Category: Descriptions
El arco romano de Medinaceli (The Roman Arch of Medinaceli)
La cita de la semana / Quote of the Week:
¡Medinaceli! El arco romano, imperial, mirando con ojos que son pura luz al paisaje planetario de aquellas tierras tan tristes…
(Miguel de Unamuno: Por las tierras del Cid)
Medinaceli! The Roman arch, imperial, looking with eyes of pure light at the planetary landscape of those sad lands…
(Miguel de Unamuno: Through the lands of Cid)
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Carnival of Light
Quote of the Week:
I had been looking on at a carnival of light. The ceiling had risen little by little and I had been unaware of an intervening space between the clouds and me. I had been zigzagging along a line of flight dotted by ground batteries. Their tracer bullets had been spraying the air with wheat-coloured shafts of light. I had forgotten that at the top of their flight the shells of those batteries must burst. And now, raising my head, I saw around and before me those rivets of smoke and steel driven into the sky in the pattern of towering pyramids.
I was quite aware that those rivets were no sooner driven than all danger went out of them, that each of those puffs possessed the power of life and death only for a fraction of a second.
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Silence in the Desert
Quote of the Week:
There is the silence of peace, when the tribes are reconciled, when the evening cool returns and it seems as if you were putting in, sails furled, at a quiet harbour.
There’s silence at noon, when the sun suspends all thought and movement.
There’s a false silence when the north wind flags and insects appear, ripped away from oases in the interior like pollen, presaging a sandstorm from the east.
There’s the silence of brewing plots, when you know that some distant tribe is simmering.
There’s a mysterious silence when the Arabs gather for their indecipherable confabulations.
There’s a tense silence when a messenger is late returning.
An acute silence when, at night, you hold your breath to listen.
A melancholy silence if you’re remembering someone you love.
(Antoine de Saint-Exupéry: Introduction to 33 Days)
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Bull-Fight
Today’s quote of the week is once again longer than usual: an excerpt from a book by the English travel writer, Laurie Lee – most famous for his autobiographical trilogy: A Cider with Rosie, As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning and A Moment of War. The first deals with his childhood, the second with him traipsing around the Spanish countryside in 1935 and the third with his experiences in the International Brigade during the Spanish Civil War.
The quote below is from A Rose for Winter, a book that recounts his visit to Spain about fifteen years after the end of the Civil War.
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Green On Red
Quote of the Week:
South of Toledo there was a green country still – green trees against brick-red earth, trees so intense they seemed to throw green shade and turn the dust around them to grass.
(Laurie Lee: As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning)
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Quote of the Week: Night
Night, when words fade and things come alive.
(Antoine de Saint-Exupéry: Flight to Arras)
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Quote of the Week: Church-Shaped Air
The late Romanesque façade of the abbey church is decorated with a row of frail columns lacking a base. Not touching the ground, supporting nothing, they simply frame the semi-circular arch through which I enter.
The coolness of the garden contrasts with the head of the landscape, the coolness of the church contrasts with that of the garden, it is almost chilly where I am now. The thick walls of a church prevent the outside air, the ordinary air, from having its way.
Suddenly I am standing before an arbitrary structure made of stone; its mere presence alters the quality of what little air has managed to come in. This is no longer the air wafting in poplars and clover, the air that is moved this way and that in the breeze. This is church air, as invisible as the air outside, but different. Church-shaped air, permeating the space between the columns and, deathly still, like an absent element, rising up to fill the pointed vaulting constructed of rough-hewn blocks of stone.
There is no one in the church. Enormous columns rise directly from the paved floor, the position of the sun casts a strange, static pool of light through the oculus somewhere on the right of the church. It’s a little ghostly. I hear my own footsteps. This space distorts not only the air, but also the sound of each step I take – they become the steps of someone walking in a church. Even if one subtratcs from these sensations all that one does not in fact believe in oneself, then there’s still the imponderable factor that other people do believe, and especially have believed, in this space.
(Cees Nooteboom: Roads to Santiago)
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Quote of the Week: The Blaze of Summer
On the other side of the closed blinds, in the scorched, withered garden, summer ignited a last blaze like an arsonist setting the fields on fire in senseless fury before making his escape.
(Sándor Márai: Embers)
A csukott redőnyök mögött, az aszalt, pörkölt és elszáradt kertben utolsó dühével lobogott a nyár, mint egy gyújtogató, aki esztelen dühében felgyújtja a határt, mielőtt világgá megy.
(Márai Sándor: A gyertyák csonkig égnek)
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La bailarina (The Dancer)
Cita del día:
El temblor del corazón de la bailarina ha de ser armonizado desde las puntas de sus zapatos hasta el abrir y cerrar de sus pestañas, desde el último volante de so cola al juego incesante de sus dedos. Verdadera náufraga en un campo de aire, la bailarina ha de medir líneas, silencios, zigzags y rápidas curvas, con un sexto sentido de arome y geometría, sin equivocar nunca su terreno, como hace el torero, cuyo corazón de estar en el cuello del toro, porque corren el mismo peligro, él de muerte, ella de oscuridad.
(Federico García Lorca: Elogia de Antonia Mercé, «La Argentina»)
Quote of the Day:
The dancer’s trembling heart must bring everything into harmony, from the tips of her shoes to the flutter of her eyelashes, from the rustles of her dress to the incessant play of her fingers. Shipwrecked in a field of air, she must measure lines, silences, zigzags and rapid curves, with a sixth sense of aroma and geometry, without ever mistaking her terrain. In this she resembles the torero, whose heart must keep to the neck of the bull. Both of them face the same danger–he, death; and she, darkness.
(Federico García Lorca: In Praise of Antonia Mercé, “La Argentina”)
Quizá también te gusta / You might also like: ⇒ Alegrías by Pepe Habichuela ⇒ Federico García Lorca: Impresiones y paisajes ⇒ Sketches of Spain: Castile ⇒ Sketches of Spain: Granada
