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A review by jonfaith
شاعر في نيويورك by Federico García Lorca, فيدريكو غارسيا لوركا
5.0
The architectures of frost,
the lyres and moans that escape the tiny leaves
in autumn, soaking the final slopes,
died out in the blackness of felt hats.
Not wishing to exaggerate, I found this to be wonderful and perhaps my favorite book of verse in some time. Lorca, conversely, was prone to hyperbole or simple fantasy especially in his marvelous letters home from his North American endeavor.
His depiction of African-Americans might strike some as jarring. Such is foregrounded in both the poetry and the correspondence. It is interesting to consider how De Beauvoir in her letters to Sartre used similar language of wonder to describe such. FGL's Catholicism is also a penumbra, especially regarding Protestantism and his sojourns along Wall Street.
When you look more closely at the mechanism of social life and the painful slavery of both men and machines, you see that it is nothing but a kind of typical empty anguish that makes even crime and gangs forgivable means of escape.
The poet's arrogance is striking but forgivable. He claims everyone loves him. The annotations suggest otherwise. Everyone clamors for him to sing and to recite his verse. He comments on the cost of everything and notices minute conveniences which stir his amazement. He also recognizes the perils of the mass city and the unfortunate wage-earners who maintain its breakneck velocity. FGL deftly channels the Das Man of Heidegger. His sociological asides are interesting, especially when considering those of Stephen Spender who went to Spain a few years later: both appear intrigued and sometimes shaken by strange customs.
the lyres and moans that escape the tiny leaves
in autumn, soaking the final slopes,
died out in the blackness of felt hats.
Not wishing to exaggerate, I found this to be wonderful and perhaps my favorite book of verse in some time. Lorca, conversely, was prone to hyperbole or simple fantasy especially in his marvelous letters home from his North American endeavor.
His depiction of African-Americans might strike some as jarring. Such is foregrounded in both the poetry and the correspondence. It is interesting to consider how De Beauvoir in her letters to Sartre used similar language of wonder to describe such. FGL's Catholicism is also a penumbra, especially regarding Protestantism and his sojourns along Wall Street.
When you look more closely at the mechanism of social life and the painful slavery of both men and machines, you see that it is nothing but a kind of typical empty anguish that makes even crime and gangs forgivable means of escape.
The poet's arrogance is striking but forgivable. He claims everyone loves him. The annotations suggest otherwise. Everyone clamors for him to sing and to recite his verse. He comments on the cost of everything and notices minute conveniences which stir his amazement. He also recognizes the perils of the mass city and the unfortunate wage-earners who maintain its breakneck velocity. FGL deftly channels the Das Man of Heidegger. His sociological asides are interesting, especially when considering those of Stephen Spender who went to Spain a few years later: both appear intrigued and sometimes shaken by strange customs.