Google Spain has paid homage to Federico Garc?a Lorca today
Federico Garc?a Lorca was one of the most popular and influential authors in Spanish literature in the 20th century, a member of a group of writers of the time know as Generation ?27. Their first formal meeting took place in Sevilla in 1927 to mark the death of the baroque poet, Luis de G?ngora. Writers and intellectuals celebrated an homage in the Sevilla Athenaeum, which retrospectively became the foundation act of the movement.
Lorca was born on June 5 1898, in Fuente Vaqueros, Granada and very soon the influences of Lope de Vega, Juan Ram?n Jimenez, and the Machado brothers, led him towards poetry and the theatre.
As a dramatist he was considered to be one of the best in 20th century Spanish theatre, together with Valle-Incl?n and Buero Vallejo.
Garcia Lorca? Spain was the Silver Age, inherited from the Generation 98, a group of novelists, poets, essayists and philosophers active in Spain at the time of the Spanish-American War in 1898.
The name Generation 98 was coined by the writer Jos? Mart?nez Ruiz, more commonly known as Azor?n. He wrote essays in 1913 titled ?la generaci?n de 1898? alluding to the moral, political and social crisis in Spain, following the loss of the colonies of Cuba, Puerto Rico and the Phillipines, in addition to the defeat in the Spanish-American war.
The doodle seen on the Spanish Google search page in Wednesday June 6th, on the 115th anniversary of Lorca?s birth shows two people riding through the trees on horseback. The branches of the trees spell out Google.
The image recalls the poem, ?La Casada infiel? (The unfaithful wife), one of the most popular poems part of his work ?Romancero Gitano?.
?La Casada infiel? tells the story of man who sees himself as a model for the Roma community, but this is preceded by summers of drunkenness.
... so I walked her down to the river.
I was really the first, she said
forgetting the fact of a husband.
On the night of the patron of Spain
I was merely trying to oblige.
As the streetlamps all went black and
crickets came afire.
When we reached the end of the sidewalk
I touched her breasts: sleeping.
They blossomed for me promptly,
no hyacinth so sweet.
The slip she wore, starched cotton,
hissed in my ear excitement.
As a piece of silk would, ripped to
ribbons by ten knives.
No silver catching the branches,
the trees loomed enormous.
And a skyline of hounds yowling
very far from the shore.
Passing the blackberry bushes,
passing the reeds and the bracken,
under her cover of hair I
scooped a hole in the clay.
I unfastened my necktie.
She unfastened her skirt.
I, my belt and revolver.
She, her petticoats - four.
Neither camellia, seashell
such delight to the finger.
Never a moon on water
shone as she did then.
Her thighs in my clutch, elusive
as bass you catch bare-handed.
Half, they were fire and splendor;
chilly as winter, half.
That night I went riding
the finest of all our journeys,
fast on a filly of pearl, that
never knew stirrup or curb!
I'm man enough not to be breathing
certain words she uttered.
I'm a clean straight-thinking fellow
with a decent tongue in love.
She was slubbered with kisses and sand
when I took her home from the river.
The air was a melee of sabers:
lilies raged at the wind.
I behaved like the man I am:
hundred-percent gypsy.
And presented her with a saffron
satiny case, de luxe.
But for falling in love? - not me!
She with a husband, yet
to say I was really the first
as I walked her down to the river!
 The Google Search logo today |
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