Entry dismissed the smell of books as he opened the door. A Holy Week in the last ten years, also with other steps for the same rituals. Granada then was, for me, Paseo de los Tristes especially Cuesta de Gomérez and the Alhambra. And Bodegas Castañeda, with barrels to sip neat concentric. And a look dark, slate-like skin, with a trace of Lorca continued to the hotel was the last house she lived. Also a library, as there is usually with all the walls in their scale of books. I bought two, which then gave: an old edition of The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse , by Vicente Blasco Ibanez, and in his edition of Adonais intonsa, The air does not return , Increase July.
was 1996. Song then, for me, no room was a memory, a photograph of enigma and youth, which recognized only the faces of Ricardo Molina and Pablo García Baena. Julio started reading one of those extra days, probably after a tour of the Albaicin: "Ah, summer afternoons in the quiet cities ... / Pale processions where bright silks, / soft under the sun that dies after the towers / Bishop's Palace, painted yellow. " Of course this was not the Passion, but the poem Corpus Octave. But that was Córdoba, and Granada and oneself. These summer evenings on the quiet cities. The solution of the book, and my time then, was nevertheless in the rain poem look ... not to write.
was 1996. Song then, for me, no room was a memory, a photograph of enigma and youth, which recognized only the faces of Ricardo Molina and Pablo García Baena. Julio started reading one of those extra days, probably after a tour of the Albaicin: "Ah, summer afternoons in the quiet cities ... / Pale processions where bright silks, / soft under the sun that dies after the towers / Bishop's Palace, painted yellow. " Of course this was not the Passion, but the poem Corpus Octave. But that was Córdoba, and Granada and oneself. These summer evenings on the quiet cities. The solution of the book, and my time then, was nevertheless in the rain poem look ... not to write.
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