The night below. We two. Crystal of pain. You wept over great distances. My ache was a clutch of agoniesover your sickly heart of sand.
Federico Garcia LorcaAbout author
- Author's profession: Poet
- Nationality: spanish
- Born: June 5, 1898
- Died: August 19, 1936
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Yet there were times when he did love her with all the kindness she demanded, and how was she to know what were those times? Alone she raged against his cheerfulness and put herself at the mercy of her own love and longed to be free of it because it made her less than he and dependent on him. But how could she be free of chains she had put upon herself? Her soul was all tempest. The dreams she had once had of her life were dead. She was in prison in the house. And yet who was her jailer...
Pearl S. Buck
I don’t believe in classes where students criticize each other’s manuscripts. Such criticism is generally composed in equal parts of ignorance, flattery, and spite. It’s the blind leading the blind, and it can be dangerous. A teacher who tries to impose a way of writing on you can be dangerous, too.
Flannery O'Connor