FITO PAEZ - LA DESPEDIDA

Cancion de una chica Almodovar

Fuente: Revista Ñ

Yo adivino el parpadeo de las luces que a lo lejos van marcando mi retorno
son las mismas que alumbraron con sus palidos reflejos hondas horas de dolor
y aunque no quize el regreso siempre se vuelve a su primer amor
la quieta calle, donde el eco dijo tuya es mi vida, tuyo es mi querer
bajo el burlon, mirar de las estrellas que con indiferencia, hoy me ven volver.....

Volver con la frente marchita las nieves del tiempo, platearon mi sien
sentir que es un soplo la vida,
que 20 años no es nada
que febril la mirada errante en la sombras te busca
y te nombra Vivir con el alma aferrada a un dulce recuerdo que no ha de volver.

Tengo miedo el encuentro con el pasado que vuelve a enfrentarse con mi vida
tengo miedo de las noches que pobladas de recuerdos encadenan mi sufrir
pero el viajero que huye, tarde o temprano detiene su andar
mas el olvido que todo destruye haya matado mi vieja ilusion
Cual escondida la esperanza humilde es toda la fortuna de mi corazon.

Volver con la frente marchita las nieves del tiempo, platearon mi sien
sentir que es un soplo la vida,
que 20 años no es nada
que febril la mirada errante en la sombras te busca
y te nombra Vivir con el alma aferrada a un dulce recuerdo que no ha de volver. Estrella Morente

Kevin Johansen - El Círculo

De mi Sueño a la poesia, Silvio Rodriguez

Un mundo de contrahechos
se esparce en la cartulina,
bordado con punta fina
como los pelos del pecho.
Pais en que los deshechos
son amados todavia,
es la comarca sombria
donde la luz se perdona,
porque alli van las personas
del sueño a la poesia.

En un sofa diminuto
posa minuscula gente.
Unos sonrien al lente,
otros cuentan los minutos.
Bichejos de rostro enjuto
se asoman a celosias
y carroñeras arpias
prestan garras al retablo,
mientras hace redonda el diablo
del sueño a la poesía.

Un pavorreal se pasea
por un desvan en penumbras
y a su paso, que deslumbra,
la oscuridad se voltea.
¿Qué transformo pluma en tea
de apariciones umbrias?
¿Que pasion, que melodia
toco el corazon humano
para conducir la mano
del sueño a la poesia?

Frases

Al contacto del amor todo el mundo se vuelve poeta..... Platón

You and I have memories Longer than the road that stretches out ahead

EL ULTIMO DE LA FILA - EL LOCO DE LA CALLE

1979, the best year to born

Flor de almendro

Shakedown 1979, cool kids never have the time
On a live wire right up off the street
You and I should meet
Junebug skipping like a stone
With the headlights pointed at the dawn
We were sure wed never see an end to it all
And I dont even care to shake these zipper blues
And we dont know
Just where our bones will rest
To dust I guess
Forgotten and absorbed into the earth below
Double cross the vacant and the bored
Theyre not sure just what we have in the store
Morphine city slippin dues down to see
That we dont even care as restless as we are
We feel the pull in the land of a thousand guilts
And poured cement, lamented and assured
To the lights and towns below
Faster than the speed of sound
Faster than we thought wed go, beneath the sound of hope
Justine never knew the rules,
Hung down with the freaks and the ghouls
No apologies ever need be made, I know you better than you fake it
To see that we dont care to shake these zipper blues
And we dont know just where our bones will rest
To dust I guess
Forgotten and absorbed into the earth below
The street heats the urgency of sound
As you can see theres no one around
Smashing Pumpkins

Rewind

Te extraño.... como se extrañan las mañanas bellas en Magdalena.....

Let Me Kiss You -Morrissey

Let Me Kiss You -Morrissey

There's a place in the sun
For anyone who has the will to chase one..and I
I think I've found mine
Yes, I do believe I have found mine

So, close your eyes and think of someone you physically admire
And let me kiss you, let me kiss you

I've zig-zagged all over America and I cannot find a safety haven
Say, would you let me cry on your shoulder
I've heard that you'll try anything twice

Close your eyes and think of someone you physically admire
And let me kiss you, let me kiss you

But then you open your eyes and you see someone that you physically despise
But my heart is open, my heart is open to you.

A ella que lo es todo.....

A ella que lo es todo.....

Incrible Ironman de padre e hijo... El amor de los padres hacia los hijo...

Incrible Ironman de padre e hijo... El amor de los padres hacia los hijo...

Frágil como pompas de jabón..... 2011

Silvio Rodriguez - Aunque no este de moda

Mía ~ Miguel Bosé

frases

Somos el sol que nace y el día que muere,con los mejores atardeceres.....
Calle 13

Juanes - Para Tu Amor

Paris je t'aime - amor de MIMOS (tour eiffel - sylvain chomet)

The Muppets: Bohemian Rhapsody-Queen for babies

You Are The First, My Last, My Everything (Barry White)

Serrat y Sabina. Esos locos bajitos. Concierto Bombonera, 2007

Carpenters Close To You

A nuestros hijos

Fotografia: Anne Geddes

Qué va a ser tu hijo?
Será un pedazo de cielo,
una pequeña estrella que podrás tener entre tus brazos,
y que iluminara tu vida.

Será una pequeña rosa que regarás con tu amor,aunque sus espinas te lastimen.
Será una ilusión,
una esperanza que hará desbordar toda tu vida en un enorme,
enorme sonrisa.

Será... como un pequeño torbellino que te hará girar,
girar y dividirte en mil partes para estar con él.

¿Qué va a ser tu hijo?
Será una flamita que hará arder tus fuerzas y tu vida misma.
Será como un pequeño tirano al que tendrás que servirle con la sonrisa en los labios y el corazón en la mano.

Será un millón de razones por las cuales tus manos harán milagros
inconcebibles.

En fin... ¿qué será tu hijo?
Será una sonrisa tuya...
Será un trozo de tu corazón...
Será tu vida misma...
Será la mayor alegría que puedas tener en tu vida.

OFFICIAL BIUTIFUL TRAILER starring Javier Bardem

Te espero_Mario Benedetti

Te espero

Te espero cuando la noche se haga día,
suspiros de esperanzas ya perdidas.
No creo que vengas, lo sé,
sé que no vendrás.
Sé que la distancia te hiere,
sé que las noches son más frías,
sé que ya no estás.
Creo saber todo de ti.
Sé que el día de pronto se te hace noche:
sé que sueñas con mi amor, pero no lo dices,
sé que soy un idiota al esperarte,
pues sé que no vendrás.
Te espero cuando miremos al cielo de noche:
tu allá, yo aquí, añorando aquellos días
en los que un beso marcó la despedida,
quizás por el resto de nuestras vidas.
Es triste hablar así.
Cuando el día se me hace de noche,
y la luna oculta ese sol tan radiante,
me siento sólo, lo sé;
nunca supe de nada tanto en mi vida,
solo sé que me encuentro muy sólo,
Y que no estoy allí.
Mis disculpas por sentir así,
nunca mi intención ha sido ofenderte.
Nunca soñé con quererte,
ni con sentirme así.
Mi aire se acaba como agua en el desierto,
mi vida se acorta pues no te llevo dentro.
Mi esperanza de vivir eres tu,
y no estoy allí.
¿Por qué no estoy allí?, te preguntarás...
¿Por qué no he tomado ese bus que me llevaría a ti?
Porque el mundo que llevo aquí no me permite estar allí,
porque todas las noches me torturo pensando en ti.
¿Por qué no sólo me olvido de ti?
¿Por qué no vivo sólo así?
¿Por qué no sólo...?

Mario Benedetti

Oh What A Beautiful Morning

Elmo and Jason Marz ¡¡¡¡¡¡

The Beatles - And I love her (My baby)

Madonna - Beautiful Stranger

Louis Armstrong - When You're Smiling

Frases

De pronto mientras ibas conmigo te toqué y se detuvo mi vida: frente a mis ojos estabas, reinándome, y reinas. Como hoguera en los bosques el fuego es tu reino.
Pablo Neruda

TINA TURNER WHAT`S LOVE GO TO DO (SUBTITULADA ESPAÑOL)

Frases

Yo soy un sueño que te sueña.....

Alejandro Jodorowsky

Ella sabe ....

Frases

Ahora me voy. Sigue jugando. Quita lo superfluo. Pon lo esencial. Mira al mundo con ojos desnudos: lo que hay en él, no es lo que él es.
Alejandro Jodorowsky

Mercedes Sosa en Cosquin 2007 _ Himno de mi corazón

Virgen de La Macarena

A perfect World

A Sofa Story from lindsey olivares on Vimeo.

Frases

Algún día en cualquier parte, en cualquier lugar indefectiblemente te encontrarás a ti mismo, y ésa, sólo ésa, puede ser la más feliz o la más amarga de tus horas.

Pablo Neruda

First Love

Anchored from lindsey olivares on Vimeo.

Y por fin veo tus ojos que lloran desde el fondo, y empiezo a amarte con toda mi piel...(♪)

Mensaje Cifrado- Rayuela Capitulo 7

Cuando toque el olvido-Ariel Ferraro

Cuando toque el olvido

" Aquí en los palomares de la nieve,
Junto a la luz que asume las más altas miradas
El Famatina brota por árboles de luna,
Donde vienen las nubes, a desandar lo andado.
Es aquí,
Donde al tiempo de la estación madura,
Elabora el verano sus fértiles arropes
Desparramando al aire su trigo de cigarras.
Y ovillando su sombra de corazón de hierro
Mira sus venas ciegas derramarse en el limo,
Como un alambre puro y anchamente mojado.
Que abierto en barriletes floridos de esmeralda,
Clavetea las uñas de los algarrobales.
Y trazando multiformes garabatos de savia
Sube a las rojas mieles pedregosas del higo,
Se enreda al cascabel forestal de las nueces
Y amagando bagualas
Se asoma en la pupila liquen de los racimos.
Por el hueco misterio de su abeja de fuego,
El Famatina crece.
De su cúpula, cóndores
Parten hacia las reses;
De su panal de plata,
Parten sueños de siglos.
Y el Famatina crece
Como una sangre cierta,
Por entre silenciosas campanas de sonido:
Leche adentro del oro;
Trueno adentro del vidrio
Alcancía celeste: mirador de los días.
Por el revés del tiempo yo regreso a la fruta
En tu orilla de piedra quiero sembrar mis huesos.
Y amanecer en polen
Cuando toque el olvido. "

Beatles - In my Life

Frases

... El presente está repleto de pasado y preñado de porvenir. ...
JORGE BASADRE

Nuestro Secreto_Pelo Madueño y Joaquin Sabina

Frases

Vive una buena vida honrada. Después, cuando seas mayor y mires hacia atrás, serás capaz de disfrutarla de nuevo.

toquinho e vinicius - a felicidade

all my loving by The Beatles

Pintura: Gustav Klimt

Close your eyes and I'll kiss you
Tomorrow I'll miss you
Remember I'll always be true
And then while I'm away
I'll write home every day
And I'll send all my loving to you

I'll pretend that I'm kissing
The lips I am missing
And hope that my dreams will come true
And then while I'm away
I'll write home every day
And I'll send all my loving to you

All my loving, I will send to you
All my loving, darling I'll be true

Close your eyes and I'll kiss you
Tomorrow I'll miss you
Remember I'll always be true
And then while I'm away
I'll write home every day
And I'll send all my loving to you

All my loving, I will send to you
All my loving, darling I'll be true
All my loving, All my loving
Woo, all my loving, I will send to you

The Beatles - All My Loving

Documental de la Campaña Marca PERÚ

El dragón y la princesa (fragmento)-Ernesto Sábato

El dragón y la princesa (fragmento)

" Un sábado de mayo de 1953, dos años antes de los acontecimientos de Barracas, un muchacho alto y encorvado caminaba por uno de los senderos del parque Lezama.

Se sentó en un banco, abandonado a sus pensamientos. "Como un bote a la deriva en un gran lago aparentemente tranquilo pero agitado por corrientes profundas", pensó Bruno, cuando, después de la muerte de Alejandra, Martín le contó, confusa y fragmentariamente, algunos de los episodios vinculados a aquella relación. Y no sólo lo pensaba sino que lo comprendía ¡y de qué manera!, ya que aquel Martín de diecisiete años le recordaba a su propio antepasado, al remoto Bruno que a veces vislumbraba a través de un territorio neblinoso de treinta años; territorio enriquecido y devastado por el amor, la desilusión y la muerte. Melancólicamente lo imaginaba en aquel viejo parque, con la luz crepuscular demorándose sobre las modestas estatuas, sobre los pensativos leones de bronce, sobre los senderos cubiertos de hojas blandamente muertas. A esa hora en que comienzan a oírse los pequeños murmullos, en que los grandes ruidos se van retirando, como se apagan las conversaciones demasiado fuertes en la habitación de un moribundo; y entonces, el rumor de la fuente, los pasos de un hombre que se aleja, el gorjeo de los pájaros que no terminan de acomodarse en sus nidos, el lejano grito de un niño, comienzan a notarse con extraña gravedad. Un misterioso acontecimiento se produce en esos momentos: anochece. Y todo es diferente: los árboles, los bancos, los jubilados que encienden alguna fogata con hojas secas, la sirena de un barco en la Dársena Sur, el distante eco de la ciudad. Esa hora en que todo entra en una existencia más profunda y enigmática. Y también más temible, para los seres solitarios que a esa hora permanecen callados y pensativos en los bancos de las plazas y parques de Buenos Aires. "

Annie Hall ending

Woody Allen, The Art of Humor No. 1

Interviewed by Michiko Kakutani

As New Yorkers know, Woody Allen is one of its more ubiquitous citizens—at courtside in Madison Square Garden watching the Knicks, at Michael’s Pub on Monday evenings playing the clarinet, on occasion at Elaine’s Restaurant at his usual table. Yet he could hardly be considered outgoing: shy on acquaintance, he once expressed an intense desire to return to the womb—“anybody’s.” In fact, his career is one of prodigious effort in a number of disciplines—literature, the theater, and motion pictures. “I’m a compulsive worker,” he once said. “What I really like to do best is whatever I’m not doing at the moment.”

Allen’s career in comedy began as a teenager when he submitted jokes to an advertising firm. In 1953, after what he called a “brief abortive year in college,” he left school to become a gag-writer for Garry Moore and Sid Caesar. In the early 1960s, his stand-up routines in the comedy clubs of Greenwich Village gained him considerable recognition, and eventually several television appearances. In 1965, shortly after he produced three successful comedy records, Allen made his debut as an actor and screenwriter in What’s New, Pussycat? His 1969 film, Take the Money and Run, was the first project that he not only wrote and starred in, but directed as well. Though many of his early films (Bananas, Sleeper, Love and Death) were critically acclaimed, it wasn’t until 1977 and the release of Annie Hall, which won four Academy Awards, that Allen was recognized as an extraordinary force in the American cinema. Fifteen of his motion pictures have appeared since, which works out at almost a movie a year. He has also written several Broadway plays, the most successful of them, Don’t Drink the Water and Play It Again, Sam, were also made into films.

Allen has written three collections of short pieces, many of which first appeared in The New Yorker: Getting Even, Without Feathers, and Side Effects.

The major portion of this interview, much of which was conducted by Michiko Kakutani over dinner at Elaine’s Restaurant, was completed in 1985. Since then, the editors—by correspondence and conversations with Mr. Allen over the phone—have brought it up to date.



INTERVIEWER

Do you think the humorist tends to look at the world in a slightly different way?

WOODY ALLEN

Yes. I think if you have a comic perspective, almost anything that happens you tend to put through a comic filter. It’s a way of coping in the short term, but has no long term effect and requires constant, endless renewal. Hence people talk of comics who are “always on.” It’s like constantly drugging your sensibility so you can get by with less pain.

INTERVIEWER

That’s very unique, don’t you think?

ALLEN

It’s one way of dealing with life. People think it’s very hard to be funny but it’s an interesting thing. If you can do it, it’s not hard at all. It would be like if I said to somebody who can draw very well, My God, I could take a pencil and paper all day long and never be able to draw that horse. I can’t do it, and you’ve done it so perfectly. And the other person feels, This is nothing. I’ve been doing this since I was four years old. That’s how you feel about comedy—if you can do it, you know, it’s really nothing. It’s not that the end product is nothing, but the process is simple. Of course, there are just some people that are authentically funny, and some people that are not. It’s a freak of nature.

INTERVIEWER

Who were the writers who made you first want to write?

ALLEN

I remember the first person I ever laughed at while reading was Max Shulman. I was fifteen. I have a couple of old books of his. The one that I found the funniest was The Zebra Derby . . . funny in a broad sort of way, though you have to appreciate the context within which it’s written, since it’s about veterans returning here after World War II, returning to the land of promise. Then I discovered Robert Benchley and S. J. Perelman, two other very funny writers who were truly great masters. I met Perelman at Elaine’s restaurant one night. I came in with Marshall Brickman and a waiter came over and gave me a card. On the back it said something like, Would love you to come over and join me for a celery tonic. I figured, Oh, it’s some out-of-town tourist, and I threw the card away. About an hour and a half later, someone said, You know, it’s from S. J. Perelman, so I retrieved the card from the floor. It said “S. J. Perelman,” and I raced around to where he was sitting around the corner and we joined him. I’d met him before and to me he was always warm and friendly. I’ve read he could be difficult, but I never saw that side of him.

INTERVIEWER

When did you start writing?

ALLEN

Before I could read. I’d always wanted to write. Before that—I made up tales. I was always creating stories for class. For the most part, I was never as much a fan of comic writers as serious writers. But I found myself able to write in a comic mode, at first directly imitative of Shulman or sometimes of Perelman. In my brief abortive year in college I’d hand in my papers, all of them written in a bad (or good) derivation of Shulman. I had no sense of myself at all.

INTERVIEWER

How did you discover your own voice? Did it happen gradually?

ALLEN

No, it was quite accidental. I had given up writing prose completely and gone into television writing. I wanted to write for the theater and at the same time I was doing a cabaret act as a comedian. One day Playboy magazine asked me to write something for them, because I was an emerging comedian and I wrote this piece on chess. At that time I was almost married—but not quite yet—to Louise Lasser; she read it and said, Gee, I think this is good. You should really send this over to The New Yorker. To me, as to everyone else of my generation, The New Yorker was hallowed ground. Anyhow, on a lark I did. I was shocked when I got this phone call back saying that if I’d make a few changes, they’d print it. So I went over there and made the few changes, and they ran it. It was a big boost to my confidence. So I figured, Well, I think I’ll write something else for them. The second or third thing I sent to The New Yorker was very Perelmanesque in style. They printed it but comments were that it was dangerously derivative and I agreed. So both The New Yorker and I looked out for that in subsequent pieces that I sent over there. I did finally get further and further away from him. Perelman, of course, was as complex as could be—a very rich kind of humor. As I went on I tried to simplify.

INTERVIEWER

Was this a parallel development to what you were trying to do in your films?

ALLEN

I don’t think of them as parallel. My experience has been that writing for the different mediums are very separate undertakings. Writing for the stage is completely different from writing for film and both are completely different from writing prose. The most demanding is writing prose, I think, because when you’re finished, it’s the end product. You can’t change it. In a play, it’s far from the end product. The script serves as a vehicle for the actors and director to develop characters. With films, I just scribble a couple of notes for a scene. You don’t have to do any writing at all, you just have your notes for the scene, which are written with the actors and the camera in mind. The actual script is a necessity for casting and budgeting, but the end product often doesn’t bear much resemblance to the script—at least in my case.

INTERVIEWER

So you would have much more control over something like a novel.

ALLEN

That’s one of its appeals—that you have the control over it. Another great appeal is that when you’re finished you can tear it up and throw it away. Whereas, when you make a movie, you can’t do that. You have to put it out there even if you don’t like it. I might add, the hours are better if you’re a prose writer. It’s much more fun to wake up in the morning, just drift into the next room and be alone and write, than it is to wake up in the morning and have to go shoot a film. Movies are a big demand. It’s a physical job. You’ve got to be someplace, on schedule, on time. And you are dependent on people. I know Norman Mailer said that if he had started his career today he might be in film rather than a novelist. I think films are a younger man’s enterprise. For the most part it’s strenuous. Beyond a certain point, I don’t think I want that exertion; I mean I don’t want to feel that my whole life I’m going to have to wake up at six in the morning, be out of the house at seven so I can be out on some freezing street or some dull meadow shooting. That’s not all that thrilling. It’s fun to putter around the house, stay home. Tennessee Williams said the annoying thing about plays is that you have to produce them—you can’t just write them and throw them in the drawer. That’s because when you finish writing a script, you’ve transcended it and you want to move on. With a book, you can. So the impulse seems always to be a novelist. It’s a very desirable thing. One thinks about Colette sitting in her Parisian apartment, looking out the window and writing. It’s a very seductive life. Actually, I wrote a first draft of a novel in Paris when I was doing Love and Death. I have it at home, all handwritten, lying in my drawer on graph paper—I’ve had it that way for years. I’ve sort of been saving it for when I’m energyless and not able to film anymore. I don’t want to do it while I still have enough vigor to get out there early in the morning and film. It’s a good thing to look forward to a novel. I know one day they’ll either pull the plug on me for filming and say, We don’t want you to do this anymore, or I’ll get tired of doing it. I hope the novel’s all right. I mean, it’s no great shakes, but it’s a novel, a story that could only be told that way. I’ve thought at times of taking the idea and making it into a play or a film, but oddly it doesn’t work that way. If it works at all, it’s a novel. It happens in the prose.

INTERVIEWER

How did this novel come about? Had you thought about doing it for a long time?

ALLEN

Not really. I started on page one. It’s an old habit from writing for the stage. I can’t conceive of writing the third act before the first, or a fragment of the second act out of order. The events that occur later—the interaction between characters, the development of the plot—are so dependent on the action that takes place in the beginning. I can’t conceive of doing it out of sequence. I love the classic narrative form in a play. I love it in the novel. I don’t enjoy novels that aren’t basically clear stories. To sit down with Balzac or Tolstoy is, in addition to all else, great entertainment. With a play, when the curtain goes up and people are in garbage cans, I know I may admire the idea cerebrally, but it won’t mean as much to me. I’ve seen Beckett, along with many lesser avant-gardists, and many contemporary plays, and I can say yes, that’s clever and deep but I don’t really care. But when I watch Chekhov or O’Neill—where it’s men and women in human, classic crises—that I like. I know that it’s very unfashionable to say at this time, but things based, for example, on “language”—the clever rhythms of speech—I really don’t care for. I want to hear people speaking plainly if at times poetically. When you see Death of a Salesman or A Streetcar Named Desire you’re interested in the people and you want to see what happens next. When I had an idea for the play I wrote for Lincoln Center—The Floating Lightbulb—I was determined that I was going to write about regular people in a simple situation. I deliberately tried to avoid anything more elaborate than that. In film, oddly enough, I don’t feel as much that way. I’m more amenable in film to distortions of time and abstractions.

INTERVIEWER

A lot of writers find it very hard to get started on the next project, to find an idea they really want to work on . . .

ALLEN

Probably they are casting aside ideas that are as good as the ideas I choose to work on. I’ll think of an idea walking down the street, and I’ll mark it down immediately. And I always want to make it into something. I’ve never had a block. I’m talking within the limits of my abilities. But in my own small way, I’ve had an embarrassment of riches. I’ll have five ideas and I’m dying to do them all. It takes weeks or months where I agonize and obsess over which to do next. I wish sometimes someone would choose for me. If someone said, Do idea number three next, that would be fine. But I have never had any sense of running dry. People always ask me, Do you ever think you’ll wake up one morning and not be funny? That thought would never occur to me—it’s an odd thought and not realistic. Because funny and me are not separate. We’re one. The best time to me is when I’m through with a project and deciding about a new one. That’s because it’s at a period when reality has not yet set in. The idea in your mind’s eye is so wonderful, and you fantasize it in the perfect flash of a second—just beautifully conceived. But then when you have to execute it, it doesn’t come out as you’d fantasized. Production is where the problems begin, where reality starts to set in. As I was saying before, the closest I ever come to realizing the concept is in prose. Most of the things that I’ve written and published, I’ve felt that I executed my original idea pretty much to my satisfaction. But I’ve never, ever felt that, not even close, about anything I’ve written for film or the stage. I always felt I had such a dazzling idea—where did I go wrong? You go wrong from the first day. Everything’s a compromise. For instance, you’re not going to get Marlon Brando to do your script, you’re going to get someone lesser. The room you see in your mind’s eye is not the room you’re filming in. It’s always a question of high aims, grandiose dreams, great bravado and confidence, and great courage at the typewriter; and then, when I’m in the midst of finishing a picture and everything’s gone horribly wrong and I’ve reedited it and reshot it and tried to fix it, then it’s merely a struggle for survival. You’re happy only to be alive. Gone are all the exalted goals and aims, all the uncompromising notions of a perfect work of art, and you’re just fighting so people won’t storm up the aisles with tar and feathers. With many of my films—almost all—if I’d been able to get on screen what I conceived, they would have been much better pictures. Fortunately, the public doesn’t know about how great the picture played in my head was, so I get away with it.

INTERVIEWER

How do you actually work? What are your tools?

ALLEN

I’ve written on legal pads, hotel stationery, anything I can get my hands on. I have no finickiness about anything like that. I write in hotel rooms, in my house, with other people around, on matchbooks. I have no problems with it—to the meager limits that I can do it. There have been stories where I’ve just sat down at the typewriter and typed straight through beginning to end. There are some New Yorker pieces I’ve written out in forty minutes time. And there are other things I’ve just struggled and agonized over for weeks and weeks. It’s very haphazard. Take two movies—one movie that was not critically successful was A Midsummer Night’s Sex Comedy. I wrote that thing in no time. It just came out in six days—everything in perfect shape. I did it, and it was not well received. Whereas Annie Hall was just endless—totally changing things. There was as much material on the cutting-room floor as there was in the picture—I went back five times to reshoot. And it was well received. On the other hand, the exact opposite has happened to me where I’ve done things that just flowed easily and were very well received. And things I agonized over were not. I’ve found no correlation at all. But, if you can do it, it’s not really very hard . . . nor is it as tremendous an achievement as one who can’t do it thinks. For instance, when I was sixteen years old I got my first job. It was as a comedy writer for an advertising agency in New York. I would come into this advertising agency every single day after school and I would write jokes for them. They would attribute these jokes to their clients and put them in the newspaper columns. I would get on the subway—the train quite crowded—and, straphanging, I’d take out a pencil and by the time I’d gotten out I’d have written forty or fifty jokes . . . fifty jokes a day for years. People would say to me, I don’t believe it—fifty jokes a day and writing them on the train. Believe me, it was no big deal. Whereas I’ll look at someone who can compose a piece of music—I don’t know how they ever begin or end or what! But because I could always write, it was nothing. I could always do it—within my limitations. So it was never hard. I think if I’d had a better education, a better upbringing, and perhaps had a different kind of personality, I might have been an important writer. It’s possible, because I think I have some talent, but never had the interest in it. I grew up without an interest in anything scholarly. I could write, but I had no interest in reading. I only played and watched sports, read comic books; I never read a real novel until I was college age. Just had no interest in it at all. Perhaps if I’d had a different upbringing, I might have gone off in a different direction. Or if the interests of my parents, my friends, and the environment in which I was raised had been more directed towards things I was later responsive to, maybe things would have been different. Maybe I would have been a serious novelist. Or maybe not. But it’s too late, and now I’m just happy I don’t have arthritis.

INTERVIEWER

Can you remember one of the jokes you wrote hanging on a subway strap?

ALLEN

This was typical of the junk I turned out: Kid next to me in school was the son of a gambler—he’d never take his test marks back—he’d let ’em ride on the next test. Now you see why it wasn’t hard to do fifty a day during rush hour.

INTERVIEWER

Agreed. But you mentioned this novel . . .

ALLEN

I’m not sure I have the background and understanding to write a novel. The book that I have been working on, or planning, is amusing but serious, and I’ll see what happens. I’m so uneducated really—so autodidactic. That’s a tricky thing, because there are certain areas the autodidact knows about but there are also great gaps that are really shocking. It comes from not having a structured education. People will send me film scripts or essays or even a page of jokes and they’ll say, Is this anything—is this a short story? Is this a comedy sketch? They’ll have no idea if it is or isn’t. To a degree, I feel the same way about the world of prose. When I brought something into The New Yorker, I didn’t know what I was standing there with. Their reaction could have been, Oh, this is nothing. You’ve written a lot of words, but this isn’t really anything, or, Young man, this thing is really wonderful. I was happy to accept their judgment of it. If they had said, when I first took those pieces into The New Yorker, We’re sorry, but this isn’t really anything, I would have accepted that. I would have said, Oh really? OK. I would have thrown the stuff away and never batted an eyelash. The one or two things they’ve turned down over the years, they were always so tentative and polite about; they always said, Look, we may publish something else a little too close to this, or something tactful like that. And I always felt, hey—just tear it up, I don’t care. In that sense, I never found writing delicate or sacred. I think that’s what would happen if I finished the novel. If the people I brought it to said, We don’t think this is anything, it would never occur to me to say, You fools. I just don’t know enough. I’m not speaking with the authority of someone like James Joyce who’d read everything and knew more than his critics did. There’s only one or two areas where I feel that kind of security, where I feel my judgment is as good and maybe even better than most people’s judgment. Comedy is one. I feel confident when I’m dealing with things that are funny, whatever the medium. And I know a lot about New Orleans jazz music even though I’m a poor musician. Poor but dedicated.

INTERVIEWER

Why did you start out writing comedy?

ALLEN

I always enjoyed comedians when I was young. But when I started to read more seriously, I enjoyed more serious writers. I became less interested in comedy then, although I found I could write it. These days I’m not terribly interested in comedy. If I were to list my fifteen favorite films, there would probably be no comedies in there. True, there are some comic films that I think are wonderful. I certainly think that City Lights is great, a number of the Buster Keatons, several Marx Brothers movies. But those are a different kind of comedy—the comedy of comedians in film stands more as a record of the comedians’ work. The films may be weak or silly but the comics were geniuses. I like Keaton’s films better than Keaton and enjoy Chaplin and The Marx Brothers usually more than the films. But I’m an easy audience. I laugh easily.

INTERVIEWER

How about Bringing Up Baby?

ALLEN

No, I never liked that. I never found that funny.

INTERVIEWER

Really?

ALLEN

No, I liked Born Yesterday, even though it’s a play made into a film. Both The Shop Around the Corner and Trouble in Paradise are terrific. A wonderful talking comedy is The White Sheik by Fellini.

INTERVIEWER

What is it that keeps a lighthearted or comic film from being on your list of ten?

ALLEN

Nothing other than personal taste. Someone else might list ten comedies. It’s simply that I enjoy more serious films. When I have the option to see films, I’ll go and see Citizen Kane, The Bicycle Thief, The Grand Illusion, The Seventh Seal, and those kind of pictures.

INTERVIEWER

When you go to see the great classics over again, do you go to see how they’re made, or do you go for the impact that they have on you emotionally?

ALLEN

Usually, I go for enjoyment. Other people who work on my films see all the technical things happening, and I can’t see them. I still can’t notice the microphone shadow, or the cut that wasn’t good or something. I’m too engrossed in the film itself.

INTERVIEWER

Who have had the greatest influence on your film work?

ALLEN

The biggest influences on me, I guess, have been Bergman and the Marx Brothers. I also have no compunction stealing from Strindberg, Chekhov, Perelman, Moss Hart, Jimmy Cannon, Fellini, and Bob Hope’s writers.

INTERVIEWER

Were you funny as a kid?

ALLEN

Yes, I was an amusing youngster. Incidentally, people always relate that to being raised Jewish. It’s a myth. Many great funnymen were not Jewish: W. C. Fields, Jonathan Winters, Bob Hope, Buster Keaton . . . I never saw any connection between ethnicity or religion or race and humor.

INTERVIEWER

Were you asked to perform at school functions?

ALLEN

I didn’t perform a lot, but I was amusing in class, among friends and teachers.

INTERVIEWER

So it wasn’t the sort of humor that would upset the authorities?

ALLEN

Sometimes it was, yes. My mother was called to school frequently because I was yelling out things in class, quips in class, and because I would hand in compositions that they thought were in poor taste, or too sexual. Many, many times she was called to school.

INTERVIEWER

Why do you think you started writing as a kid?

ALLEN

I think it was just the sheer pleasure of it. It’s like playing with my band now. It’s fun to make music, and it’s fun to write. It’s fun to make stuff up. I would say that if I’d lived in the era before motion pictures, I would have been a writer. I saw Alfred Kazin on television. He was extolling the novel at the expense of film. But I didn’t agree. One is not comparable with the other. He had too much respect for the printed word. Good films are better than bad books, and when they’re both great, they’re great and worthwhile in different ways.

INTERVIEWER

Do you think the pleasures of writing are related to the sense of control art provides?

ALLEN

It’s a wonderful thing to be able to create your own world whenever you want to. Writing is very pleasurable, very seductive, and very therapeutic. Time passes very fast when I’m writing—really fast. I’m puzzling over something, and time just flies by. It’s an exhilarating feeling. How bad can it be? It’s sitting alone with fictional characters. You’re escaping from the world in your own way and that’s fine. Why not?

INTERVIEWER

If you like that solitary aspect of writing, would you miss the collaborative aspect of film if you were to give it up?

ALLEN

One deceptive appeal of being out there with other people is that it gets you away from the job of writing. It’s less lonely. But I like to stay home and write. I’ve always felt that if they told me tomorrow I couldn’t make any more films, that they wouldn’t give me any more money, I would be happy writing for the theater; and if they wouldn’t produce my plays, I’d be happy just writing prose; and if they wouldn’t publish me, I’d still be happy writing and leaving it for future generations. Because if there’s anything of value there, it will live; and if there’s not, better it shouldn’t. That’s one of the nice things about writing, or any art; if the thing’s real, it just lives. All the attendant hoopla about it, the success over it or the critical rejection—none of that really matters. In the end, the thing will survive or not on its own merits. Not that immortality via art is any big deal. Truffaut died, and we all felt awful about it, and there were the appropriate eulogies, and his wonderful films live on. But it’s not much help to Truffaut. So you think to yourself, My work will live on. As I’ve said many times, rather than live on in the hearts and minds of my fellow man, I would rather live on in my apartment.

INTERVIEWER

Still, some artists put such an emphasis on their work, on creating something that will last, that they put it before everything else. That line by Faulkner—“The ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ is worth any number of old ladies.”

ALLEN

I hate when art becomes a religion. I feel the opposite. When you start putting a higher value on works of art than people, you’re forfeiting your humanity. There’s a tendency to feel the artist has special privileges, and that anything’s okay if it’s in the service of art. I tried to get into that in Interiors. I always feel the artist is much too revered--—it’s not fair and it’s cruel. It’s a nice but fortuitous gift—like a nice voice or being left-handed. That you can create is a kind of nice accident. It happens to have high value in society, but it’s not as noble an attribute as courage. I find funny and silly the pompous kind of self-important talk about the artist who takes risks. Artistic risks are like show-business risks—laughable. Like casting against type, wow, what danger! Risks are where your life is on the line. The people who took risks against the Nazis or some of the Russian poets who stood up against the state—those people are courageous and brave, and that’s really an achievement. To be an artist is also an achievement, but you have to keep it in perspective. I’m not trying to undersell art. I think it’s valuable, but I think it’s overly revered. It is a valuable thing, but no more valuable than being a good schoolteacher, or being a good doctor. The problem is that being creative has glamour. People in the business end of film always say, I want to be a producer, but a creative producer. Or a woman I went to school with who said, Oh yes, I married this guy. He’s a plumber but he’s very creative. It’s very important for people to have that credential. Like if he wasn’t creative, he was less.

INTERVIEWER

When you’re writing, do you think about your audience? Updike, for instance, once said that he liked to think of a young kid in a small Midwestern town finding one of his books on a shelf at a public library.

ALLEN

I’ve always felt that I try to aim as high as I can at the time, not to reach everybody, because I know that I can’t do that, but always to try to stretch myself. I’d like to feel, when I’ve finished a film, that intelligent adults, whether they’re scientists or philosophers, could go in and see it and not come out and feel that it was a total waste of time. That they wouldn’t say, Jesus, what did you get me into? If I went in to see Rambo, I’d say, Oh, God, and then after a few minutes I’d leave. Size of audience is irrelevant to me. The more the better, but not if I have to change my ideas to seduce them.

INTERVIEWER

Film’s not the easiest art form in which to do that; it involves a lot of people, requires a lot of money.

ALLEN

There are certain places like Sweden, where you’re partially state subsidized. But in the United States, everything’s so damned expensive. It’s not like painting or writing. With a film I have to get millions of dollars—to make even a cheap film. So attached to that is a sense that you can’t get along without a big audience. Therefore it’s a bit of a struggle, but I’ve been lucky—I’ve always had freedom. I’ve been blessed. I’ve had a dream life in film—from my first picture on. It’s been absolute, total freedom down the line. Don’t ask me why. If I decided tomorrow to do a black-and-white film on sixteenth-century religion, I could do it. Of course, if I went in and said, “I’m going to do a film about monads,” they’d say, “Well, we’ll give you this much money to work with.” Whereas if I say, “I’m going to do a big, broad comedy,” they’ll give me more money.

INTERVIEWER

What sort of development do you see in your own work over the years?

ALLEN

I hope for growth, of course. If you look at my first films, they were very broad and sometimes funny. I’ve gotten more human with the stories and sacrificed a tremendous amount of humor, of laughter, for other values that I personally feel are worth making that sacrifice for. So, a film like The Purple Rose of Cairo or Manhattan will not have as many laughs. But I think they’re more enjoyable. At least to me they are. I would love to continue that—and still try to make some serious things.

INTERVIEWER

Was it Interiors that if anybody laughed during its making you took that part out? Was that so?

ALLEN

Oh no, no, not true. Good story but totally untrue. No, there are never any colorful stories connected with my pictures. I mean, we go in there and work in a kind of grim, businesslike atmosphere and do the films, whether they’re comedies or dramas. Some people criticized Interiors, saying that it had no humor at all. I felt that this was a completely irrelevant criticism. Whatever was wrong with it, the problem is not that it lacks humor. There’s not much humor in Othello or Persona. If I could write a couple of plays or films that had a serious tone, I would much prefer to do that than have the comedy hit of the year. Because that would give me personal pleasure—in the same sense that I prefer to play New Orleans jazz than to play Mozart. I adore Mozart but I prefer to play New Orleans jazz. Just my preference.

INTERVIEWER

But when you’re writing a script and humor surfaces you grasp it with pleasure, no?

ALLEN

Yes, it’s always a pleasure. Usually what happens is that there are a number of surprises in films, and usually the surprises are the negative ones. You think you have something funny in a joke or a scene, and it turns out not to be funny, and you’re surprised.

INTERVIEWER

And you’re stuck with it.

ALLEN

Or you throw it away. On the other hand, once in a great while you get a pleasant surprise, and something that you never thought was going to be amusing, the audience laughs at or howls at, and it’s a wonderful thing.

INTERVIEWER

Can you give an example of that?

ALLEN

When I first made Bananas years ago, I was going over to the dictator’s house—I was invited for dinner there in this Latin American country. I brought with me some cake in a box, a string cake from one of the bakery shops. I didn’t think much of it at all, but it consistently always got the biggest howls from the audience. What they were laughing over was the fact that my character was foolish enough to bring some pastries to a state dinner. To me it was incidental on the way to the real funny stuff—to the audience it was the funniest thing.

INTERVIEWER

It seems as though when an artist becomes established, other people—critics, their followers—expect them to keep on doing the same thing, instead of evolving in their own way.

ALLEN

That’s why you must never take what’s written about you seriously. I’ve never written anything in my life or done any project that wasn’t what I wanted to do at the time. You really have to forget about what they call “career moves.” You just do what you want to do for your own sense of your creative life. If no one else wants to see it, that’s fine. Otherwise, you’re in the business to please other people. When we did Stardust Memories, all of us knew there would be a lot of flack. But it wouldn’t for a second stop me. I never thought, I better not do this because people will be upset. It’d be sheer death not to go through with a project you feel like going through with at the time. Look at someone like Strindberg—another person I’ve always loved—and you see the reaction he got on certain things . . . just brutalized. When I made Annie Hall, there were a lot of suggestions that I make “Annie Hall II.” It would never occur to me in a million years to do that. I was planning to do Interiors after that, and that’s what I did. I don’t think you can survive any other way. To me, the trick is never to try to appeal to a large number of people, but to do the finest possible work I can conceive of, and I hope if the work is indeed good, people will come to see it. The artists I’ve loved, most did not have large publics. The important thing is the doing of it. And what happens afterward—you just hope you get lucky. Even in a popular art form like film, in the U.S. most people haven’t seen The Bicycle Thief or The Grand Illusion or Persona. Most people go through their whole lives without seeing any of them. Most of the younger generation supporting the films that are around now in such abundance don’t care about Buñuel or Bergman. They’re not aware of the highest achievements of the art form. Once in a great while something comes together by pure accident of time and place and chance. Charlie Chaplin came along at the right time. If he’d come along today, he’d have had major problems.

INTERVIEWER

Don’t you think that as serious writers mature they simply continue to develop and expand the themes already established?

ALLEN

Each person has his own obsessions. In Bergman films you find the same things over and over, but they’re usually presented with great freshness.

INTERVIEWER

What about your own work?

ALLEN

The same things come up time after time. They’re the things that are on my mind, and one is always feeling for new ways to express them. It’s hard to think of going out and saying, Gee, I have to find something new to express. What sort of things recur? For me, certainly the seductiveness of fantasy and the cruelty of reality. As a creative person, I’ve never been interested in politics or any of the solvable things. What interested me were always the unsolvable problems: the finiteness of life and the sense of meaninglessness and despair and the inability to communicate. The difficulty in falling in love and maintaining it. Those things are much more interesting to me than . . . I don’t know, the Voting Rights Act. In life, I do follow politics a certain amount—I do find it interesting as a citizen but I’d never think of writing about it.

A word about this interview. It was hard for me because I don’t like to aggrandize my work by discussing its influences or my themes or that kind of thing. That kind of talk is more applicable to works of greater stature. I say this with no false modesty—that I feel I have done no really significant work, whatsoever, in any medium. I feel that unequivocally. I feel that what I have done so far in my life is sort of the ballast that is waiting to be uplifted by two or three really fine works that may hopefully come. We’ve been sitting and talking about Faulkner, say, and Updike and Bergman—I mean, I obviously can’t talk about myself in the same way at all. I feel that what I’ve done so far is the . . . the bed of lettuce the hamburger must rest on. I feel that if I could do, in the rest of my life, two or three really fine works—perhaps make a terrific film or write a fine play or something—then everything prior to that point would be interesting as developmental works. I feel that’s the status of my works—they’re a setting waiting for a jewel. But there’s no jewel there at the moment. So I’m starting to feel my interview is pompous. I need some heavy gems in there somewhere. But I hope I’ve come to a point in my life where within the next ten or fifteen years I can do two or three things that lend credence to all the stuff I’ve done already . . . Let’s hope.

The Paris Review

A mi pedacito de cielo

Sólo Déjate Amar
Te he buscado tanto, y hoy que te he encontrado
sé que no hay nadie mas,
nunca he sido un santo, debo confesarlo ya,
con honestidad, fuerón tantas horas
tan solo y triste hasta que te vi
tú llenas mi vida,
tú llenas mi alma
por eso siempre quédate aquí,
solo déjate amar.

Un oceano entero no me ha impedido llegar
hasta donde estas,
todo lo que hago te lo quiero entregar
y cada dia mas,
fueron tantas horas, tan solo y triste,
hasta que te vi,

Tú llenas mi vida,
tú llenas mi alma
por eso siempre quédate aquí,
Amame y déjate amar,
puedes en mi confiar,
dime que estas sintiéndome
y puedes al fin verte en mí, verme en ti.

Tú llenas mi vida,
tú llenas mi alma
por eso siempre déjate amar,
porque no puedo si te vas,
respirar, dime que estas sintiéndome,
déjate amar, que no ves
que este amor es mi luz.
Te he buscado tanto
y hoy que te he encontrado
sé que no hay nadie más.

Kalimba

La risa del bebe... pedacito de cielo

Para mi niño.....

Tic Tac Tic Tac

Imagen: Gustav Klimt

AMOR DE TARDE

Es una lástima que no estés conmigo
cuando miro el reloj y son las cuatro
...y acabo la planilla y pienso diez minutos
...y estiro las piernas como todas las tardes
y hago así con los hombros para aflojar la espalda
y me doblo los dedos y les saco mentiras.

Es una lástima que no estés conmigo
cuando miro el reloj y son las cinco
y soy una manija que calcula intereses
o dos manos que saltan sobre cuarenta teclas
o un oído que escucha como ladra el teléfono
o un tipo que hace números y les saca verdades.

Es una lástima que no estés conmigo
cuando miro el reloj y son las seis.
Podrías acercarte de sorpresa
y decirme «¿Qué tal?» y quedaríamos
yo con la mancha roja de tus labios
tú con el tizne azul de mi carbónico.

Mario Benedetti

...... Ya falta poco mi amor para que estes conmigo......

Para mi niña.....

Si lo soñamos y lo pedimos se hara realidad..

Brende Lee - Sweet Nothings

Cafe Tacvba - Quiero Ver (Video Oficial) New

Styx - Babe Live 1996

Journey - Dont Stop Believing

Roberto Carlos - "Que Sera de Ti" (2/12)

SERRAT - NANAS DE LA CEBOLLA - A MI BEBE

Thought I Saw Your Face Today-She & Him

Shakira Cada dia pienso en ti

El Mundo Según Barney-Compañero y complice

Carlos Gardel - Por Una Cabeza

El Principito – Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Hubiese sido mejor venir a la misma hora - dijo el zorro - Si vienes, por ejemplo, a las cuatro de la tarde, comenzaré a ser feliz desde la tres. Cuanto más avance la hora, más feliz me sentiré. A las cuatro me sentiré agitado e inquieto; descubriré el precio de la felicidad! Pero si vienes a cualquier hora, nunca sabré a qué hora preparar mi corazón… Los ritos son necesarios.

Nueve Lunas

Super Luna

Super Luna

ROLLING STONES SHE'S A RAINBOW LIVE IN ARGENTINA 1998

Louis Armstrong - what a wonderful world

El Sol de Vida

YO AL VERTE SONREIR...SOY EL NIÑO QUE AYER FUÍ.

Aprendí a encontrar el amor dentro de mi, a cuidarlo, a curarlo y a expandirlo hacia los confines del Universo.

Aprendí a pedir perdón, pedir ayuda, pedir atención, y ¿Sabés qué? Encontré respuestas.

Aprendí que puedo hacer todo lo necesario para lograr cumplir mi misión en esta tierra.

Aprendí a escuchar la voz de mi alma, y me di cuenta que mi alma y la de los demás son una.

Aprendí que una expresión llena de paz y ternura es capaz de contenerlo todo, incluso en los momentos difíciles.

Como dice la canción: “Yo no te pido que me bajes una estrella azul, solo te pido que mi espacio llenes con tu luz”. Me dí cuenta que mi luz se retroalimenta con la luz de las personas que me rodean.

Todas estas cosas que ahora son conscientes para mi, son mis aprendizajes, yo te los ofrezco para que recurras a ellos cuando los necesites.

Contá conmigo!!

Jorge Drexler - La Vida Es Mas Compleja De Lo Que Parece

Con un pequeño suspiro

Quiero murmurarte a tu oído
que estoy creciendo fuerte
que siento tus deseos de tenerme
y estar muy pronto contigo.

Con una suave patadita

Quiero sentir la calidez de tus manos,
sentir como te emocionas
como a cada movimiento mio reaccionas,
y por tu rostro ruedan lagrimitas.

Con una dulce sonrisa que deseo que te imagines

Quiero que sientas mis besitos
y que anhelo ya verte
para poder tocarte y acariciarte
y que juegues con mis deditos.

Con mi llanto que aún no escuchas

Quiero decirte que te necesito,
y que anhelo sentir la protección de tus brazos
que me ayudes a dar los primeros pasos,
y me abrigues cuando haya frío.

Y con mi voz que aún no te imaginas
quiero repetirte muchas veces,
lo que a muchos hijos se les olvida cuando crecen:

¡Te amo Mamita¡

Fuente: Rincón de poemas

DESARROLLO DEL EMBARAZO

Coca-Cola - Whatever (Hay Razones para creer en un mundo mejor)

Frases

Lo único importante en la vida son las huellas de amor que dejamos cuando marchamos....

Una imagen dice más que mil palabras

Fotografía: Rebeca Yanke

Who has faith in everyone

loving you minnie riperton

Diego El Cigala, Te extraño

Bebo & Cigala - Vete de mi

Frankie Ruiz - Y NO PUEDO

Willie Colón - Oh,¿qué será?

Fania All Stars - Quiero saber

Rey Ruiz - Mi media Mitad

MI CORAZÓN de Luis Hernádez

Imagen: Lucia Fernandez

MI CORAZÓN
Se enredó
Y desde entonces
En tu alma
Dormían los paisajes
Y la flor perpetua
De los jardines
Jamás recorridos. Tú
Y una tarde
Que acontece tú
Me hablabas
De algo me hablas
Pero el brillo de tu corazón
Te oculta
Algo me dices
Pero el estruendo
De tu alma
Me impide
Sobre el mar
Veíamos el transcurso
Del verano las flores
Del Estío las joyas
La armonía que
No debe ser quebrada.





de Luis Hernádez

Diana Ross Ain't No Mountain High Enough

James Morrison - You Give Me Something (New Version)

Ricky Martin - Private Emotion

Balance Perú 2011- Yo ame

Il Postino soundtrack

Il postino

Pablo Neruda: When you explain poetry, it becomes banal. Better than any explanation is the experience of feelings that poetry can reveal to a nature open enough to understand it.

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Donna Rosa: When it comes to bed, there's no difference between a poet, a priest, or a communist!
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Mario Ruoppolo: Poetry doesn't belong to those who write it; it belongs to those who need it.

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Pablo Neruda: Even the most sublime ideas sound ridiculous if heard too often.
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Mario Ruoppolo: Your laugh is a sudden silvery wave.
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Mario Ruoppolo: Your smile spreads like a butterfly.
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Mario Ruoppolo: So what if we break our chains? What do we do then?
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Mario Ruoppolo: If you make this much of a fuss about one poem, you're never going to win that Nobel Prize.

Happy The Rolling Stones