Gustavo Adolfo Becquer
Gustavo Adolfo Domínguez Bastida, better known as Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer, was a Spanish post-romanticist writer of poetry, short stories, and nonfiction now considered one of the most important figures in Spanish literature. He adopted the alias of Bécquer as his brother Valeriano Bécquer, a painter, had done earlier. He was associated with the post-romanticism movement and wrote while realism was enjoying success in Spain. He was moderately well known during his life, but it was after his death that most of his works were published.
He is best known for his intimate, lyrical poems and for his legends; more importantly, he is remembered for the verbal decor with which he impregnated everything he wrote. A Romantic poet above all else, Bécquer infused every single line he wrote with sensorial intensity, and his Legends still serve today as some of the most brilliant examples of prose poetry. Always including elements of the supernatural, Bécquer imbued his legends with a gothic sensibility, depicting gnomes, ghosts, enchanted fortresses and monasteries, and men and women who succumb to vanity or desire.
Other lesser-known, but none less valuable, works include his "Cartas Desde mi Celda" ("Letters from my Cell") and "Cartas Literarias a una Mujer" ("Literary Epistles to a Woman") which adopt an intimate, contemplative style similar to Thoreau in "Walden." Here we find him ruminating at length on the subjects that characterize his poetic works: love, the purpose of art, folklore, the seductive pull of ancient ruins--and, of course, women.
An essential figure in the canon of Hispanic letters, and an obligatory reading in any Spanish-language High School, he is today considered the founder of modern Spanish lyricism. Bécquer's influence on 20th century poets of the Spanish language is felt in the works of poets such as Octavio Paz, Giannina Braschi, Antonio Machado, Juan Ramón Jiménez, Pablo Neruda and many more.
“What is poetry? you ask, while fixing your blue pupil on mine.What is poetry! And you are asking me?Poetry...is you.”
“طالما أنَّ العِلم لن يقدرَ على كشف ِ منابع ِ الحياة .. وأنَّ البحارَ والسماءَ تنطوي على أغوار ٍ سحيقة ٍ لن ينفذَ إليها العقل.. وطالما البشريةُ دومًا تسيرُ دونَ أن تعلمَ إلى أينَ المطاف ... طالما بقى لغزٌ يستعصى على الإنسان ِ حلُّه, فسيكونُ هُناكَ دومًا شِعر.***طالمَا يشعر الإنسانُ أن روحَهُ تُزَغْرِدُ دون أن تتحركَ الشفاه .. طالما يبكي الإنسان دونَ أن تظللَ عينيه الدموع .. طالما يمضي الفكرُ والفؤادُ في اصطراع ٍ دائم ٍ ..طالما ثارت الآمال وتوهّجت الذكريات فسيكونُ هُناكَ دومًا شِعر.”
“The soul that can speak through the eyes can also kiss with a gaze.”
“¡Los suspiros son aire y van al aire!¡Las lágrimas son agua y van al mar!Dime, mujer, cuando el amor se olvida¿sabes tú adónde va?”
“El alma que hablar puede con los ojos también puede besar con la mirada.”
“¿Qué es poesía? --dices mientras clavas en mi pupila tu pupila azul.¿Qué es poesía? ¿Y tú me lo preguntas? Poesía... eres tú.”
“¡Lástima que el Amor un diccionario no tenga donde hallar cuándo el orgullo es simplemente orgullo y cuándo es dignidad!What a shame that love has no dictionary in which to ascertain when pride is simply pride and when it's 'dignity'!”
“As long as science fails to discover the sources of life, as long as, on sea or in the sky, there is an abyss that is resistant to mathematical reckoning, as long as mankind in its steady progress is ignorant of where it's heading, as long as a mystery exists for man, there will be poetry!”
“Sobre la falda teniael libro abierto;en mi mejilla tocabansus rizos negros;no veiamos las letrasninguno, creo;mas guardabamos entramboshondo silencio.Cuanto duro? Ni aun entoncespude saberlo;solo se que no se oiamas que el aliento,que apresurado escapabadel labio seco.Solo se que nos volvimoslos dos a un tiempo,y nuestros ojos se hallaron,y sono un beso.Creacion de Dante era el libro,era su Infierno.Cuando a el bajamos los ojos,yo dije, tremulo:Comprendes ya que un poemacabe en un verso?"Y ella respondio, encendida:Ya lo comprendo!" On her skirt she hadan open bookon my cheekher black locks of hairwe didn't see the lettersany of them, I thinkthough we kept between usa deep silenceHow much did it last? Not even thenI could knowI only know that I couldn't hearanything more than her breaththat fastly went outof her dry lipsI only know that we both turned our sight at same timeand our eyes met the otherand a kiss was heardThe creation of Dante was the bookit was its Infernowhen we both turned down the eyes to itI said, trembling:'Do you already understand that a poem fits in a verse?''And she answered lightened up:I understand!”
“Mientras la humanidad siempre avanzando,No sepa a do camina;Mientras haya un misterio para el hombre,¡Habrá poesía! ”