I always carry Lorca’s “Poets of New York” with me. Books are endless companions and heavenly vitamins. For me, the figurative, drug-like, high-voltage Lorca was a dazzle of youth, and I couldn’t recover from his nourishing vitality. Obviously, I have been collecting various editions of “Poets of New York” over the years, so a modest, but sufficient, rather ocean-like anthology of books has appeared in my life. Centuries ago, my father gave me a copy of Aguilar’s paper-and-leather-bound edition of the Complete Works of Lorca. An elaborate version of it is now found being made in the kingdom by Jesús Egido.
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