(I like white; hooray for white, death to black. Because black is very sad, and I am happy, I don't like it.)
"That's it," cried Don Antonio excitedly. "You people from the north, English, Americans, Germans, whatnot, you like black. You like to be sad. I don't."
"'Yo soy alegre. Yo no lo quiero.'"
The moon had sunk into the west, flushed and swollen. The east was beginning to bleach before the oncoming sun. Birds started chirping above our heads. I left them, but as I lay in bed, I could hear the hoarse voice of the goblin driver roaring out:
'A mí me gusta el blanco,
¡viva lo blanco! ¡muera lo negro!'
At Nerja in an arbor of purple ipomoeas on a red jutting cliff over the beach where brown children were bathing, there was talk again of lo flamenco.
"In Spain," my friend Don Diego was saying, "we live from the belly and loins, or else from the head and heart: between Don Quixote the mystic and Sancho Panza the sensualist there is no middle ground. The lowest Panza is lo flamenco."
"But you do live."
"In dirt, disease, lack of education, bestiality.... Half of us are always dying of excess of food or the lack of it."