Bunuel_Luis_My_Last_Breath

RETURNED to Spain several times between 1925 and 1929,renewing my old friendships with my colleagues at theResidencia. During one of these trips, Dali told me excitedlythat Lorca had just written a magnificent play called Thz Love ofDon Perlimpfin fir Beltsa zn HIS Garah and that I absolutely hadto hear it immediately. Federico was reticent about reading it;he thought-not without cause--that my tastes were too provincialfor the subtleties of drama. But Dali insisted, and finallythe three of us met In the cellar bar at the Hotel Nac~onal, wherewooden partitions separated the room into compartments, as Incertain Eastern European restaurants.hrca was a superb reader, but something in the story about theold man and the young girl who find themselves together in a canopiedbed at the end of Act One struck me as hopelessly contrived.As if that weren't enough, an elf then emerges from the prompter'sbox and addresses the audience."Well, Eminent Spectators," he says. "Here are Don Perlimplinand Belisa. . . .""That's enough, Feder~co, " I interrupted, banging on the table."It's a piece of shit."