In conversation on FB, Sophie Tucker: There’s something Spanish in my eyes, -> Comedian Harmonists: Mein lieber Schatz, bist du aus Spanien -> Sttellla: Torremolinos -> the probably not particularly original idea that those atmospheric Spanish clichés only work when Spain is still terra incognita or when the observer has become decomposed, as in the case of Belgium and its bands and those who have been hitting the wine for too long or are disposing of their marbles by other means. I’ve been dealing recently with rooster genitalia, so it was good to bump again into Poprishchin in Diary of a madman: “I’ve learned that every rooster has his Spain, that it’s located under his feathers.” Afaik Gogol didn’t go mad, senile or out excessively, but he didn’t know Spain, so I’ll keep plugging that idea.
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