It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of
the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed
with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep.
And the night passes—and never passes—
His sad infinite eyes, like those of a new-born beast of burden, are dreaming of lilies, angels and silk sashes. His eyes are like the bottom of a glass, like a mad child’s. Very ugly. Very beautiful. An ostrich’s eyes. Human eyes in the exact balance of melancholy.
— Federico García Lorca wrote about Buster Keaton, El Paseo de Buster Keaton (1928)