Here you have some notes from Lorca's theory on the duende, which shake me:

“But intelligence is often the enemy of poetry, because it limits too much, and it elevates the poet to a sharp-edged throne where he forgets that ants could eat him or that a great arsenic lobster could fall on his head—things against which the muses that live in monocles and in the lukewarm lacquered roses of tiny salons are quite helpless."

“And reject the angel, and give the muse a kick in the seat of the pants, and conquer our fear of the smile of violets exhaled by eighteenth-century poetry and of the great telescope in whose lens the muse, sickened by limits, is sleeping."

“…not forms but the marrow of forms, pure music with a body so lean it could stay in the air.”

…”[T[he duende loves the rim of the wound….[H[e draws near places where the forms fuse together into a yearning superior to their visible expression.”