Biblioteca | Janeiro 2011
Ved Mehta | Fly and the Fly-Bottle
“‘One day,’ Malcom recounts, ‘when Wittgenstein was passing a field where a footbal game was in progress, the thought first struck him that in language we play games with words. A central idea of his philosophy [in Investigations], the notion of a “language game”, apparently had its genesis in this incident.’ At this time, most of his day was spent in teaching, talking, and writing the Investigations. His only reief from the constant motion of his thoughts was an occasional film or an American detective magazine. But this was no opiate, and he ultimately felt compelled to tender his resignation to the Vice-Chancellor of the university. Late in 1947, when the decision was taken, he wrote to Malcom, ‘I shall cease to be professor on Dec. 31st at 12 p.m.’ He did. Now began the loneliest period of his never convivial life. He first moved to a guesthouse a couple of hours bus ride from Dublin, where he lived friendless and in a state of nervous instability. He tired easily, and his work on Investigations went slowly and painfully. He wrote to Malcolm that he did not miss conversation but wished for ‘someone to smile at occasionally’. After five months at the guesthouse, he migrated to the west coast of Ireland, where he became a legend among primitive fishermen for his power to tame birds.”
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Carson McCullers | Reflections in a Golden Eye
“By chance he glanced into the sharply lighted vestibule. And since then he had not found it in him to go away. He stood motionless in the silent night with his arms hanging loose at his sides. When at dinner the ham was carved, he had swallowed painfully. But he kept his grave, deep gaze on the Captain’s wife. The expression of his mute face had not been changed by his experience, but now and then he narrowed his gold-brown eyes as though he were forming within himself some subtle scheme. When the Captain’s wife had left the dining-room, he still stood there for a time. Then very slowly he turned away. The light behind him laid a great dim shadow of himself on the smoth grass of the lawn. The soldier walked like a man weighted by a dark dream and his footsteps were soundless”
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Iris Murdoch | Under the Net
“The General Post Office was spacious, cavernous, bureaucratic, sober and dim. We entered hilariously, disturbing the meditation of the few clerks and the people who are always to be found there at late hours penning anonymous letters or suicide notes. While Lefty bought stamps and despatched cables I organized the singing in round of Great Tom is Cast, which continued, since I never have the presence of mind necessary to stop a round once it is started, until an official turned us out. Outside we studied the fantastic letter-boxed, great gaping mouths, where one can watch the released letter falling down and down a long darkwell until it lands upon a tray in a lighted room far below. This so fascinated Finn and me that we decided we must write some letters forthwith, and we returned inside and bought two letter cards. Dave said he already received more letters than he wanted and the was no sense in inviting yet more by pointless acts of correspondence. Finn said he was going to wite to someone in Ireland. I started to write to Anna, pressing the crd vertically against the wall of the Post Office; but I could think of nothing to say to her except Ilove you, which I wote several times over, very badly. Then I added, you are beautiful, and sealed the letter. I put it well into the mouth of the box and let it go and it fell, turning over and over like an autumn leaf.”
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J.G. Ballard | High-Rise
“The threadbare remais of Wilder’s trousers, cut away at the knees, were stained with blood and wine. A ragged beard covered his heavy faze, partly concealing an open wound on his jaw. he looked derelict and exhausted, but in fact his body was strongly muscled as ever. His broad chest was covered with a hatchwork of painted lines, a vivid display that spread across his shoulders and back. At intervals he inspected the design, which he had painted the previous afternoon with a lipstick he had found in an abandoned apartment. What had begun as a drink-fuddled game had sonn taken on a serious ritual chracter. The markings, apart from frightening the few other people he might come across, gave him a potent sense of identity. As well, they celebrated his long and now virtually successful ascent of the high-rise. Determined to look his best when he finally stepped on to the roof, Wilder licked his scarred fingers, massaging himself with one hand and freshening up his design with the other.”
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