coleção

Biblioteca | Setembro 2011

2011-12-11T21:41:00.002Z

Halldór Laxness | The honour of the house

- Dark, ironic, unforgiving.

Paul Bowles | The sheltering sky

Foi diferente da lembrança que tinha da primeira vez que li... e foi muito bom. Surpreendente. Quero ler tudo que ele escreveu.

Biblioteca | Agosto 2011

2011-11-09T21:33:00.002Z

Carson McCullers | The heart is a lonely hunter

Relido na viagem pro Rio... perfeito para despedidas.

84 Charing Cross Road

2011-10-17T23:43:00.003Z

Acabo de rever 84 Charing Cross Road. Foi como encontrar um amigo antigo que não via há tempos, ou como ler um livro que se gosta.

Lembrar de procurar os sermões de Donne, e o diário de Samuel Pepys... na última viagem a Paris, encontrei uma edição completa, linda e barata. Devia ter comprado... penso nela constantemente.

Hveragerði, numa noite de ventania em outubro.

Biblioteca | Julho 2011

2011-07-15T20:17:00.003Z

Halldór Laxness | The Atom Station

"It was not until I had become used to seing the elder daughter seat herself at the grand piano and dash off some Chopin impromptu as if nothing could be more natural, that I realised how ludicrous it was to hear a big, strapping north-country girl announce in a civilised home that she was going to learn to play the harmonium.

'That's just like you northerners, to start talking to people,' said the cook when I returned to the kitchen.

Rebellion stirred in me and I replied, 'I am people.'

J. G. Ballard | Crash

"As I turned the ignition switch, Vaughan said, 'Seagrave has gone.'

'Where? They've finished the crash sequence here.'

'God only knows. He's driving around in a wig and leopard-skin coat. He may start following Catherine.'"

- I'm pretty sure this book is a misunderstood comedy...

Biblioteca | abril - junho 2011

2011-07-15T19:08:00.017Z

Halldór Laxness | Independent People

"Out in the ewe-house in the mornings they often tried to find some answers to the riddle of why, after all the thoughtlessness that seemed to rule the world, there should come men who not only were acquainted with the content of books, but had actually seen with their own eyes the world that is described in print, and had, moreover, travelled it with their own foot. Not only had he seen cities and zoological gardens, he had also wandered in the woods where one finds happiness, or at least peace, and he knew the words that fit te locked compartments of the soul, like keys, and open them."

Gyrðir Elíasson | Stone Tree

"After some thought, he took out a raincoat the hung in the hall cupboard among the books. He buttoned up the coat, stuck several paperbacks in his pockets, laced up his shoes and went out. Rounding the corner of the house, he strolled past the sports field and lit a cigarette, sheltering it from the drizzle. The sky was as grey as over a coal-mining village in Wales. He met no one. Before long he had pulled a book out of his pocket and begun to read as he walked, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. The pages grew gradually damp, and he turned them with care."

Graham Greene | Our Man in Havana

"They can print statistics and count the populations in hundreds of thousands, but to each man a city consists of no more than a few streets, a few houses, a few people. Remove those few and a city exists no longer except as pain in the memory, like the pain of an amputated leg no longer there. It was time, Wormold thought, to pack up and go and leave the ruins of Havana."

Halldór Laxness | The Fish Can Sing

"Often there was frost and frozen snow, and the ice creaked in the night. Somewhere out in the infinite distance lay the spring, at least in God's mind, like the babies that are not yet conceived in the mother's womb."

Paul Theroux | Half Moon Street

"Lauren admired the man's roosterish arrogance. When she was impressed her face shone, the excitement whipped up her blood and made her prettier. The man's arrogance somehow went with his ugliness and made him majestic."

O tempo me tece um casaco que nunca vestirei

2011-06-16T13:34:00.002Z

Biblioteca | Fevereiro - Março 2011

2011-04-18T22:32:00.003Z

02-3/2011

Philip Roth | Deception

“Did you get my letter?"
"Yes, I did. It was wonderful. I tore it up. I thought that would be the perfect thing to do."

Halldór Laxness | Iceland's Bell

"I thought a man could love a lost treasure for as long as he missed it," she said.
"A man doesn't know precisely when the longing disappears," he said. "In its own way it's like a wound that's been healed; or like death. A man doesn't know precisely when the wound ceased to cause him pain; nor does he know precisely when he dies. Suddenly a man is healed; suddenly dead."

Iris Murdoch | The sea, the sea

Fazia muito tempo que eu não lia um livro tão chato e tão longo. Well written, utterly boring though.

o azul de manhã das suas veias, os seus olhos da cor do sol, brilhando, brilhando,

2011-04-17T16:02:00.003Z

Hveragerði - Dalvík | 4 março, 2011

Biblioteca | Janeiro 2011

2011-02-18T21:50:00.007Z

01/2011

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.”

-
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”

-
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.”

-
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.”

Man Ray

2011-02-18T14:47:00.002Z

heima

2011-02-08T02:13:00.006Z

8.fevereiro.2011

2011-02-08T02:06:00.005Z

o peso de palavras lembradas cai em pedra, neve e gelo.
derruba a porta de casa
mas nada acontece.
nunca nada acontece.

corpos de poemas e fotos que amasso com dentes e olhos.
quero arrancar-lhes as cabeças, mas elas são quentes.
mortas, mas quentes.

ternura pela dor e falta de objetividade.

and all the fat skinny people, and all the tall short people, and all the nobody people, and all the somebody people

2010-12-18T12:40:00.003Z

the sun coming up on the glass backdoor a while ago

Starlings

2010-10-03T20:21:00.002Z

How dare the Premier ignore my invitations?
He'll have to go
So, too, the bunch he luncheons with
It's second on my list of things to do

At the top I'm stopping by
Your place of work and acting like
I haven't dreamed of you and I
And marriage in an orange grove

You are the only thing

in any room you're ever in
I'm stubborn, selfish and too old

I sat you down and told you how
the truest love that's ever found
was for oneself

You pulled apart my theory
With a weary and disinterested sigh

So yes I guess I'm asking you
To back a horse that's good for glue
And nothing else
But find a man that's truer than,
Find a man that needs you more than I

Sit with me a while
And let me listen to you talk about
your dreams and your obsessions
I'll be quiet and confessional
The violets explode inside me
when I meet your eyes
Then I'm spinning and I'm diving
Like a cloud of starlings
Darling is this love?

Elbow

)when what hugs stopping earth than silent is

2010-09-23T18:20:00.001Z

)when what hugs stopping earth than silent is
more silent than more than much more is or
total sun oceaning than any this
tear jumping from each most least eye of star

and without was if minus and shall be
immeasurable happenless unnow
shuts more than open could that every tree
or than all life more death begins to grow

end's ending then these dolls of joy and grief
these recent memories of future dream
these perhaps who have lost their shadows if
which did not do the losing spectres mime

until out of merely not nothing comes
only one snowflake(and we speak our names

e e cummings

Saturday

2010-09-22T18:42:00.000Z

You waited for Saturday
You waited for my birthday
And most of us would probably
Expect even less than that
And I'm glad
You're not like us
And by us
I mean everyone in the world who isn't you

And all this time
I thought was mine
Your proximity made
When boredom comes
It won't be long before I sing to you
There's nothing you can do
And there's nothing you can say
To make my problems go away
Or to make me do the same

From the outside
My dealings
Pour me outside
But feeling
For an answer
Marble ceiling
Commence the healing

Built to Spill

Conte d'été / Eric Rohmer

2010-09-15T02:26:00.001Z

I want to go

to the end of the world

To see if the earth is round

brad mehldau + billie holiday + work

2010-08-08T21:19:00.001Z

I'll be seeing you

in every lovely summer day.

Today we escape.

We escape.

ESSE

2010-07-23T16:24:00.001Z

I looked at that face, dumbfounded. The lights of métro stations flew by; I didn't notice them. What can be done, if our sight lacks absolute power to devour objects ecstatically, in an instant, leaving nothing more than the void of an ideal form, a sign like a hieroglyph simplified from the drawing of an animal or bird? A slightly snub nose, a high brow with sleekly brushed-back hair, the line of the chin - but why isn't the power of sight absolute? - and in a whiteness tinged with pink two sculpted holes, containing a dark, lustrous lava. To absorb that face but to have it simultaneously against the background of all spring boughs, walls, waves, in its weeping, its laughter, moving it back fifteen years, or ahead thirty. To have. It is not even a desire. Like a butterfly, a fish, the stem of a plant, only more mysterious. And so it befell me that after so many attempts at naming the world, I am able only to repeat, harping on one string, the highest, the unique avowal beyond which no power can attain: I am, she is. Shout, blow the trumpets, make thousands-strong marches, leap, rend your clothing, repeating only: is!

She got out at Raspail. I was left behind with the immensity of existing things. A sponge, suffering because it cannot saturate itself; a river, suffering because reflections of clouds and trees are not clouds and trees.

Czeslaw Milosz

Brie-Comte-Robert, 1954

The Rip

2010-06-24T22:59:00.003Z

As she walks in the room,
Scented and tall,
Hesitating once more.
And as I take on myself,
And the bitterness I felt,
Realise that love lost, while
White horses,
They will take me away,
And the tenderness I feel,
Will send the dark underneath,
Will I follow?

Through the glory of life,
I'm scattered on the floor,
Disappointed and sore.
And in my thoughts I have bled,
For the riddles I've been fed,
Another lie moves over, while
White horses,
They will take me away,
And the tenderness I feel,
Will send the dark underneath,
Will I follow?

While, white horses,
They will take me away,
And the tenderness I feel,
Will send the dark underneath,
Will I follow?

Portishead

The bird on his shoulder

2010-03-16T01:34:00.001Z

I wanna go to the place
where the birds aren't afraid.

Onde fica o sol do meu coração?

Powder Blue

2010-03-16T01:32:00.000Z

Your eyes are just like black spiders
Your hair and dress in ribbons. Babycakes
In despair or incoherent. Nothing in between
China white, my bride tonight
Smiling on the tiles

Bring that minute back
We never get so close as when the sunward flight begins

I share it all with you
Powder blue
Stumble through the crowds together
They're trying to ignore us. That's o.k.
I'm proud to be the one you hold when the shakes begin

Sallow skinned, starry eyed, blessed
In our sin
Bring that minute back
We never get so close to death
Makes you so alive
I share it all with you
Powder blue

Elbow

He wishes for the cloths of heaven

2010-03-02T03:12:00.001Z

Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

William Butler Yeats

fotografia | Guy Sargent

2010-02-02T19:35:00.005Z

via but does it float

Hold on to your friends

2010-01-29T14:35:00.002Z

A bond of trust

Has been abused

Something of value

May be lost

Give up your job

Squander your cash - be rash

Just hold on to your friends

There are more than enough

To fight and oppose

Why waste good time

Fighting the people you like

Who will fall defending your name

Oh, don't feel so ashamed

To have friends

But now you only call me

When you're feeling depressed

When you feel happy I'm

So far from your mind

My patience is stretched

My loyalty vexed

Oh, you're losing all of your friends

Hold on to your friends

Resist - or move on

Be mad, be rash

Smoke and explode

Sell all of your clothes

Just bear in mind

Oh, there just might come a time

When you need some friends

Morrissey

Fotografia | Florian Maier-Aichen

2010-01-12T15:01:00.005Z

Eight Line Poem

2009-12-31T00:28:00.006Z

The tactful cactus by your window
Surveys the prairie of your room
The mobile spins to its collision
Clara puts her head between her paws
They've opened shops down West Side
Will all the cacti find a home
But the key to the city
Is in the sun that pins the branches to the sky

David Bowie

Blizzard

2009-11-26T15:41:00.001Z

Snow:
years of anger following
hours that float idly down —
the blizzard
drifts its weight
deeper and deeper for three days
or sixty years, eh? Then
the sun! a clutter of
yellow and blue flakes —
Hairy looking trees stand out
in long alleys
over a wild solitude.
The man turns and there —
his solitary track stretched out
upon the world.

William Carlos Williams

Edward Hopper, Village Person

2009-10-03T11:24:00.002Z

An acquaintance of mine teaches at New York University's School of Social Work. Not long ago, while I was visiting her in the department's Greek Revival mansion at 1 Washington Square North, she led me upstairs to the fourth floor with the promise of showing me something that would interest any trafficker in the visual arts. Because we were deep in Henry James country, a 19th-century neighborhood loaded with crown moldings and carved mantels, I expected, maybe, a Tiffany chandelier. Instead, my friend opened the door to a minimally furnished skylit room. It had a pot-bellied stove, a painter's easel, and photos framed on the wall of a grim man with long legs.

The man was Edward Hopper, and he had lived and worked in this place for half a century.

A time capsule embedded in its institutional setting, the Edward Hopper Studio has been visited on rare occasions, and only recently, by Greenwich Village Historical Society tour groups and BBC camera crews; but mostly it serves as a seminar room for NYU students and faculty, or it just sits there, steeping in its historical juices. Hopper moved to the building in 1913, when he was a 31-year-old bachelor and late-blooming artist earning his living as a commercial illustrator. (His art-school friend Rockwell Kent was a neighbor.) Eventually, he acquired a wife, Josephine Nivison, and celebrity, and leased rooms down the hall. But success didn't drive out the Spartan in him. One biographer notes that he insisted on hauling coal up to the apartment, even when he could afford a less burdensome heating source. Jo, a painter of inferior talent yet unquenchable ambition, took the inner studio, which still has the rack the couple used for drying canvases; Edward worked in the space with a model's stand, etching press, and view of Washington Square Park. During the climate-uncontrolled New York summers, the couple escaped to Maine or Cape Cod; at other times they went on odysseys through America or Mexico. This was more or less the drill until the day Hopper died in these rooms in May of 1967. Jo, who had given her spouse both emotional support and a heap of trouble over the course of their difficult marriage, passed away 10 months later.

Looking out from his windows to the landmarks on the square's south side — the Renaissance tower of Stanford White's Judson Memorial Church, the beefy red stone of Philip Johnson's Bobst Library — I was moved by the incongruity of Hopper here, then, now. He painted doggedly in the Greenwich Village of Emma Goldman and Edna St. Vincent Millay and was still painting when the neighborhood's heroes were Bob Dylan and Jane Jacobs. In 1946, NYU took over the building and began the long, futile process of pressuring him to leave. Mark Callahan, associate dean of finance and administration at NYU's Ehrenkranz School of Social Work, knew people who remember bumping into Hopper on the stairs.

And yet, try looking for this milieu in his paintings: you'll have trouble finding it. The Manhattan that Hopper pinned down like a narcotized specimen is not a village with friendly dogs and children, and certainly not the Village. It's a city that is paved over, glassed in, and swimming in heat—the lonely dive in "Nighthawks," the erotically charged workplace in "Office at Night," and even the generic brickscape of chimney rows and skylights painted from the top of his building in "Roofs of Washington Square."

Hopper admitted the northern light from his studio windows but ignored the pleasant scene, instead consulting the anomie behind his eyelids. He paid as much attention to inert design details, such as the Ionic columns carved into the wood of the reception desk in "Hotel Lobby," as he did to representing the quivering detachment of actors in his dramas of solitary lives. In that same lobby, an elderly couple converse while a young woman quietly reads on the opposite side of a border marked by the carpet's pattern. Both matron and ingenue are seated next to vacant chairs, a correspondence that signals that they are not just disconnected strangers but also occupants of parallel universes defined by waiting. One of the women is distinguished by effortless radiance; the other by mature composure; and tension comes from the hint that at any moment the man, who is positioned between them and looking distracted, may shift his attention to the blonde, thus violating boundaries of space and vows.

Or maybe he won't. Hopper typically painted from the vantage points of thresholds and exteriors, pausing at the scene of narrative only long enough to present it, so that his lonely figures float in obscurity. It's as if the artist cracked open a door and witnessed private moments so intense that they got mixed up with his own sense of furtiveness. What came before or after these scenes we can only imagine. And imagine we do: Despite the quiet attitudes of self-absorption common to his people, whole Hollywood screenplays could be based on Hoppers. The critic Robert Hughes credits him with establishing not just the shadowy visual style but also the private investigator trope of film noir. "It was Hopper," Hughes writes, "a man of extreme inhibitions who had no interest in communicating with the world at large except through his art, and then only obliquely, who saw that the old frontier had moved inward and now lay within the self, so that the man of action, extroverted and self-naming, was replaced by the solitary watcher."

I imagine that Hopper would have hated my intrusion into his quarters, though he might have been bemused that NYU deigned to preserve them. (Callahan confides that the space narrowly missed being converted into a faculty meeting room.) Yet, though the University has dutifully put a plaque on the door and hung reproductions of the Hoppers' artworks, it appears no more inclined to turn over the rooms to the couple after death than it was to guarantee them comfortable occupancy in their lifetimes. As preservation efforts go, this one is ghastly; an old York cooking stove sits in pieces between the two studios, water damage creeps along the remodeled ceiling, a cheap laminate desk—collegiate issue—has been shoved into a corner as somebody's workspace, a room the couple used for their residence is now a faculty office, and a quick scan of the artist portraits by Arnold Newman and Berenice Abbott, which dot the walls, reveal that Hopper's beloved coal stove has lost its chimney. "People didn't know it was here," Callahan says of the space, adding that, now that it has finally attracted historians' interest, it will soon be put off limits to students and administrators.

And yet, despite the adulterations, the studio remains locked out of time, a window onto a man who was indifferent to the changing world around him. Hopper was a poet of the abyss, a chronicler of discontinuity and disruption, who seemed to need a static environment from which he could take inventory of what was emotionally solid and measure the distance to the nearest patch of null. Whether he represented the void with naked space, naked light, or naked flesh, it never lay far away. It fact, it was right in the neighborhood.

Julie Lasky, @ Design Observer.

Fotografia | Pedro de Moraes

2009-08-21T02:14:00.003Z

05:12

2009-01-05T07:10:00.002Z

esquecer -
dormir sem sonhar
acordar sem querer

Unwissend vor dem Himmel meines Lebens

2009-01-05T01:33:00.002Z

Unwissend vor dem Himmel meines Lebens,
anstaunend steh ich. O die großen Sterne.
Aufgehendes und Niederstieg. Wie still.
Als wär ich nicht. Nehm ich denn Teil? Entriet ich
dem reinen Einfluß? Wechselt Flut und Ebbe
in meinem Blut nach dieser Ordnung? Abtun
will ich die Wünsche, jeden andern Anschluß,
mein Herz gewöhnen an sein Fernstes. Besser
es lebt im Schrecken seiner Sterne, als
zum Schein beschützt, von einer Näh beschwichtigt.

R. M. Rilke, trad. Edward Snow

lendo rilke 4

2008-12-31T22:59:00.004Z

uncollected poems | r.m. rilke, trad. edward snow

lendo rilke 3

2008-12-30T03:15:00.003Z

lendo rilke 2

2008-12-26T16:44:00.004Z

uncollected poems | r.m. rilke, trad. edward snow

lendo rilke 1

2008-12-26T16:43:00.004Z

uncollected poems | r.m. rilke, trad. edward snow

natal...

2008-12-26T15:53:00.002Z

For Hans Carossa (Für Hans Carossa)

2008-12-20T15:37:00.004Z

Losing also is ours; and even forgetting
has a shape in the permanent realm of mutation.
Things we´ve let go of circle; and though we are rarely a center
of these circles: they trace around us the unbroken figure.

-

Auch noch Verlieren ist unser; und selbst das Vergessen
hat noch Gestalt in dem bleibenden Reich der Verwandlung.
Losgelassenes kreist; und sind wir auch selten die Mitte
einem der Kreise: sie ziehn um uns die heile Figur.

R. M. Rilke | tradução: Edward Snow

Exit Music (for a film)

2008-12-15T05:08:00.000Z

Wake from your sleep,
the drying of your tears,
Today we escape, we escape.

Pack and get dressed
before your father hears us,
before all hell breaks loose.

Breathe, keep breathing,
don't lose your nerve.
Breathe, keep breathing,
I can't do this alone.

Sing us a song,
a song to keep us warm,
there's such a chill, such a chill.

And you can laugh a spineless laugh,
we hope your rules and wisdom choke you.

And now we are one
in everlasting peace,

we hope that you choke, that you choke,
we hope that you choke, that you choke,
we hope that you choke, that you choke.

Radiohead

hotel room (1931)

2008-12-07T21:09:00.003Z

Edward Hopper
"It is sad books that console us most when we are sad, and the pictures of lonely service stations that we should hang on our walls when there is no one to hold or love."
- Alain de Botton (The Pleasures of Sadness, 2004)

http://thedailyaphorism.com/

2008-12-04T15:02:00.002Z

2008-12-01T03:30:00.001Z

Uma fonte redonda -
pronunciando há vinte anos
as mesmas palavras

Kusatao Nakamura (1901.1983)

Make me a picture of the sun

2008-11-30T11:26:00.000Z

Make me a picture of the sun —
So I can hang it in my room —
And make believe I'm getting warm
When others call it "Day"!

Draw me a Robin — on a stem —
So I am hearing him, I'll dream,
And when the Orchards stop their tune —
Put my pretense — away —

Say if it's really — warm at noon —
Whether it's Buttercups — that "skim" —
Or Butterflies — that "bloom"?
Then — skip — the frost — upon the lea —
And skip the Russet — on the tree —
Let's play those — never come!

Emily Dickinson

How to disappear completely

2008-11-23T15:57:00.001Z

That there
That's not me
I go
Where I please
I walk through walls
I float down the Liffey
I'm not here
This isn't happening
I'm not here
I'm not here

In a little while
I'll be gone
The moment's already passed
Yeah it's gone
And I'm not here
This isn't happening
I'm not here
I'm not here

Strobe lights and blown speakers
Fireworks and hurricanes
I'm not here
This isn't happening
I'm not here
I'm not here

Radiohead

Corona

2008-11-22T03:55:00.002Z

Aus der Hand frißt der Herbst mir sein Blatt: wir sind Freunde.
Wir schälen die Zeit aus den Nüssen und lehren sie gehn:
die Zeit kehrt zurück in die Schale.

Im Spiegel ist Sonntag,
im Traum wird geschlafen,
der Mund redet wahr.

Mein Aug steigt hinab zum Geschlecht der Geliebten:
wir sehen uns an,
wir sagen uns Dunkles,
wir lieben winander wie Mohn und Gedächtnis,
wir schlafen wie Wein in den Muscheln,
wie das Meer im Blutstrahl des Mondes.

Wir stehen umschlungen im Fenster, sie sehen uns zu von der Straße:
es ist Zeit, daß man weiß!
Es ist Zeit, daß der Stein sich zu blühen bequemt,
daß der Unrast ein Herz schlägt.
Es ist Zeit, daß es Zeit wird.

Es ist Zeit.

Paul Celan.

To fill a Gap

2008-11-19T20:54:00.002Z

To fill a Gap
Insert the Thing that caused it -
Block it up
With Other - and ´twill yawn the more -
You cannot solder an Abyss
With Air

Emily Dickinson

heroes

2008-10-27T02:31:00.003Z

2 heróis na mesma foto: Jarvis Cocker e David Pearson.

I felt my life with both my hands

2008-10-27T02:23:00.001Z

I felt my life with both my hands
To see if it was there—
I held my spirit to the Glass,
To prove it possibler—

I turned my Being round and round
And paused at every pound
To ask the Owner's name—
For doubt, that I should know the Sound—

I judged my features—jarred my hair—
I pushed my dimples by, and waited—
If they—twinkled back—
Conviction might, of me—

I told myself, "Take Courage, Friend—
That—was a former time—
But we might learn to like the Heaven,
As well as our Old Home!"

Emily Dickinson (mas a Carla Bruni cantando...)

Prajna Paramita Hrydaya Sutra

2008-10-26T06:19:00.005Z

When the Bodhisattva Avalokitesvara
Was Coursing in the Deep Prajna Paramita
He Perceived That All Five Skandhas Are Empty
Thus He Overcame All Ills and Suffering.
Oh, Sariputra, Form Does not Differ From the Void,
And the Void Does Not Differ From Form.
Form is Void and Void is Form;
The Same is True For Feelings,
Perceptions, Volitions and Consciousness.
Sariputra, the Characteristics of the
Voidness of All Dharmas
Are Non-Arising, Non-Ceasing, Non-Defiled,
Non-Pure, Non-Increasing, Non-Decreasing.
Therefore, in the Void There Are No Forms,
No Feelings, Perceptions, Volitions or Consciousness.
No Eye, Ear, Nose, Tongue, Body or Mind;
No Form, Sound, Smell, Taste, Touch or Mind Object;
No Realm of the Eye,
Until We Come to No realm of Consciousness.
No ignorance and Also No Ending of Ignorance,
Until We Come to No Old Age and Death and
No Ending of Old Age and Death.
Also, There is No Truth of Suffering,
Of the Cause of Suffering,
Of the Cessation of Suffering, Nor of the Path.
There is No Wisdom, and There is No Attainment Whatsoever.
Because There is Nothing to Be Attained,
The Bodhisattva Relying On Prajna Paramita Has
No Obstruction in His Mind.
Because There is No Obstruction, He Has no Fear,
And He passes Far Beyond Confused Imagination.
And Reaches Ultimate Nirvana.
The Buddhas of the Past, Present and Future,
By Relying on Prajna Paramita
Have Attained Supreme Enlightenment.
Therefore, the Prajna Paramita is the Great Magic Spell,
The Spell of Illumination, the Supreme Spell,
Which Can Truly Protect One From All Suffering Without Fail.
Therefore He Uttered the Spell of Prajnaparmita,
Saying:

Gate, Gate, Paragate, Parasamgate, Bodhi Svaha.

Thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird

2008-10-26T06:10:00.001Z

I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

Wallace Stevens

Archaischer Torso Apollos

2008-10-25T03:03:00.006Z

Wir kannten nicht sein unerhörtes Haupt,
darin die Augenäpfel reiften. Aber
sein Torso glüht noch wie ein Kandelaber,
in dem sein Schauen, nur zurückgeschraubt,

sich hält und glänzt. Sonst könnte nicht der Bug
der Brust dich blenden, und im leisen Drehen
der Lenden könnte nicht ein Lächeln gehen
zu jener Mitte, die die Zeugung trug.

Sonst stünde dieser Stein entstellt und kurz
unter der Schultern durchsichtigem Sturz
und flimmerte nicht so wie Raubtierfelle;

und bräche nicht aus allen seinen Rändern
aus wie ein Stern: denn da ist keine Stelle,
die dich nicht sieht. Du musst dein Leben ändern.

Rainer Maria Rilke

(Ich bin über glücklich ich kann lesen auch nun auf Deutsch!)

Roadkill

2008-10-20T02:35:00.004Z

The feel of my arm around your waist,
The pale blue nightdress that you wore.
Your hair in braids, your sailor top:
The things I don't see anymore.

You lost your suitcase in my hotel room,
A subway token from your Ma.
The sun reflecting off the water on your face
And the way you drove your car.

All these things I can't forget
Though I don't see you anymore.

Drove to the airport through a traffic jam;
A deer lay dying in the road.
Maybe I should have seen it as some kind of sign,
Except I don't believe in them no more.

But I believe these things I can't forget,
Though I don't see you anymore.
Yes, I believe these things I can't forget,
´Cause I see them - though I don't see you anymore.

Pulp

Wanderers Nachtlied

2008-09-30T04:22:00.003Z

Über allen Gipfeln
Ist Ruth,
In allen Wipfeln
Spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch;
Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.
Warte nur, balde
Ruhest du auch.

Goethe

Poppies in October

2008-09-28T15:11:00.003Z

Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts.
Nor the woman in the ambulance
Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly -

A gift, a love gift
Utterly unasked for
By a sky

Palely and flamily
Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes
Dulled to a halt under bowlers.

O my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.

Sylvia Plath

Uma arte

2008-09-25T02:19:00.001Z

A arte de perder não é nenhum mistério;
tantas coisas contêm em si o acidente
de perdê-las, que perder não é nada sério.

Perca um pouquinho a cada dia. Aceite, austero,
a chave perdida, a hora gasta bestamente.
A arte de perder não é nenhum mistério.

Depois perca mais rápido, com mais critério:
lugares, nomes, a escala subseqüente
da viagem não feita. Nada disso é sério.

Perdi o relógio de mamãe. Ah! E nem quero
lembrar a perda de três casas excelentes.
A arte de perder não é nenhum mistério.

Perdi duas cidades lindas. E um império
que era meu, dois rios, e mais um continente.
tenho saudade deles. Mas não é nada sério.

— Mesmo perder você (a voz, o riso etéreo
que eu amo) não muda nada. Pois é evidente
que a arte de perder não chega a ser mistério
por muito que pareça (Escreve!) muito sério.

Elizabeth Bishop (trad. de Paulo Henriques Britto)

Between the bars

2008-09-22T04:31:00.004Z

drink up, baby, stay up all night
the things you could do, you won't but you might
the potential you'll be, that you'll never see
the promises you'll only make

drink up with me now and forget all about
the pressure of days do what I say
and I'll make you okay and drive them away
the images stuck in your head

people you've been before that you don't want around anymore
that push and shove and won't bend to your will
I'll keep them still

drink up, baby, look at the stars
I'll kiss you again between the bars
where I'm seeing you there with your hands in the air,
waiting to finally be caught

drink up one more time and I'll make you mine
keep you apart deep in my heart
separate from the rest where I like you the best
and keep the things you forgot

people you've been before that you don't want around anymore
that push and shove and won't bend to your will
I'll keep them still

Elliott Smith

You´re gonna make me lonesome when you go

2008-09-22T04:23:00.006Z

I've seen love go by my door
It's never been this close before
Never been so easy or so slow.
Been shooting in the dark too long
When somethin's not right it's wrong
Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go.

Dragon clouds so high above
I've only known careless love,
It's always hit me from below.
This time around it's more correct
Right on target, so direct,
Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go.

Purple clover, Queen Anne lace,
Crimson hair across your face,
You could make me cry if you don't know.
Can't remember what I was thinkin' of
You might be spoilin' me too much, love,
Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go.

Flowers on the hillside, bloomin' crazy,
Crickets talkin' back and forth in rhyme,
Blue river runnin' slow and lazy,
I could stay with you forever
And never realize the time.

Situations have ended sad,
Relationships have all been bad.
Mine've been like Verlaine's and Rimbaud.
But there's no way I can compare
All those scenes to this affair,
Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go.

Yer gonna make me wonder what I'm doin',
Stayin' far behind without you.
Yer gonna make me wonder what I'm sayin',
Yer gonna make me give myself a good talkin' to.

I'll look for you in old Honolulu,
San Francisco, Ashtabula,
Yer gonna have to leave me now, I know.
But I'll see you in the sky above,
In the tall grass, in the ones I love,
Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go.

Bob Dylan

Funeral Blues

2008-09-04T17:32:00.003Z

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W. H. Auden

I'll Shoot The Moon

2008-09-01T00:28:00.002Z

I'll shoot the moon
Right out of the sky
For you baby
I'll be the pennies
On your eyes
For you baby

I want to take you
Out to the fair
Here's a red rose
Ribbon for your hair

I'll shoot the moon
Right out of the sky
For you baby
I'll shoot the moon
For you

A vulture circles
Over your head
For you baby
I'll be the flowers
After you're dead
For you baby

I want to build
A nest in your hair
I want to kiss you
And never be there

I'll shoot the moon
Right out of the sky
For you baby
I'll shoot the moon
For you

Tom Waits

More than rain

2008-08-26T00:09:00.003Z

it's more than rain
that falls on our parade tonight
it's more than thunder
it's more than thunder

it's more than a swindle
this crooked card game
it's more than sad times
it's more than sad times

none of our pockets are filled with gold
nobody's caught the boquet
there are no dead presidents we can fold
nothing is going our way

and it's more than goodbye
I have to say to you
it's more than woe-be-gotten grey skies now

Tom Waits (Franks Wild Years)

Sete sonetos simétricos

2008-08-20T02:01:00.005Z

Em torno de uma mesa sem toalha

a discutir a difícil questão:

por que todo argumento sempre encalha

quando se tenta explicar a certeza

que inspira o que dispensa explicação.

Constrangimento geral nesta mesa.

Alguém pigarreia. Ninguém se atreve a

dizer palavra que pareça previa-

mente pensada pra causar surpresa.

Quem sabe a coisa não tem solução.

Não será este silêncio, talvez, a

resposta final? Mas algo atrapalha

o silêncio, impede a concentração

total. Talvez a falta de toalha.

Tão limitado, estar aqui e agora,

dentro de si, sem poder ir embora,

dentro de um espaço mínimo que mal

se consegue explorar, esse minúsculo

império sem território, Macau

sempre à mercê do latejar de um músculo.

Ame-o ou deixe-o? Sim: porém amar

por falta de opção (a outra é o asco).

Que além das suas bordas há um mar

infenso a toda nau exploratória,

imune mesmo ao mais ousado Vasco.

Porque nenhum descobridor na história

(e algum tentou?) jamais se desprendeu

do cais úmido e ínfimo do eu.

III

As if you had the world or time to try it,

the nerves, the will -- what else? -- the peace and quiet.

No; all you have is an odd sort of urge

that gets you going with no proper aim

in mind. Maybe a vague desire to merge

with something that you couldn´t even name

if someone asked you what it was, in fact.

And yet you make a move. The rules of the game

are far from clear. No matter: you must act

because you must. Because you don´t know why

you must. Because you sense the cards are stacked

against you: yes, that´s just what makes you try.

There shouldn´t be anything facile about it.

Or else you could certainly do without it.

Sentada gloriosa à mão direita

do nada, impondo a ordem a um pedaço

de um mundo que a ignora por completo,

certa de ter encontrado a perfeita

combinação de tempo com espaço

que possibilita o modo correto

de usufruir o quinhão de existência

o qual (segundo garante a ciência)

tem o direito de abocanhar,

repimpa-se, orgulhosa, em si mesma

como se numa esplêndida mansarda,

aconchegante e íntima -- um lar

tão próprio a ela quanto é própria à lesma

a concha exata. E fecha a porta. E aguarda.

Surprised by what? Not necessarily

by what a thing of beauty´s supposed to be

forever -- Götterfunken kind of stuff.

No way. Lightning like this strikes (if at all)

but once, and only when you´re young enough,

when you still have the spark, the wherewithal.

And yet, long past lo mezzo del camin,

there´re moments when it feels as if a pall

of fog lifted, and a sight long unseen

lay suddenly before your eyes. You say:

It´s that, again. Well, nearly that. I mean,

as near as it gets, this late in the day.

Breathe in deep. The moment´s not over yet.

And make a mental note: Not to forget.

É. Era uma solução -- radical,

sim, mas definitiva -- afinal,

o que se quer é resolver de vez

o problema em questão -- cortar o mal

pela raiz (uma imagem talvez

já meio desgastada, e no entanto,

por mais que seja repetida a três

por dois (maravilhas do português!

dois números tão parcos dizer tanto --

por que não "cem" e "mil", se a idéia era

arremedar o infinito? (enquanto

isso, alguma coisa (o quê, mesmo?) espera

uma solução límpida, final,

que aliás já foi encontrada (mas qual?)

VII

A escuridão começa pelas bordas

e vai seguindo até chegar ao centro,

lá onde uma semente aguarda a hora,

tranqüilamente, sem medo do escuro:

pois é da natureza das sementes

se afastar da luz, mergulhar no úmido,

sepultar-se por toda uma estação.

No entanto, neste caso a escuridão

é de outra espécie, mais seca e mais rasa,

uma que avança devagar e sempre,

alheia a qualquer propósito ou causa,

até só restar pedra sobre pedra.

Mas a semente espera. Ela é insistente,

e acerta mesmo sem saber que erra.

Paulo Henriques Britto (2003)

Rock´n´roll suicide

2008-08-09T05:18:00.001Z

Time takes a cigarette, puts it in your mouth
You pull on your finger, then another finger, then your cigarette
The wall-to-wall is calling, it lingers, then you forget
Ohhh how how how, you’re a rock ’n’ roll suicide

You’re too old to lose it, too young to choose it
And the clocks waits so patiently on your song
You walk past a cafe but you don’t eat when you’ve lived too long
Oh, no, no, no, you’re a rock ’n’ roll suicide

Chev brakes are snarling as you stumble across the road
But the day breaks instead so you hurry home
Don’t let the sun blast your shadow
Don’t let the milk float ride your mind
You’re so natural - religiously unkind

Oh no love! you’re not alone
You’re watching yourself but you’re too unfair
You got your head all tangled up but if I could only
Make you care
Oh no love! you’re not alone
No matter what or who you’ve been
No matter when or where you’ve seen
All the knives seem to lacerate your brain
I’ve had my share, I’ll help you with the pain
You’re not alone

Just turn on with me and you’re not alone
Let’s turn on with me and you’re not alone (wonderful)
Let’s turn on and be not alone (wonderful)
Gimme your hands cause you’re wonderful (wonderful)
Gimme your hands cause you’re wonderful (wonderful)
Oh gimme your hands.

David Bowie.

The Park | Kohei Yoshiyuki

2008-08-04T03:31:00.003Z

Década de 70

Negreiros

2008-07-30T04:35:00.003Z

Desenho lindo do Negreiros
Workshop Ilustrando em Revista - 25 de julho no CCJF

Wuthering Heights

2008-07-29T04:11:00.002Z

The horizons ring me like faggots,
Tilted and disparate, and always unstable.
Touched by a match, they might warm me,
And their fine lines singe
The air to orange
Before the distances they pin evaporate,
Weighting the pale sky with a solider color.
But they only dissolve and dissolve
Like a series of promises, as I step forward.

There is no life higher than the grasstops
Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind
Pours by like destiny, bending
Everything in one direction.
I can feel it trying
To funnel my heat away.
If I pay the roots of the heather
Too close attention, they will invite me
To whiten my bones among them.

The sheep know where they are,
Browsing in their dirty wool-clouds,
Gray as the weather.
The black slots of their pupils take me in.
It is like being mailed into space,
A thin, silly message.
They stand about in grandmotherly disguise,
All wig curls and yellow teeth
And hard, marbly baas.

I come to wheel ruts, and water
Limpid as the solitudes
That flee through my fingers.
Hollow doorsteps go from grass to grass;
Lintel and sill have unhinged themselves.
Of people the air only
Remembers a few odd syllables.
It rehearses them moaningly:
Black stone, black stone.

The sky leans on me, me, the one upright
Among all horizontals.
The grass is beating its head distractedly.
It is too delicate
For a life in such company;
Darkness terrifies it.
Now, in valleys narrow
And black as purses, the house lights
Gleam like small change.

Sylvia Plath

Like a Friend

2008-07-26T05:04:00.003Z

Don’t bother saying you’re sorry
Why don’t you come in
Smoke all my cigarettes again

Every time I get no further
How long has it been?
Come on in now, wipe your feet on my dreams

You take up my time
Like some cheap magazine
When I could have been learning something
Oh well, you know what I mean

I’ve done this before
And I will do it again
Come on and kill me baby
While you smile like a friend
Oh and I’ll come running
Just to do it again

You are the last drink I never should have drunk
You are the body hidden in the trunk
You are the habit I can’t seem to kick
You are my secrets on the front page every week
You are the car I never should have bought
You are the dream I never should have caught
You are the cut that makes me hide my face
You are the party that makes me feel my age
Like a car crash I can see but I just can’t avoid
Like a plane I’ve been told I never should board
Like a film that’s so bad but I’ve got to stay till the end
Let me tell you now:
It’s lucky for you that we’re friends.

Pulp

The Road

2008-07-25T02:40:00.003Z

He lay listening to the water drip in the woods. Bedrock, this. The cold and the silence. The ashes of the late world carried on the bleak and temporal winds to and fro in the void. Carried forth and scattered and carried forth again. Everything uncoupled from its shoring. Unsupported in the ashen air. Sustained by a breath, trembling and brief. If only my heart were stone.

(...)

They passed through the city at noon of the day following. He kept the pistol to hand on the folded tarp on top of the cart. He kept the boy close to his side. The city was mostly burned. No sign of life. Cars in the street caked with ash, everything covered with ash and dust. Fossil tracks in the dried sludge. A corpse in a doorway dried to leather. Grimacing at the day. He pulled the boy closer. Just remember that the things you put into your head are there forever, he said. You might want to think about that.
You forget some things, dont you?
Yes. You forget what you want to remember and you remember what you want to forget.

Cormac McCarthy, 2006 (The Road, Vintage International, p. 11-12)

There´s no emotion

2008-07-23T01:32:00.004Z

As I lay down in the bedroom,
there came a sound from far away.
As I strained my ears to listen
I could hear a thin voice say:
"In your heart there's no emotion,
and your soul, your soul just dried away.
There's no love, no love left in your body;
standing empty forever, and colder every day."
So I spent a night without you,
oh yes, I spent a night outdoors.
Staring into unknown faces,
trying to feel just like before.
In your heart there's no emotion,
and your soul, your soul just dried away.
There's no love, no love left in your body;
standing empty forever, and colder every day.
No I don't believe in voices,
because I hear them all the time,
scraping tears from hardened faces
with their stupid ugly rhymes.
In your heart there's no emotion,
and your soul, your soul just dried away.
There's no love, no love left in your body;
standing empty forever, and colder every day.
Standing empty forever, and colder every day.
And this is where the story starts,
holding hands that hold you forever,
only love will keep you together.
Holding hands that hold you forever,
holding hands that throw you forever away, away.

Pulp (Freaks, 1986)

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

2008-07-22T01:53:00.002Z

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

e.e. cummings

[You who never arrived]

2008-07-18T22:42:00.002Z

You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start,
I don´t even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of the next
moment. All the immense
images in me -- the far-off, deeply felt landscape,
cities, towers, and bridges, and un-
suspected turns in the path,
and those powerful lands that were once
pulsing with the life of the gods --
all rise within me to mean
you, who forever elude me.

You, Beloved, who are all
the gardens I have ever gazed at,
longing. An open window
in a country house --, and you almost
stepped out, pensive, to meet me. Streets that I chanced upon, --
you had just walked down them and vanished.
And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
were still dizzy with your presence and, startled, gave back
my too-sudden image. Who knows? perhaps the same
bird echoed through both of us
yesterday, separate, in the evening...

R. M. Rilke (tradução: Stephen Mitchell)

A infância de Ivan

2008-07-14T03:15:00.002Z

Andrei Tarkovski, 1961

Ariel

2008-07-12T17:47:00.002Z

(After reading Shakespeare´s Tempest)

Once, somewhere, somehow, you had set him free
with that sharp jolt which as a young man tore you
out of your life and vaulted you to greatness.
Then he grew willing; and, since then, he serves,
after each task impatient for his freedom.
And half imperious, half almost ashamed,
you make excuses, say that you still need him
for this and that, and, ah, you must describe
how you helped him. Yet you feel, yourself,
that everything held back by his detention
is missing from the air. How sweet, how tempting:
to let him go -- to give up all your magic,
submit yourself to destiny like the others,
and know that his light friendship, without strain now,
with no more obligations, anywhere,
an intensifying if this space you breathe,
is working in the element, thoughtlessly.
Henceforth dependent, never again empowered
to shape the torpid mouth into that call
at which he dived. Defenseless, aging, poor,
and yet still breathing him in, like a fragrance
spread endlessly, which makes the invisible
complete for the first time. Smiling that you ever
could summon him and feel so much at home
in that vast intimacy. Weeping too, perhaps,
when you remember how he loved and yet
wished to leave you: always both, at once.

(Have I let go already? I look on,
terrified by this man who has become
a duke again. How easily he draws
the wire through his head and hangs himself
up with the other puppets; then steps forward
to ask the audience for their applause
and their indulgence... What consummate power:
to lay aside, to stand there nakedly
with no strength but one´s own, "which is most faint.")

R. M. Rilke (tradução: Stephen Mitchell)

The ballad of the sad café

2008-07-08T13:04:00.003Z

"The whisky they drank that evening (two big bottles of it) is important. Otherwise, it would be hard to account for what followed. Perhaps without it there would never have been a café. For the liquor of Miss Amelia has a special quality of its own. It is clean and sharp on the tongue, but once down a man it glows inside him for a long time afterward. And that is not all. It is known that if a message is written with lemon juice on a clean sheet of paper there will be no sign of it. But if the paper is held for a moment to the fire then the letters turn brown and the meaning becomes clear. Imagine that the whisky is the fire and that the message is that which is known only in the soul of a man - then the worth of Miss Amelia´s liquor can be understood. Things that have gone unnoticed, thoughts that have been harboured far back in the dark mind, are suddenly recognized and comprehended. A spinner who has thought only of the loom, the dinner pail, the bed, and then the loom again - this spinner might drink some on a Sunday and come across a marsh lily. And in his palm he might hold this flower, examining the golden dainty cup, and in him suddenly might come a sweetness keen as pain. A weaver might look up suddenly and see for the first time the cold, weird radiance of midnight January sky, and a deep fright at his own smallness stop his heart. Such things as these, then, happen when a man has drunk Miss Amelia´s liquor. He may suffer, or he may be spent with joy - but the experience has shown the truth; he has warmed his soul and seen the message hidden there."

Carson McCullers, 1951 (The ballad of the sad café, Penguin Classics, p. 15)

Nude

2008-07-05T21:38:00.001Z

Don't get any big ideas
they're not gonna happen
You paint yourself white
and feel up with noise
but there'll be something missing

Now that you've found it, it's gone
Now that you feel it, you don't
You've gone off the rails

So don't get any big ideas
they're not going to happen
You'll go to hell for what your dirty mind is thinking

Radiohead (In Rainbows, 2007)

Punch-drunk love

2008-07-01T04:29:00.001Z

Buddha in glory

2008-05-26T05:25:00.004Z

Center of all centers, core of cores,
almond self-enclosed and growing sweet -
all this universe, to the furthest stars
and beyond them, is your flesh, your fruit.

Now you feel how nothing clings to you;
your vast shell reaches into endless space,
and there the rich, thick fluids rise and flow.
Illuminated in your infinite peace,

a billion stars go spinning through the night,
blazing high above your head.
But in you is the presence that
will be, when all the stars are dead.

R. M. Rilke (tradução: Stephen Mitchell)

Chelsea Hotel #2

2008-05-05T02:45:00.000Z

I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel,
you were talking so brave and so sweet,
giving me head on the unmade bed,
while the limousines wait in the street.
Those were the reasons and that was New York,
we were running for the money and the flesh.
And that was called love for the workers in song
probably still is for those of them left.
Ah but you got away, didn't you babe,
you just turned your back on the crowd,
you got away, I never once heard you say,
I need you, I don't need you,
I need you, I don't need you
and all of that jiving around.

I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel
you were famous, your heart was a legend.
You told me again you preferred handsome men
but for me you would make an exception.
And clenching your fist for the ones like us
who are oppressed by the figures of beauty,
you fixed yourself, you said, "Well never mind,
we are ugly but we have the music."

And then you got away, didn't you babe...

I don't mean to suggest that I loved you the best,
I can't keep track of each fallen robin.
I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel,
that's all, I don't even think of you that often.

Leonard Cohen

Noturno do Edifício Líder

2008-04-22T05:56:00.002Z

O sol não veio. A noite
é de lucros fáceis.
Eu pego as tuas mãos:
elas me ferem.

A carne ficou mais triste
ó meu amor
mas abro a janela e
teu corpo reluz na treva

- É a única estrela
sobre a cidade

Jayro José Xavier

I know where the summer goes | Ryan McGinley

2008-04-09T02:02:00.006Z

Pain—expands the Time

2008-04-04T03:20:00.000Z

Pain—expands the Time—
Ages coil within
The minute Circumference
Of a single Brain—

Pain contracts—the Time—
Occupied with Shot
Gamuts of Eternities
Are as they were not—

Emily Dickinson

Incinerate

2008-03-31T03:09:00.001Z

I ripped your heart out from your chest
Replaced it with a grenade blast

Incinerate
Incinerate
Incinerate
Incinerate

The firefighters hose me down
I don't care, I'll burn out anyhow
It's four-alarm girl, nothing to see
Hear the sirens come for me

You doused my soul with gasoline
You flicked a match into my brain

Incinerate
Incinerate
Incinerate
Incinerate

The firefighters are so nice
I remember you so cold as ice
The flames are licking at your feet
The sirens come to put me me out of misery

You wave your torch into my eyes
Flamethrower lover burning mind

Incinerate
Incinerate
Incinerate
Incinerate
Incinerate
Incinerate
Incinerate
Incinerate

Sonic Youth

The heavy bear who goes with me

2008-01-20T02:19:00.000Z

"the withness of the body" --Whitehead

The heavy bear who goes with me,
A manifold honey to smear his face,
Clumsy and lumbering here and there,
The central ton of every place,
The hungry beating brutish one
In love with candy, anger, and sleep,
Crazy factotum, disheveling all,
Climbs the building, kicks the football,
Boxes his brother in the hate-ridden city.

Breathing at my side, that heavy animal,
That heavy bear who sleeps with me,
Howls in his sleep for a world of sugar,
A sweetness intimate as the water's clasp,
Howls in his sleep because the tight-rope
Trembles and shows the darkness beneath.
--The strutting show-off is terrified,
Dressed in his dress-suit, bulging his pants,
Trembles to think that his quivering meat
Must finally wince to nothing at all.

That inescapable animal walks with me,
Has followed me since the black womb held,
Moves where I move, distorting my gesture,
A caricature, a swollen shadow,
A stupid clown of the spirit's motive,
Perplexes and affronts with his own darkness,
The secret life of belly and bone,
Opaque, too near, my private, yet unknown,
Stretches to embrace the very dear
With whom I would walk without him near,
Touches her grossly, although a word
Would bare my heart and make me clear,
Stumbles, flounders, and strives to be fed
Dragging me with him in his mouthing care,
Amid the hundred million of his kind,
the scrimmage of appetite everywhere.

Delmore Schwartz

The Lemon Trees

2008-01-12T04:37:00.000Z

Listen: the poets laureate
walk only among plants
with precious names, like box, acanthus, privet.
Me, I love the streets that fade
to grassy ditches, where from arid puddles
young lads scoop
a few emaciated eels:
tracks that wind along the slopes
and slither downwards through the tufted canes
to lose themselves among the lemon groves.

Better if the yakking of the birds
be suffocated, swallowed by the blue:
it's easier to hear the whispering
of friendly branches in the almost breathless air,
to breathe this odour
grounded in the earth, that drills
its sweet disturbing rain into our breasts.
Here, by a miracle, the war
of thwarted passions is assuaged,
here even we poor folk are dealt our share of riches,
which is the fragrance of the lemon trees.

See, in these silences where things
resign themselves and seem
about to yield their final secret,
sometimes we feel we're on the verge
of stumbling on a vault in Nature,
the still pivot of the world, the untenable link,
the thread which, disentangled, might at last
direct us to a central truth.
The eye delves,
the mind investigates aligns divorces
in this perfume that contrives to bloom
when day is most lethargic.
Silences where one can see
in every fleeting human shade
some wandering Divinity.

But the illusion wanes and in time returns us
to an urban hubbub where the blue
appears in patches only, high among the rooftops.
Rain falls bleakly on the earth then;
winter tedium weighs on the house,
the light grows miserly, the soul embittered.
Till one day from an ill-shut gateway
from a tree-filled close
the lemons burst out in a blaze of yellow
and the ice in the heart melts
and we are smitten to the core
by arias pelted forth
from golden horns of elemental sun.

Eugenio Montale (tradução de Ciaran Carson)

acabando o ano..

2007-12-31T05:08:00.000Z

O mundo não se fez para pensarmos nele
(Pensar é estar doente dos olhos)
Mas para olharmos para ele e estarmos de acordo...

Eu não tenho filosofia: tenho sentidos...
Se falo na Natureza não é porque saiba o que ela é,
Mas porque a amo, e amo-a por isso,
Porque quem ama nunca sabe o que ama
Nem sabe por que ama, nem o que é amar...

Amar é a eterna inocência,
E a única inocência não pensar...

Alberto Caeiro (de O guardador de rebanhos)

Disillusionment of ten o'clock

2007-12-17T02:26:00.000Z

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.

Wallace Stevens

voices to voices,lip to lip

2007-12-12T00:39:00.000Z

voices to voices,lip to lip
i swear(to noone everyone)constitutes
undying;or whatever this and that petal confutes...
to exist being a peculiar form of sleep

what's beyond logic happens beneath will;
nor can these moments be translated:i say
that even after April
by God there is no excuse for May

-bring forth your flowers and machinery:sculpture and prose
flowers guess and miss
machinery is the more accurate, yes
it delivers the goods,Heaven knows

(yet are we mindful,though not as yet awake,
of ourselves which shout and cling,being
for a little while and which easily break
in spite of the best overseeing)

i mean that the blond abscence of any program
except last and always and first to live
makes unimportant what i and you believe;
not for philosophy does this rose give a damn...

bring on your fireworks,which are a mixed
splendor of piston and of pistil;very well
provided an instant may be fixed
so that it will not rub,like any other pastel.

(While you and i have lips and voices which
are for kissing and to sing with
who cares if some oneyed son for a bitch
invents an instrument to measure Spring with?

each dream nascitur,is not made...)
why then to Hell with that:the other;this,
since the thing perhaps is
to eat flower and not to be afraid.

e e cummings

Again and again and again

2007-12-12T00:13:00.000Z

You said the anger would come back
just as the love did.

I have a black look I do not
like. It is a mask I try on.
I migrate toward it and its frog
sits on my lips and defecates.
It is old. It is also a pauper.
I have tried to keep it on a diet.
I give it no unction.

There is a good look that I wear
like a blood clot. I have
sewn it over my left breast.
I have made a vocation of it.
Lust has taken plant in it
and I have placed you and your
child at its milk tip.

Oh the blackness is murderous
and the milk tip is brimming
and each machine is working
and I will kiss you when
I cut up one dozen new men
and you will die somewhat,
again and again.

Anne Sexton

This side of the truth

2007-11-16T06:14:00.000Z

This side of the truth,
You may not see, my son,
King of your blue eyes
In the blinding country of youth,
That all is undone,
Under the unminding skies,
Of innocence and guilt
Before you move to make
One gesture of the heart or head,
Is gathered and spilt
Into the winding dark
Like the dust of the dead.

Good and bad, two ways
Of moving about your death
By the grinding sea,
King of your heart in the blind days,
Blow away like breath,
Go crying through you and me
And the souls of all men
Into the innocent
Dark, and the guilty dark, and good
Death, and bad death, and then
In the last element
Fly like the stars' blood

Like the sun's tears,
Like the moon's seed, rubbish
And fire, the flying rant
Of the sky, king of your six years.
And the wicked wish,
Down the beginning of plants
And animals and birds,
Water and Light, the earth and sky,
Is cast before you move,
And all your deeds and words,
Each truth, each lie,
Die in unjudging love.

Dylan Thomas

Those vanished years

2007-11-16T05:46:00.001Z

"He remembers those vanished years.
As though looking through a dusty window pane,
the past is something he could see, but not touch.
And everything he sees is blurred and indistinct."

In the mood for love, Wong Kar-Wai.

Da janela | 3

2007-11-16T05:37:00.000Z

Muchacha en la ventana, Salvador Dali

How shall my animal

2007-11-16T05:21:00.000Z

How shall my animal
Whose wizard shape I trace in the cavernous skull,
Vessel of abscesses and exultation's shell,
Endure burial under the spelling wall,
The invoked, shrouding veil at the cap of the face,
Who should be furious,
Drunk as a vineyard snail, flailed like an octopus,
Roaring, crawling, quarrel
With the outside weathers,
The natural circle of the discovered skies
Draw down to its weird eyes?

How shall it magnetize,
Towards the studded male in a bent, midnight blaze
That melts the lionhead's heel and horseshoe of the heart
A brute land in the cool top of the country days
To trot with a loud mate the haybeds of a mile,
Love and labour and kill
In quick, sweet, cruel light till the locked ground sprout
The black, burst sea rejoice,
The bowels turn turtle,
Claw of the crabbed veins squeeze from each red particle
The parched and raging voice?

Fishermen of mermen
Creep and harp on the tide, sinking their charmed, bent pin
With bridebait of gold bread, I with a living skein,
Tongue and ear in the thread, angle the temple-bound
Curl-locked and animal cavepools of spells and bone,
Trace out a tentacle,
Nailed with an open eye, in the bowl of wounds and weed
To clasp my fury on ground
And clap its great blood down;
Never shall beast be born to atlas the few seas
Or poise the day on a horn.

Sigh long, clay cold, lie shorn,
Cast high, stunned on gilled stone; sly scissors ground in frost
Clack through the thicket of strength, love hewn in pillars drops
With carved bird, saint, and suns the wrackspiked maiden mouth
Lops, as a bush plumed with flames, the rant of the fierce eye,
Clips short the gesture of breath.
Die in red feathers when the flying heaven's cut,
And roll with the knocked earth:
Lie dry, rest robbed, my beast.
You have kicked from a dark den, leaped up the whinnying light,
And dug your grave in my breast.

Dylan Thomas

Forgetfulness

2007-11-14T19:42:00.000Z

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Billy Collins

II, 23

2007-11-05T01:47:00.000Z

Call me to the one among your moments
that stands against you ineluctably:
intimate as a dog's imploring glance
but, again, forever, turned away

when you think you've captured it at last.
What seems so far from you is most your own.
We are already free, and were dismissed
where we thought we soon would be at home.

Anxious, we keep longing for a foothold -
we, at times too young for what is old
and too old for what has never been;

doing justice only where we praise,
because we are the branch, the iron blade,
and sweet danger, ripening from within.

Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Sonnets to Orpheus
Trad. Stephen Mitchell

Vilhelm Hammershøi (1864 -1916)

2007-11-05T01:37:00.000Z

Archaic Torso of Apollo

2007-08-10T03:29:00.000Z

We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with brilliance from inside,
like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,

gleams in all its power. Otherwise
the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could
a smile run through the placid hips and thighs
to that dark center where procreation flared.

Otherwise this stone would seem defaced
beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders
and would not glisten like a wild beast's fur:

would not, from all the borders of itself,
burst like a star: for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life.

Rainer Maria Rilke (trad. Stephen Mitchell)

30 de julho, 2007

2007-07-31T04:33:00.001Z

a hora do lobo

This Magic Moment

2007-07-27T04:44:00.000Z

dois

2007-07-27T04:32:00.001Z

Não quero mais dormir, nunca mais, quero sempre
mais tempo para os meus olhos, - vida, areia, amor profundo... -
conchas de pensamentos sonhando-se desertamente.

Doze Noturnos da Holanda, Cecília Meireles.

Da janela | 2

2007-07-24T04:35:00.001Z

Eleven a.m., Edward Hopper

Se eu não a tenho, ela me tem

2007-07-24T03:21:00.000Z

Se eu não a tenho, ela me tem
o tempo todo preso, Amor,
e tolo e sábio, alegre e triste,
eu sofro e não dou troco.
É indefeso quem ama.
Amor comanda
à escravidão mais branda
e assim me rendo,
sofrendo,
à dura lida
que me é deferida.

Se calo, é porque mais convém
calar, em mim, o meu calor.
A língua hesita, o corpo existe
e, doendo, acha pouco,
sofre mas não reclama.
A sombra vã da
memória me demanda
e eu me surpreendo
mexendo
nesta ferida
sempre revolvida.

(...)

Arnaut Daniel (trad. Augusto de Campos)