segunda-feira, janeiro 31, 2011

Song

Johnny Deep & Allen Ginsberg

The weight of the world
is love.
Under the burden
of solitude,
under the burden
of dissatisfaction

the weight,
the weight we carry
is love.

Who can deny?
In dreams
it touches
the body,
in thought
constructs
a miracle,
in imagination
anguishes
till born
in human—
looks out of the heart
burning with purity—
for the burden of life
is love,

but we carry the weight
wearily,
and so must rest
in the arms of love
at last,
must rest in the arms
of love.

No rest
without love,
no sleep
without dreams
of love—
be mad or chill
obsessed with angels
or machines,
the final wish
is love
—cannot be bitter,
cannot deny,
cannot withhold
if denied:

the weight is too heavy

—must give
for no return
as thought
is given
in solitude
in all the excellence
of its excess.

The warm bodies
shine together
in the darkness,
the hand moves
to the center
of the flesh,
the skin trembles
in happiness
and the soul comes
joyful to the eye—

yes, yes,
that’s what
I wanted,
I always wanted,
I always wanted,
to return
to the body
where I was born.

Allen Ginsberg

sexta-feira, janeiro 28, 2011

nenhuma coisa senão o amor

William Butler Yeats (1865 — 1939)
Imagem daqui

Had I the heavens' 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.

quarta-feira, janeiro 26, 2011

Da mulher ideal

Woman Seen from the Back
ca. 1862
Onèsipe Aguado
Metropolitan Museum of Art, NY

e mais aqui.

“a arte é filha da memória”

Imagem daqui

«Em Génova, naquela noite, ouvia a voz dela, ouvia os poemas dela ditos por ela, e via-a a ela e à poesia dela. Tudo tão real quanto fantástico. Como ela o foi, como ela o é. Mesmo quando nada restar da poesia dela, mais do que um verso ou um fragmento. Não foi só isso que nos ficou de tantos poetas da Grécia Antiga? Mas, porque outros os amaram como alguns amaram Sophia, esse resto é quanto basta. Porque “a arte é filha da memória”. Sophia, eu lembro-me.»


João Bénard da Costa
“Sophia: memória – 2 de Julho de 2004”
in Crónicas: Imagens Proféticas e Outras
2º volume
Assírio & Alvim
2010.

Retirado daqui.

Lembrete

Imagem daqui

O ressurgimento dos clássicos estará em debate logo à noite no Tvi 24.
Língua, literatura e cultura. O lugar dos estudos clássicos. Os estudos clássicos hoje. A horas impróprias, como quase sempre, uma reflexão que importa .

Mais informações aqui.

Descoberta do dia

Imagem daqui.

terça-feira, janeiro 25, 2011

No aniversário de Virginia Woolf

Imagem daqui

She would not say of any one in the world now that they were this or were that. She felt very young; at the same time unspeakably aged. She sliced like a knife through everything; at the same time was outside, looking on.She had a perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day. Not that she thought herself clever, or much out of the ordinary. How she had got through life on the few twigs of knowledge Fräulein Daniels gave them she could not think. She knew nothing; no language, no history; she scarcely read a book now, except memoirs in bed; and yet to her it was absolutely absorbing; all this; the cabs passing; and she would not say of Peter, she would not say of herself, I am this, I am that.

Her only gift was knowing people almost by instinct, she thought, walking on. If you put her in a room with some one, up went her back like a cat's; or she purred. Devonshire House, Bath House, the house with the china cockatoo, she had seen them all lit up once; and remembered Sylvia, Fred, Sally Seton — such hosts of people; and dancing all night; and the waggons plodding past to market; and driving home across the Park. She remembered once throwing a shilling into the Serpentine. But every one remembered; what she loved was this, here, now, in front of her; the fat lady in the cab. Did it matter then, she asked herself, walking towards Bond Street, did it matter that she must inevitably cease completely; all this must go on without her; did she resent it; or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely? but that somehow in the streets of London, on the ebb and flow of things, here, there, she survived, Peter survived, lived in each other, she being part, she was positive, of the trees at home; of the house there, ugly, rambling all to bits and pieces as it was; part of people she had never met; being laid out like a mist between the people she knew best, who lifted her on their branches as she had seen the trees lift the mist, but it spread ever so far, her life, herself. But what was she dreaming as she looked into Hatchards' shop window? What was she trying to recover? What image of white dawn in the country, as she read in the book spread open:

Fear no more the heat o' the sun
Nor the furious winter's rages.

This late age of the world's experience had bred in them all, all men and women, a well of tears. Tears and sorrows; courage and endurance; a perfectly upright and stoical bearing. Think, for example, of the woman she admired most, Lady Bexborough, opening the bazaar.

There were Jorrocks' Jaunts and Jollities; there were Soapy Sponge and Mrs. Asquith's Memoirs and Big Game Shooting in Nigeria, all spread open. Ever so many books there were; but none that seemed exactly right to take to Evelyn Whitbread in her nursing home. Nothing that would serve to amuse her and make that indescribably dried-up little woman look, as Clarissa came in, just for a moment cordial; before they settled down for the usual interminable talk of women's ailments. How much she wanted it — that people should look pleased as she came in, Clarissa thought and turned and walked back towards Bond Street, annoyed, because it was silly to have other reasons for doing things. Much rather would she have been one of those people like Richard who did things for themselves, whereas, she thought, waiting to cross, half the time she did things not simply, not for themselves; but to make people think this or that; perfect idiocy she knew (and now the policeman held up his hand) for no one was ever for a second taken in. Oh if she could have had her life over again! she thought, stepping on to the pavement, could have looked even differently! She would have been, in the first place, dark like Lady Bexborough, with a skin of crumpled leather and beautiful eyes. She would have been, like Lady Bexborough, slow and stately; rather large; interested in politics like a man; with a country house; very dignified, very sincere. Instead of which she had a narrow pea-stick figure; a ridiculous little face, beaked like a bird's. That she held herself well was true; and had nice hands and feet; and dressed well, considering that she spent little. But often now this body she wore (she stopped to look at a Dutch picture), this body, with all its capacities, seemed nothing — nothing at all. She had the oddest sense of being herself invisible, unseen; unknown; there being no more marrying, no more having of children now, but only this astonishing and rather solemn progress with the rest of them, up Bond Street, this being Mrs. Dalloway; not even Clarissa any more; this being Mrs. Richard Dalloway.

Mrs. Dalloway
Virginia Woolf
CRW Publishing Limited
2003

New beginnings

Imagem daqui

segunda-feira, janeiro 24, 2011

Uma semana para Sophia

Imagem daqui

Devo o curso, os hábitos de leitura, uma certa altivez de nariz, e o meu fundo de écran actual, à primeira ficha de leitura que realizei na vida. Estava no 7º. ano e tínhamos acabado de ler O Cavaleiro da Dinamarca. A vida muda e muda-nos. Mas, agora percebo, vibrarmos aos trinta com as palavras, as pessoas e as coisas, que nos trouxeram, pela mão, nas nuvens, ao sítio exacto onde estamos - mesmo que não seja físico, mas fundo, interior - desde os onze, doze, treze anos, é um privilégio muito muito grande.

Esta é a semana de Sophia, do princípio ao fim.

domingo, janeiro 23, 2011

sábado, janeiro 22, 2011

Visão de Clarice Lispector


Imagem daqui

Clarice,
veio de um mistério, partiu para outro.

Ficamos sem saber a essência do mistério.
Ou o mistério não era essencial,
era Clarice viajando nele.

Era Clarice bulindo no fundo mais fundo,
onde a palavra parece encontrar
sua razão de ser, e retratar o homem.

O que Clarice disse, o que Clarice
viveu por nós em forma de história
em forma de sonho de história
em forma de sonho de sonho de história
(no meio havia uma barata
ou um anjo?)
não sabemos repetir nem inventar.
São coisas, são jóias particulares de Clarice
que usamos de empréstimo, ela dona de tudo.

Clarice não foi um lugar-comum,
carteira de identidade, retrato.
De Chirico a pintou? Pois sim.

O mais puro retrato de Clarice
só se pode encontrá-lo atrás da nuvem
que o avião cortou, não se percebe mais.

De Clarice guardamos gestos. Gestos,
tentativas de Clarice sair de Clarice
para ser igual a nós todos
em cortesia, cuidados, providências.
Clarice não saiu, mesmo sorrindo.
Dentro dela
o que havia de salões, escadarias,
tetos fosforescentes, longas estepes,
zimbórios, pontes do Recife em bruma envoltas,
formava um país, o país onde Clarice
vivia, só e ardente, construindo fábulas.

Não podíamos reter Clarice em nosso chão
salpicado de compromissos. Os papéis,
os cumprimentos falavam em agora,
edições, possíveis coquetéis
à beira do abismo.
Levitando acima do abismo Clarice riscava
um sulco rubro e cinza no ar e fascinava.

Fascinava-nos, apenas.
Deixamos para compreendê-la mais tarde.
Mais tarde, um dia... saberemos amar Clarice.


Carlos Drummond de Andrade

quarta-feira, janeiro 19, 2011

A Nice Cup of Tea, By George Orwell

Imagem daqui

If you look up 'tea' in the first cookery book that comes to hand you will probably find that it is unmentioned; or at most you will find a few lines of sketchy instructions which give no ruling on several of the most important points.

This is curious, not only because tea is one of the main stays of civilization in this country, as well as in Eire, Australia and New Zealand, but because the best manner of making it is the subject of violent disputes.

When I look through my own recipe for the perfect cup of tea, I find no fewer than eleven outstanding points. On perhaps two of them there would be pretty general agreement, but at least four others are acutely controversial. Here are my own eleven rules, every one of which I regard as golden:


First of all, one should use Indian or Ceylonese tea. China tea has virtues which are not to be despised nowadays — it is economical, and one can drink it without milk — but there is not much stimulation in it. One does not feel wiser, braver or more optimistic after drinking it. Anyone who has used that comforting phrase 'a nice cup of tea' invariably means Indian tea.


Secondly, tea should be made in small quantities — that is, in a teapot. Tea out of an urn is always tasteless, while army tea, made in a cauldron, tastes of grease and whitewash. The teapot should be made of china or earthenware. Silver or Britanniaware teapots produce inferior tea and enamel pots are worse; though curiously enough a pewter teapot (a rarity nowadays) is not so bad.


Thirdly, the pot should be warmed beforehand. This is better done by placing it on the hob than by the usual method of swilling it out with hot water.


Fourthly, the tea should be strong. For a pot holding a quart, if you are going to fill it nearly to the brim, six heaped teaspoons would be about right. In a time of rationing, this is not an idea that can be realized on every day of the week, but I maintain that one strong cup of tea is better than twenty weak ones. All true tea lovers not only like their tea strong, but like it a little stronger with each year that passes — a fact which is recognized in the extra ration issued to old-age pensioners.


Fifthly, the tea should be put straight into the pot. No strainers, muslin bags or other devices to imprison the tea. In some countries teapots are fitted with little dangling baskets under the spout to catch the stray leaves, which are supposed to be harmful. Actually one can swallow tea-leaves in considerable quantities without ill effect, and if the tea is not loose in the pot it never infuses properly.


Sixthly, one should take the teapot to the kettle and not the other way about. The water should be actually boiling at the moment of impact, which means that one should keep it on the flame while one pours. Some people add that one should only use water that has been freshly brought to the boil, but I have never noticed that it makes any difference.


Seventhly, after making the tea, one should stir it, or better, give the pot a good shake, afterwards allowing the leaves to settle.


Eighthly, one should drink out of a good breakfast cup — that is, the cylindrical type of cup, not the flat, shallow type. The breakfast cup holds more, and with the other kind one's tea is always half cold before one has well started on it.


Ninthly, one should pour the cream off the milk before using it for tea. Milk that is too creamy always gives tea a sickly taste.


Tenthly, one should pour tea into the cup first. This is one of the most controversial points of all; indeed in every family in Britain there are probably two schools of thought on the subject. The milk-first school can bring forward some fairly strong arguments, but I maintain that my own argument is unanswerable. This is that, by putting the tea in first and stirring as one pours, one can exactly regulate the amount of milk whereas one is liable to put in too much milk if one does it the other way round.


Lastly, tea — unless one is drinking it in the Russian style — should be drunk without sugar. I know very well that I am in a minority here. But still, how can you call yourself a true tealover if you destroy the flavour of your tea by putting sugar in it? It would be equally reasonable to put in pepper or salt. Tea is meant to be bitter, just as beer is meant to be bitter. If you sweeten it, you are no longer tasting the tea, you are merely tasting the sugar; you could make a very similar drink by dissolving sugar in plain hot water.


Some people would answer that they don't like tea in itself, that they only drink it in order to be warmed and stimulated, and they need sugar to take the taste away. To those misguided people I would say: Try drinking tea without sugar for, say, a fortnight and it is very unlikely that you will ever want to ruin your tea by sweetening it again.


These are not the only controversial points to arise in connexion with tea drinking, but they are sufficient to show how subtilized the whole business has become. There is also the mysterious social etiquette surrounding the teapot (why is it considered vulgar to drink out of your saucer, for instance?) and much might be written about the subsidiary uses of tealeaves, such as telling fortunes, predicting the arrival of visitors, feeding rabbits, healing burns and sweeping the carpet. It is worth paying attention to such details as warming the pot and using water that is really boiling, so as to make quite sure of wringing out of one's ration the twenty good, strong cups of that two ounces, properly handled, ought to represent.


The Collected Essays, Journalism and Letters of George Orwell

Vol. 3, 1943-45

Penguin

1993

segunda-feira, janeiro 17, 2011

sábado, janeiro 15, 2011

Perto do coração: Tellus et Mare


Excerto do terceiro andamento da obra, Cantiga dos Borracheiros

Tellus et Mare - 4 Reflexões Instrumentais sobre as Tradições Musicais Madeirenses é uma composição para clarinete, violino, trompa e piano da autoria de Nuno Jacinto que estreou ontem num concerto integrado no '35 Minutos com...', um ciclo de concertos pedagógicos promovido pela instituição de ensino onde lecciona e que têm por tema 'A Influência da Música Popular na Musica Erudita'. Composta por quatro andamentos: Solidão/ Saudade; Charamba dos Velhos/ Canção da Erva; Cantiga dos Borracheiros e Mourisca (Santa Cruz e Campanário), a obra claramente se baseia em melodias populares madeirenses no intuito de tornar conhecida e acessível alguma etnografia e a música tradicional da ilha.

Mais sobre o compositor e a obra aqui.

quinta-feira, janeiro 13, 2011

Black & White

Kara Walker 1998
Imagem daqui

Dois colaboradores, duas cores. Todos os mundos entre quatro paredes de um museu. Uma viagem ao Metropolitan Museum of Art, de NY, pela mão das duas cores mais básicas, Black & White.

quarta-feira, janeiro 12, 2011

Jack London (12-01-1876 - 22-11-1916)

Imagem daqui

"All my life I have had an awareness of other times and places. I have been aware of other persons in me. Oh, and trust me, so have you, my reader that is to be. Read back into your childhood, and this sense of awareness I speak of will be remembered as an experience of childhood. You were then not fixed, not crystallized. You were plastic, a soul in flux, a consciousness and an identity in the process of forming--ay, of forming and forgetting."


Jack London
The Star Rover
Literary Classics
2004

Margaret Whiting



Um ícon da música popular americana, do jazz e do country, fez carreira durante os anos 40 e 50, inpirando figuras como Frank Sinatra, Judy Garland e Johnny Mercer. Faleceu ontem aos 86 anos. Façam o favor de se deixar encantar.

terça-feira, janeiro 11, 2011

As mãos pressentem a leveza rubra do lume*

Botequim da Graça, Imagem daqui ´

No dia em que comemoraria 63 anos de vida, o Botequim da Graça homenageia Al Berto (Alberto Raposo Pidwell Tavares, 11.01.1948 - 13.06.1997) numa noite de poesia e tertúlia à volta do homem e do poeta.
Os convidados presentes são, na sua maioria, amigos de longa data: Julieta Santos, directora do Teatro do Mar (Sines), Paulo Correia, produtor cultural, Isabel Silva, do Centro Cultural Emmerico Nunes (Sines)e responsável pela exposição «Al Berto – Doze Moradas de Silêncio», João Maurício Brás, filósofo e investigador, e Ana Rocha, autora de uma tese de mestrado recentemente defendida sobre a obra «O Anjo Mudo», irão ler e falar de Al Berto.
Numa noite que se quer de cumplicidade, «O Medo», obra poética do autor (ed. Assírio & Alvim), irá circular pelas mãos de quem o quiser abrir para partilhar em voz alta.

Hoje, às 22 horas, no Botequim, sito no Largo da Graça, nº. 79/80, em Lisboa. Também pelas mãos de uma grande grande amiga. Podendo, não percam.
* Al Berto

segunda-feira, janeiro 10, 2011

Happiness

Raymond Carver (1938-1988)
Imagem daqui

So early it's still almost dark out.
I'm near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren't saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take
each other's arm.
It's early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn't enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.

All of Us - The Collected Poems
Raymond Carver
Vintage
2000

sábado, janeiro 08, 2011

Música das Esferas - I



o espaço e o tempo apercebidos no coração*


* música das esferas entreaberta no amor que é o espaço e o tempo apercebidos no coração
Alberto Lacerda, Elegias de Londres,
1987, Lisboa

sexta-feira, janeiro 07, 2011

O Tempo da História

Hoje estive a pensar sobre o tempo. O tempo que nos dão para fazer um trabalho, o tempo que algumas pessoas dão a outras pessoas, o tempo que nos tiram certas coisas, o tempo que eu levo a fazer qualquer coisa, o tempo que se tem para se fazer o que se gosta, o tempo de um beijo ou de um abraço, o tempo que se passa sem ver os amigos, o tempo que passa por nós e vai ficando no reflexo do espelho.

O tempo mingua como uma lua velha à medida que nos tornamos velhos também. As férias de Verão deixam de ser as férias grandes, as vinte e quatro horas do dia passam mais rápido, as semanas, os meses, os anos desfilam num sopro. O tempo mingua. Começam a aparecer as pendências e com elas as imposições - a agenda, o relógio, os post-its, os lembretes, os avisos, a gestão do tempo. Há dias, ao rever um dos meus filmes predilectos, a protagonista falava da ingenuidade que fora pensar que determinado episódio seria o começo da sua felicidade - na realidade, era a sua felicidade.

O tempo cresce quando somos felizes. Um momento pontual que seja de perfeita sintonia acorda o corpo para o mundo, grinaldas de fogo dentro, muito dentro, vida. Dez segundos de beijo podem determinar o rumo uma vida. Uma vida que seja um Verão de quando somos pequenos. O tempo também cresce quando se é ou se está só, desconfio que se torne até uma espécie de hera opressiva e violenta.

Saber sentir. Saber sentir. Saber sentir.

Nunca se tem tempo. O tempo tem-nos.

quinta-feira, janeiro 06, 2011