Troubled Water

«Mas tornemos ao nosso tema que é o dos artífices da literatura popular. Nos que provêm do povo há que ter em conta os analfabetos, os de poucas letras e os semiletrados, os do campo e os da cidade, a maior ou menor distância a que aqueles se encontram dos centros urbanos; e, em cada um deles, sua biografia, sua específica concepção da vida.» «À riqueza e pobreza, já de si suficientes para criar esta discriminação, outro grande poder se junta e também privilégio de abastados, que é o da escrita. Vai esta igualmente constituir, por assim dizer, monopólio de poucos, aspiração distante de muitos. Ficam mais rudes os rudes e porventura mais soberbos os senhores iletrados de antes. Um poderoso instrumento cultural que agrava a distância entre o vulgo e o não vulgo, sobretudo depois da invenção da Imprensa, do século XV em diante.» «No que chamamos o mundo ocidental sempre as classes priveligiadas, económica, social e politicamente, têm manifestado desprezo pela plebe, pelo populus in populo...

“Every Saturday I would go to the library and choose my books for the week. One late-autumn morning, despite menacing clouds, I bundled up and walked as always, past the peach orchards, the pig farm and the skating rink to the fork in the road that led to our sole library. The sight of so many books never failed to excite me, rows and rows of books with multicolored spines. I’d spent an inordinate amount of time choosing my stack of books that day, with the sky growing more ominous. At first, I wasn’t worried as I had long legs and was a pretty fast walker, but then it became apparent that there was no way I was going to beat the impending storm. It grew colder, the winds picked up, followed by heavy rains, then pelting hail. I slid the books under my coat to protect them, I had a long way to go; I stepped in puddles and could feel the icy water permeate my ankle socks. When I finally reached home my mother shook her head with sympathetic exasperation, prepared a hot bath and made me g...

“ No but you see I’ve got to explain all this because I don’t, we don’t know how much time there is left and I have to work on the, to finish this work of mine while I, why I’ve brought in this whole pile of books notes pages clippings and God knows what, get it all sorted and organized when I get this property divided up and the business and worries that go with it while they keep me here to be cut up and scraped and stapled and cut up again my damn leg look at it, layered with staples like that old suit of Japanese armour in the dining hall feel like I’m being dismantled piece by piece, houses, cottages, stables orchards and all the damn decisions and distractions I’ve got the papers land surveys deeds and all of it right in this heap somewhere, get it cleared up and settled before everything collapses and it’s all swallowed up by lawyers and taxes like everything else because that’s what it’s about, that’s what my work is about, the collapse of everything, of meaning, of values, of...

«[...]  A Virtual Extension is a Motion or Action which a Creature hath, whether immediately given from God, or immediately received from its Fellow Creature. That which is immediately given of God (from whom also it hath its Being,) and which is the natural and proper effect of its Essence, is in a more proper way of speaking, a proper Motion of the Creature, proceeding from the innermost parts thereof; and therefore may be called Internal Motion, as distinguished from External, which is only from another; and therefore in respect thereof may be called Foreign; and when the said External motion endeavours to carry a Body, or any Thing, to a place whereunto it hath properly no natural inclination, then it is preternatural and violent; as when a Stone is thrown up into the Air, which Motion being preternatural and violent, is plainly Local and Mechanical, and no way vital, because it doth not proceed from the Life of the Thing so moved: But every Motion, proceeding from the pro...

 O que pude oferecer sem mácula foi meu choro por beleza ou cansaço, um dente exraizado, o preconceito favorável a todas as formas do barroco na música e o Rio de Janeiro que visitei uma vez e me deixou suspensa. ‘Não serve’, disseram. E exigiram a língua estrangeira que não aprendi, o registro do meu diploma extraviado no Ministério da Educação, mais taxa sobre vaidade nas formas aparente, inusitada e capciosa — no que estavam certos — porém dá-se que inusitados e capciosos foram seus modos de detectar vaidades. Todas as vezes que eu pedia desculpas diziam: ‘Faz-se de educado e humilde, por presunção’, e oneravam os impostos, sendo que o navio partiu enquanto nos confundíamos. Quando agarrei meu dente e minha viagem ao Rio, pronto a chorar de cansaço, consumaram: ‘Fica o bem de raiz pra pagar a fiança’. Deixei meu dente. Agora só tenho três reféns sem mácula. Alfândega Quando nasci um anjo esbelto, desses que tocam trombeta, anunciou: vai carregar bandeira. Cargo muito pesado pra ...

Soon they will come. First we will hear the sound of their boots approaching at dawn then they'll appear through the mist. In their death-bringing uniforms they will march towards our homes their guns and tanks pointing forward. They will be confronted by young men with rusty guns and boiling blood. These are our young men who took their short-lived freedom for granted. We will lose this war, and blood will cover our roads, mix with our drinking water, it will creep into our dreams. Keep your head down and stay in doors - we've lost this war before it has begun Invasion The one you have finished examining is my son. That is the milky coloured Kurdish suit his father tailored for him, the blue shirt his uncle gave to him. Your findings prove that it is him - he was a tall fifteen year old, was left handed, had broken a rib. I know she too has been looking for her son but you have to tell her that this is not him. Yes the two of them were playmates and fought the year before. But...

There, in my country, in a faraway land one hundred dimmed stars shine in a crown, one hundred extinguished stars above the field stand, like one hundred knights in iron armor clad. There, in my country, in a faraway land one hundred hearts with longing burn, one hundred hearts pound in the chests like a ghost on iron armor plates. There, in my country, in a faraway land one hundred winds gallop through fallow lands, one hundred winds thunder through the steppe trail like one hundred golden horseshoes beating the ground. And when one hundred days, one hundred nights shall pass, with hearts filled with power, knights will rise, knights will rise, horses they will mount, and light up the stars in the golden crown. The human eye, imperfect eye, sees millions of stars in the distant sky... sees, as somewhere in the boundlesness The infinity of worlds burns. But is it possible that in my spirit God's eye is closed, with which I will see the sun of truth, when I open it beyond the grave?...

Ivan Aivazovsky , “Deluge” (1864) Gold-brown upon the sated flood The rock-vine clusters lift and sway: Vast wings above the lambent waters brood Of sullen day. A waste of waters ruthlessly Sways and uplifts its weedy mane, Where brooding day stares down upon the sea In dull disdain. Uplift and sway, O golden vine, Thy clustered fruits to love's full flood, Lambent and vast and ruthless as is thine Incertitude. Flood by James Joyce The rain it rains without a stay In the hills above us, in the hills; And presently the floods break way Whose strength is in the hills. The trees they suck from every cloud, The valley brooks they roar aloud-- Bank-high for the lowlands, lowlands, Lowlands under the hills! The first wood down is sere and small, From the hills--the brishings off the hills; And then come by the bats and all We cut last year in the hills; And then the roots we tried to cleave But found too tough and had to leave-- Polting through the lowlands, lowlands, Lowlands under the...

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her ’kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below, When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name; "Now, Dasher! now, Danc...

[...] Há uma microgeração recentemente encontrada nos refegos de classificações anteriores (“Xennials” é a definição mais comum), que costuma incluir os nascidos entre 1979 e 1983, embora os anos interessem menos que outro critério mais saliente: pessoas com memórias de uma infância analógica, mas que chegaram à Internet ainda na adolescência tardia. Não a uma “Internet” qualquer, no sentido de “tive um endereço de e-mail na faculdade”, mas no sentido de “aos 19 anos passei três noites seguidas a trocar ameaças de morte com dois canadianos e um argelino num fórum sobre música pós-punk”. É a geração que se formou mediada por ecrãs, mas onde essa mediação ainda acontecia em privado (protegida pelo anonimato dos fóruns) e não totalmente em público — e antes da ligação contínua que absorveu todas as drenagens do que outrora seria a socialização física ou uma espécie diferente de solidão. Segundo a alquimia secreta que dota as gerações de transição com horóscopos anómalos e os sujeita a e...

«[...] A obra de Agustina cobre, desde há meio século — quando apareceu na cena portuguesa como uma revelação —, a roda do nosso sol literário. A imagem parecerá obscura ou inadequada, pois isso queria dizer que a obra de Agustina ensombrou a paisagem literária nacional quando seria preferível dizer que ela a incendiou, que a assolou pela sua energia criadora, a sua proliferante presença, a sua diversidade de interesses e temas e, sobretudo, a sua incodificável e inconfundível originalidade. Não a posso comparar senão a uma sarça-ardente, a qualquer coisa que, como a bíblica representação da presença ofuscante de Deus, queima e ilumina. “Fogo e luz que em si mesma se consomem” e sem cessar se renovam, pois de nada mais vivem que da entrega sem entraves aos poderes de uma imaginação que os deuses lhe deram para que usasse dela como quem brinca, que é a maneira mais séria de existir. A palavra de Agustina é tão caoticamente libérrima, tão rente à voz clónica da Sibila onde de uma vez pa...

Santo Elói aos pés da Virgem e Menino por Gerard Seghers (entre 1603 e 1651 ) «[...] Não existe uma morte natural, diz Simone de Beauvoir em Une mort très douce (1972), para cada pessoa “a sua morte é um acidente, e, mesmo se a conhece e a consentiu, é de uma violência inacreditável”. Beauvoir discorre também sobre o sentimento de negação: “Para mim, a minha mãe sempre tinha existido e eu nunca tinha pensado de forma séria que um dia assistiria ao seu desaparecimento. O seu fim, tal como o seu nascimento, situava-se num tempo místico.” Tanto fica para dizer sobre a figura da Mãe, aquela que, “quando nos deixa, perdemos toda a proteção”, escreve Rainer Maria Rilke numa carta de condolências de 1923. Mas o que não escreve Rilke é que, quando a mãe era para nós também a filha, somos nós que lamentamos não a ter protegido. Depois do choque inicial, aparecem enfim as lágrimas, sobretudo face a quem também chora assegurando-nos da realidade do acontecimento. Mas, e depois das lágrimas, depo...

«The word bibliotheca is used to signify any one of three things: a place in which books are kept, a bookcase, or books themselves. The Greek word, bibliotheca , came into use among the Romans. They also used the word libraria ; but it is more exact to understand by that word a shop where books are kept for sale. Collections of books, bibliothecae , date from the earliest days, and, if I am not mistaken, were established as soon as letters were invented. The art of writing must have arisen almost as soon as man began to learn and to think; and this art would not have been profitable if books had not been preserved and arranged for present and future use. At first these collections were private undertakings, each person gathering for himself and his family; in the course of time kings and dynasties took up the custom and collected books, not only for use, but also to gratify their ambition and to add to their renown. Indeed, it was scarcely within the power of a private person to colle...

«[...]Terminamos pela citação desta página, porque cremos estar nela claramente exemplificada a maneira de conciliar a competencia com a fiscalização pela opinião publica, quer dizer, a competencia com a Democracia. Mas para que a opinião pública fiscalize é necessario que ela exista; e a existencia de uma opinião pública legítima e eficaz depende de um sistema de Educação. É este o foco a que vão ter, finalmente, todos os vectores do pensamento politico, todos os problemas da Democracia.» in "Pela Grei : revista para ressurgimento nacional pela formação de uma opinião pública consciente "  Vol. I, 1.º ano, n.º 1, 1918 Pg.56 «[...]E nós? e os senhores? Nós - os que não pertencemos à instrução pública, não temos influência imediata nos serviços desta instrução? A nós, a nossa independência em relação ao Estado dá-nos a melhor das situações para poder intervir no problema, - criando, e sobretudo, mantendo um movimento de opinião esclarecido e vigoroso. Chegámos a um momento em ...

Kazimir Malevich , "Running man", 1932-1933. Oil, canvas, George Pompidou Art Centre, Paris «Au village de Klénototcha, les gens mouraient, comme dans l’Ukraine entière ; on leur avait pris leur blé et toute nourriture et on les avait condamnés à une mort certaine ; l’État, en ennemi implacable, usant de la force contre eux, leur avait supprimé, outre tout ravitaillement, la possibilité de gagner leur vie en travaillant. Une épidémie de peste aurait été un fléau moins grand. La provision de pommes de terre des Katrannyk touchait à sa fin et le maître de maison parcourait les environs à la recherche de nourriture pour les siens. Partout, le froid et la désolation. La tristesse submergeait son âme dans ce désert de neige ; il lui semblait que le monde s’était refroidi comme une maison abandonnée. Un seul désir enfiévrait son être : trouver à manger.» «Encore quelques pas et il reste cloué sur place ! Devant ses yeux s’étend une clairière et là, près d’un cerisier devenu sauvag...

«[...] In concluding, we should say a few words about the prospects that lie beyond the present study. Our investigation has brought us to the threshold of a problem that is broader, more profound, and still more extraordinary than the problem of thinking. It has brought us to the threshold of the problem of consciousness. In our investigation, we have tried to consistently keep in view that aspect of the word which has been unfamiliar ground for experimental psychology. We have tried to study the word’s relationship to the object, its relationship to reality. We have tried to study the dialectical transition from sensation to thinking and show that reality is reflected in thinking differently than it is reflected in sensation. We have tried to show that the word’s distinguishing feature is a generalized reflection of reality. In the process, however, we have touched on an aspect of the word’s nature whose significance exceeds the limits of thinking as such, an aspect of the word that ...

Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth. What you held in your hand, what you counted and carefully saved, all this must go so you know how desolate the landscape can be between the regions of kindness. How you ride and ride thinking the bus will never stop, the passengers eating maize and chicken will stare out the window forever. Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho lies dead by the side of the road. You must see how this could be you, how he too was someone who journeyed through the night with plans and the simple breath that kept him alive. Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth. Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore, only kin...

 The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster. —Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident the art of losing’s not too hard to master though it may look like ( Write it!) like disaster. One Art Here is a coast; here is a harbor; here, after a meager diet of horizon, is some scenery; impractically shaped and—who knows?—self-pitying mountains, sad a...