Thursday, October 03, 2013

Friday, September 06, 2013

Google: robots cannot think

Google sent me a message informing me that this blog is not abiding by their quality or webmaster rules and labeling this blog as "pure spam" (it's a technical "word" for them and I understand that it is related to my use of the Youtube videos and other quotations).

Did the guy at Google who takes that kind of decision understand that I authored many of the videos and texts in this blog? I doubt. Many of these guys may be good with their computers but are totally illiterate. They don't even have the time to think, I guess. They just work.

So, in consequence, Google will not index this blog and its contents. I presume that at the restless Google quarters they don't have the time to read or look to anything in detail. I am not surprised: with a lot of money Google is taking control of everything in the internet and elsewhere and contributing to make people believe that some Americans are stupid idiots unable to think outside their limited (indexed, superficial, lazy, greedy) world vision. It may be good for them right now ($$$$) but it certainly is very bad to everyone else in other places. Many of us started most probably by loving Google. Soon we will just hate Google.

P. S. Apparently Google is still listing this blog. I didn't write to them. Did they reconsider? Let's way and see.

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Thursday, April 18, 2013

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Sunday, April 14, 2013

Ignoras um par de coisas, ignoras (Eça de Queirós, Tragédia da Rua das Flores)


Vítor abriu um olhar absorto :
- O quê? O tio Timóteo esteve tísico?
Timóteo resmungou, com os olhos no prato :
- Tive essa fraqueza, quando estive apaixo­nado.
Vítor riu, alegremente.
- Outra ! Mas essa, enorme ! Por quem, tio Timóteo?
- Traz o café, Clorinda. E o meu tabaco ! — E desapertando devagar o guardanapo: — Quando digo apaixonado, quero dizer embeiçado. Paixão, não. Dois meses depois estava curado. Mas, en­fim, foi o meu único romance : nunca mais os tornei a fazer, nem a ler.
- Mas por quem foi, tio Timóteo? — pergun­tou Vítor curioso, com os cotovelos sobre a mesa, um sorriso vago.
- Foi por tua mãe.
Vítor ficou atónito. Timóteo metia restos de carne nas goelas sôfregas de Dick.
- Tua mãe tinha então catorze anos. Mas era alta, forte, com um cabelo até aos pés: parecia  ter vinte e dois. Era formosa, c’os diabos ! Tu não podes saber: não deixou retrato. Mas... uma beleza ! Era nossa vizinha ! — E sorrindo: — Como o tempo passa ! Tinha na janela dois melros numa gaiola. E justamente então cantava-se uma can­tiga:

À janela, a menina trigueira
Está cuidando dos seus passarinhos.

Eu, mal a pescava à varanda, logo a cantigui­nha... Foi por isso, creio eu, que ela me tomou asco.
Clorinda entrou com o café. E depois de reme­xer muito tempo o seu açúcar, de acender o ca­chimbo, o tio Timóteo, recostando-se, disse :
— Eu começo a embirrar, ela começa a embir­rar; eu a beber os ares por ela, ela a não me poder tragar: pois, senhores, aí principio a embeiçar-me... Não havia desfeita que me não fizesse! Janela na cara, costas voltadas, sombrinha carre­gada para o rosto, uma fera. Que ela teve sem­pre um génio desabrido. E muito afoita, cava­leira, o diabo ! Uma noite - há-de-me lembrar sempre - tenho a maldita ideia de lhe dar uma serenada à espanhola. Era o tempo em que estava à moda uma espécie de cachucha:

Señorita, usted que tiene?
Amarilla la color...

Ponho-me debaixo da janela, de viola - eu tocava viola com um certo descaramento, porque enfim, louvado seja Nosso Senhor Jesus Cristo, nunca me faltou o desplante - e aí começo a perguntar-lhe muito repenicadamente :

Señorita, usted que tiene?
Amarilla la color...

A janela abre-se, e uma vozinha de cima: «É o senhor Timóteo?» Imagina como eu fiquei! Pus--me logo a calcular como havia de trepar à va­randa. Fazia escuro, era de Inverno, um frio! «É o senhor:?»... «Sou eu, meu amor, sou eu!» «Bem, aí vai!» E zás! Cai-me em cima um balde de água suja! Oh, com mil raios!... «Para refres­car!», grita a vozinha de cima: a vozinha da desav... de tua mãe. Como diabo se chamava ela? Joana.
E refrescou, tio Timóteo? - perguntou Ví­tor, muito interessado, muito surpreendido, com os olhos cravados no velho.
Refresquei. Com uma pleuris! Estive dois meses de cama, e uma convalescença... É daqui que datam os caldos de cobra. Era o grande remé­dio p'ra  tísica no meu tempo ; e creio que ainda é, lá p'ra Trás-os-Montes. Apenas arribei, pedi para ir p'ra o Ultramar. Fui a bordo da Santa Quitéria. O capitão era de Tondela : um baixote, ruivo, valente homem ! Logo ao sair a barra, que trabuzana!... Estivemos perdidos. Cada mar! Uh! Parece que o estou a ver, de chapéu embreado, bota até ao joelho, no convés que escorria, a aguentar-se, a berrar. E que pancadas de mare­sia! Eu estava agarrado a um mastro. Ele avista-me, põe-se a gritar:  «Você raspa-se daí, seu filho daquele diabo de cornos que está no altar--mor de Tondela ! » Era a sua praga querida. De­pois éramos amigos íntimos. E daí a um mês estava curado. Já amainava a bujarrona como um homem ! E da paixão, nem a lembrança. Éra­mos assim. Já não há disso.
- E depois? - perguntou Vítor, fumando mui­to, com os cotovelos na mesa.
- E depois? E depois, nada. E depois teu pai veio de Coimbra; viu-a como eu à janela a tratar dos melros ; cantou-lhe como eu a cantiga ; não sei se lhe deu a serenada. Mas o balde, não apa­nhou. Apanhou a bênção do padre e lá casaram. E tu fizeste a tua entrada neste vale de lágrimas. Bem vale de lágrimas - acrescentou, com um rosto grave.  E ficou calado.
- E daí a um ano morreu a mamã?
Timóteo observou um momento o seu cachim­bo, e rosnou, devagar:
- Sim. Daí a um ano nasceste, ela ficou adoen­tada... Foi com teu pai para os Pirenéus. Foi com
teu pai, e... E lá ficou.  Lá ficou.
E depois de tossir ruidosamente, ergueu-se sobre a bengala, e foi resmungando grosso :
- E aí está como as coisas se passam... Este mundo é assim.  Uma choldra!...
O relógio da sala deu meio-dia.
—Oh, diabo, e eu que prometi estar às onze horas no escritório! - exclamou Vítor.
Ergueu-se e, espreguiçando-se um pouco :
—Pois senhores, isto foi a manhã das novidades ! Quantas coisas eu ignoro nas crónicas da família !
E, depois de acender outro cigarro, saiu, apertando a fivela do colete, enquanto Timóteo, esten­dido na poltrona, murmurava:
— Ignoras um par de coisas, ignoras !




Ivan Turgenev: Faust


When I went in to Vera she looked at me intently and did not reply to my bow. She was sitting by the window; on her knees lay a book which I recognized immediately: it was my Faust. Her face expressed fatigue. I sat down opposite her. She asked me to read out loud the scene between Faust and Gretchen where she asks him whether he believes in God. I took the book and began to read. When I had finished, I glanced at her. With her head leaning against the back of the armchair and her arms crossed on her breast, she was still looking at me just as intently.
I don't know why my heart suddenly began pounding.
' What have you done to me!' she said in a slow voice.
'What?' I asked in confusion.
'Yes, what have you done to me!' she repeated.
'Do you mean,' I began, 'why did I persuade you to read such books?'
She stood up in silence and went to leave the room. I gazed after her.
On the threshold she stopped and turned back to me.
'I love you,' she said, 'that's what you've done to me.'
The blood rushed to my head...
'I love you, I'm in love with you,' repeated Vera.
She left and closed the door behind her. I will not begin to describe to you what happened to me then. I remember I went out into the garden, made my way into its depths, leant up against a tree, and how long I spent standing there, I cannot say. It was as if I had frozen; every so often a feeling of bliss ran in waves through my heart... No, I won't begin to speak about that. I was summoned from my numbed state by Priyimkov's voice; someone had been sent to tell him that I had arrived: he had returned from the hunt and was looking for me. He was astonished to find me alone in the garden, hatless, and he led me into the house. 'My wife's in the drawing-room,' he said, 'let's go and join her.' You can imagine the feelings with which I crossed the threshold of the drawing-room. Vera was sitting in the corner at her tambour; I stole a glance at her and did not raise my eyes for a long time afterwards. To my surprise, she appeared calm - in what she said, in the sound of her voice, no alarm could be heard. Finally I made up my mind to look at her. Our eyes met. She flushed slightly and bent over her canvas. I began observing her. She seemed to be bewildered; a mirthless smile occasionally touched her lips.
Priyimkov left the room. She suddenly raised her head and asked me quite loudly:
'What do you intend to do now?'
I became confused and hurriedly replied in a hollow voice that I intended to fulfill the duty of an honest man and withdraw, 'because,' I added, 'I love you, Vera Nikolayevna, you probably noticed that long ago.' She again bent down towards the canvas and fell into thought.
'I must have a talk with you,' she said. 'Come this evening after tea to our summer-house... you know, where you read Faust?
She said this so distinctly that even now I cannot comprehend how Priyimkov, who was entering the room at that very instant, did not hear anything. That day passed quietly, agonizingly quietly. Vera sometimes gazed around with such an expression, as if she were wondering whether she was dreaming. And at the same time resolve was written on her face. While I... I could not come to my senses. Vera loves me! These words were continually turning round in my mind; but I did not understand them - I did not understand either myself, or her. I did not believe such unexpected, such staggering good fortune; it took an effort to recall what had passed, and I too gazed and spoke as though in a dream.

Ivan Turgenev, Faust, Hesperus Press Limited, London, 2003, translated by Hugh Aplin

Monday, April 08, 2013

Saturday, April 06, 2013

Thursday, April 04, 2013

J'appartiens à l'idée

Je suis de nouveau moi-même. Ce « moi » qu'un autre ne voulut pas relever sur la grand-route, je le possède à nouveau. La discorde qui était dans mon essence a cessé ; je me réunis de nouveau. Les angoisses de la sympathie, qui trouveraient soutien et nourriture dans ma fierté, ne s'introduiront plus pour diviser et séparer.

(…)

Je suis de nouveau moi-même; le mécanisme est mis en mouvement. Mis en pièces, les filets où j'étais empêtré ; rompus, les sortilèges - qui m'avaient envoûté pour m'empêcher de revenir à moi-même. Personne ne lève plus la main sur moi ; ma délivrance est sûre, je suis né à moi-même; car aussi longtemps qu'Ilithye joint les mains, celle qui accouche ne peut accoucher.

(…)

J'appartiens à l'idée. Quand elle me fait signe de la main, je la suis ; quand elle me donne rendez-vous, j'attends des jours et des nuits ; personne ne m'appelle au déjeuner, personne ne m'attend au repas du soir. Quand l'idée appelle, j'abandonne tout, ou plutôt je n'ai rien à abandonner ; je ne trahis personne ; je ne fais de peine à personne en lui étant fidèle, mon esprit n'est pas peiné parce que je dois en peiner un autre. Quand je rentre chez moi, personne ne lit sur ma mine, personne ne scrute ma figure, personne ne tire de mon être essentiel une explication que je ne saurais donner moi-même à quelqu'un d'autre, ignorant si je suis joyeux dans la félicité ou plongé dans la détresse, si j'ai gagné la vie ou si je l'ai perdue.


Kierkegaard, La Reprise, Paris, Flammarion, 1990, traduction Nelly Viallaneix, ps. 164-165

Wednesday, April 03, 2013

Tuesday, April 02, 2013

Sunday, March 31, 2013

Netrebko, Villazon - O soave fanciulla (Puccini)

Faiblesse d'esprit?


N’est-ce pas, en effet, une sorte de faiblesse d’esprit que d’avoir à ce point soumis chaque passion, chaque élan du cœur, chaque tonalité affective au froid commandement de la réflexion ? N’est-ce pas faiblesse d’esprit que d’être à ce point normal : idée pure et non pas homme, comme nous autres qui courbons le dos et nous inclinons, perdus et nous perdant ? N’est-ce pas faiblesse d’esprit que d’être ainsi toujours éveillé, toujours conscient,  sans jamais être assombri ni rêveur ?

Kierkegaard, La Reprise, traduction Nelly Viallaneix

Thursday, March 28, 2013

Alfred Lord Tennyson: Ulysses


It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy’d
Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour’d of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’
Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!
As tho’ to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Pressentiment


« Que voulez-vous? Je suis ainsi fait : au premier frisson du pressentiment, mon âme a déjà, au moment même, parcouru toutes les conséquences qui demandent souvent longtemps pour apparaître dans la réalité. Ce qui est concentré dans le pressentiment ne s’oublie jamais. » 

Kierkegaard, La Reprise, traduction Nelly Viallaneix

Monday, March 25, 2013

José Matias


Mas um dia, a terra, para o José Matias, tremeu toda, num terramoto de incomparável espanto. Em Janeiro ou Fevereiro de 1871, o Miranda, já debilitado pela diabetes, morreu com uma pneumonia. Por estas mesmas ruas, numa pachorrenta tipóia de praça, acompanhei o seu enterro numeroso, rico, com Ministros, porque o Miranda pertencia às Instituições. E depois, aproveitando a tipóia, visitei o José Matias em Arroios, não por curiosidade perversa, nem para lhe levar felicitações indecentes, mas para que, naquele lance deslumbrador, ele sentisse ao lado a fôrça moderadora da Filosofia... Encontrei porém com ele um amigo mais antigo e confidencial, aquele brilhante Nicolau da Barca, que já conduzi também a este cemitério, onde agora jazem, debaixo de lápides, todos aqueles camaradas com quem levantei castelos nas nuvens... O Nicolau chegara da Velosa, da sua quinta de Santarém, de madrugada, reclamado por um telegrama do Matias. Quando entrei, um criado atarefado arranjava duas malas enormes. O José Matias abalava nessa noite para o Porto. Já envergara mesmo um fato de viagem,todo negro, com sapatos de couro amarelo: e depois de me sacudir a mão, emquanto o Nicolau remexia um grog, continuou vagando pelo quarto, calado, como embaçado, com um modo que não era emoção, nem alegria pudicamente disfarçada, nem surpresa do seu destino bruscamente sublimado. Não! se o bom Darwin nos não ilude no seu livro da Expressão das Emoções, o José Matias, nessa tarde, só sentia e só exprimia embaraço! Em frente, na casa da Parreira, todas as janelas permaneciam fechadas sob a tristeza da tarde cinzenta. E todavia surpreendi o José Matias atirando para o terraço, rapidamente, um olhar em que transparecia inquietação, ansiedade, quasi terror!

Sunday, March 24, 2013

Validation of identity


Every individual requires the ongoing validation of his world, including crucially the validation of his identity and place in this world, by those few who are his truly significant others. ... Again in a broad sense, all the actions of the signifi­cant others and even their simple presence serve this sustaining function. In every­day life, however, the principal method employed is speech. In this sense, it is proper to view the individual's relationship with his significant others as an ongo­ing conversation. As the latter occurs, it validates over and over again the fundamental definitions of reality once entered into, not, of course, so much by explicit articulation, but precisely by taking the definitions silently for granted and conversing about all conceivable matters on this taken-for-granted basis. Through the same conversation the individual is also made capable of adjusting to changing and new social contexts in his biography. In a very fundamental sense it can be said that one converses one's way through life. 

(Berger and Kellner, “Marriage and the construction of reality”, Diogenes, 54, 1964)

Saturday, March 23, 2013

Delmira Agustini: I Live, I Die, I Burn, I Drown


I live, I die, I burn, I drown
I endure at once chill and cold
Life is at once too soft and too hard
I have sore troubles mingled with joys

Suddenly I laugh and at the same time cry
And in pleasure many a grief endure
My happiness wanes and yet it lasts unchanged
All at once I dry up and grow green

Thus I suffer love's inconstancies
And when I think the pain is most intense
Without thinking, it is gone again.

Then when I feel my joys certain
And my hour of greatest delight arrived
I find my pain beginning all over once again.

Thursday, March 21, 2013

Orphée et Eurydice


Deux fois tu l’as perdue et
c’est inexcusable. Il t'aurait
suffi d’attendre un peu et
tu l’aurais à nouveau, comme
dans sa première vie, embrassée.

Elle marchait derrière toi, elle
te regardait marcher. Étonnée
peut-être de l’ampleur du miracle,
elle te suivait, silencieuse et fidèle
à la passion ancienne. Et tu as douté

ou, pressé de regarder son visage
où l’être resplendissait dans toute
sa pureté, tu n’a pas pu attendre.
Et pour la deuxième fois tu l’as
perdue. Et cette fois-ci c’était

bien toi qui l’a repoussée alors
que, victime de ton  impatience,
tu l’a renvoyée chez les dieux.
C’était une trappe, bien entendu,
et ils t’ont eu. Il faut se méfier des

dieux, ils ne sont pas généreux et
ils aiment garder avec eux ceux
qui, parmi les humains, ils aiment.
Tu devrais le savoir. Et à nouveau
elle t’a été volée, ils l’ont reprise.

Tu l’aimais et tu n’avais pas
eu le temps d’aller jusqu’au
bout de ton amour. L’avoir perdue
était insupportable. Et pourtant,
peut-on dire que le temps de l’amour

ne nous est jamais suffisamment
donné ? Aimer ce qui nous a été,
par surprise, pris, cela se comprend.
Mais aimer ce que l’on possède ce
n’est pas à la portée de tous. Tant

de choses nous éloignent de celle
que nous aimons. Tant de passions
nous enlèvent à la pureté de l’amour
dévoué et sans failles. Et cependant
on dit : je n’ai pas eu le temps, les dieux

l’ont reprise. Aimer celles qui nous ont
quittés c’est plus facile. Et je ne te
demanderai pas de me dire : c’est
quoi l’amour, au juste ? Non, je ne
veux pas le savoir. Tu devrais oublier.

Ce qui est perdu, les dieux ne nous
le rendrons plus jamais. Et ils t’ont
épargné : qui sait si ton amour
durerait ? Qui sait si elle ne t’aurait
pas quitté et dans les bras d’un

autre cherché l’amour que tu ne
pouvais pas lui donner ? Personne
ne peut le savoir. Ne sois pas fâché,
je t’en prie, de m’entendre te dire
les paroles intolérables. Un grand

amour est grand surtout lorsqu’on
l’a perdu. Crois-moi, je le sais.



Paradox

Do you know what is the best way of getting rid of someone or keeping this someone at distance? Give her or him a lot more than what they are asking for. They will not stand it and they will soon leave you alone. The only problem is that if you did behave out of sincerity and didn't do it on purpose you will not be happy at all with the results of your behavior.

Saturday, March 16, 2013

Margaret Atwood: Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing


The world is full of women
who'd tell me I should be ashamed of myself
if they had the chance. Quit dancing.
Get some self-respect
and a day job.
Right. And minimum wage,
and varicose veins, just standing
in one place for eight hours
behind a glass counter
bundled up to the neck, instead of
naked as a meat sandwich.
Selling gloves, or something.
Instead of what I do sell.
You have to have talent
to peddle a thing so nebulous
and without material form.
Exploited, they'd say. Yes, any way
you cut it, but I've a choice
of how, and I'll take the money.

I do give value.
Like preachers, I sell vision,
like perfume ads, desire
or its facsimile. Like jokes
or war, it's all in the timing.
I sell men back their worse suspicions:
that everything's for sale,
and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
a chain-saw murder just before it happens,
when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple
are still connected.
Such hatred leaps in them,
my beery worshippers! That, or a bleary
hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads
and upturned eyes, imploring
but ready to snap at my ankles,
I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge
to step on ants. I keep the beat,
and dance for them because
they can't. The music smells like foxes,
crisp as heated metal
searing the nostrils
or humid as August, hazy and languorous
as a looted city the day after,
when all the rape's been done
already, and the killing,
and the survivors wander around
looking for garbage
to eat, and there's only a bleak exhaustion.
Speaking of which, it's the smiling
tires me out the most.
This, and the pretence
that I can't hear them.
And I can't, because I'm after all
a foreigner to them.
The speech here is all warty gutturals,
obvious as a slab of ham,
but I come from the province of the gods
where meanings are lilting and oblique.
I don't let on to everyone,
but lean close, and I'll whisper:
My mother was raped by a holy swan.
You believe that? You can take me out to dinner.
That's what we tell all the husbands.
There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.

Not that anyone here
but you would understand.
The rest of them would like to watch me
and feel nothing. Reduce me to components
as in a clock factory or abattoir.
Crush out the mystery.
Wall me up alive
in my own body.
They'd like to see through me,
but nothing is more opaque
than absolute transparency.
Look--my feet don't hit the marble!
Like breath or a balloon, I'm rising,
I hover six inches in the air
in my blazing swan-egg of light.
You think I'm not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you'll burn. 


Friday, March 15, 2013

The death of the subject?

No word means anything, no silence, no behavior, no phrase can be correctly interpreted if we cannot identify who is talking and acting. Let's say that it's a basic rule of language. That's why talking about the death of the subject is nonsense.

J. E. Soice

No-name thing

I wrote this phrase on a piece of paper:

"Love doesn't exist, I know. But I still feel this no-name thing for you and it disturbs me."

Does it make sense?

J. E. Soice

Thursday, March 14, 2013

Alfred Schnittke: Polyphonischer Tango

Regrets


Bien sûr, l’avenir est plein
de promesses. Avant de
se vider, la boîte se remplit.
Cela se comprends aisément.
L’espoir, les projets, arriver.

Te lèverais-tu le matin pour
aller chercher ce qui t’es dû
si tu connaissais d’avance
que la boîte où scintillent
les diamants n’est qu’une

souricière pour attraper les
couillons ? Ah, les grandes
émotions, la sincérité, ah, les
rêves d’amour et de grandeur.
Tout cela embellira le résumé

da la vie du décédé. Et le néant
le prendra, indifférent, dans les
bras de son immensité vide, de
son silence sans profondeur.
Nous ne sommes que le charbon

où brulent les passions, où se
consomme en espoir l’avenir
qui jamais n’aura lieu. Point
de passage du soleil en route
vers le néant. Le temps s’amuse

à nous voir courir pour rien.
Le Créateur a mille fois déjà
regretté sa création, tout a
mal tourné, rien n’a été comme
il l’avait imaginé. Ne nous racontez

pas des histoires, Dieu, qui qu’il
soit, n’est pas tout à fait bête. Mais
il a surévalué ses pouvoirs et la
perfection des machines qu’il a
fait tourner et mis sur terre. Le

jouet s’est détraqué. Avait-il subi
les testes préalables, a-t-il été
mis à l’épreuve avant d’être
déposé sur terre et mis en
fonctionnement? On peut en

douter. Si ce n’était que ça, si
tout n’était qu’une version du
chat courant aprés la souris,
valait-il la peine de se donner
tant de travail ? Les belles fleurs,

les jolis poissons, les animaux du
Zoo, les couchers de soleil, les
fleuves et les  montagnes. Il n’a
même pas oublié les papillons
avec ses ailes où s’annonçait

la modernité de l’art. Et tout ça
pour nous séduire, pour nous
rendre heureuse l’existence
qui pourtant s’annonçait difficile. 
Je ne lui en veut pas. Ça ne servirait

à rien de vivre dans l’amertume. Mais
il ne fallait pas nous donner la capacité
de comprendre, cela aurait été mieux
de nous laisser, comme les autres bêtes,
emprisonnés dans la fatalité biologique.


Erik Satie: Gnossienne nº 3

Sunday, March 10, 2013

Wednesday, March 06, 2013

Tuesday, March 05, 2013

Saturday, March 02, 2013

Orpheus (1): Margaret Atwood

Corot




You walked in front of me,
pulling me back out
to the green light that had once
grown fangs and killed me.

I was obedient, but
numb, like an arm
gone to sleep; the return
to time was not my choice.

By then I was used to silence.
Though something stretched between us
like a whisper, like a rope:
my former name,
drawn tight.
You had your old leash
with you, love you might call it,
and your flesh voice.

Before your eyes you held steady
the image of what you wanted
me to become: living again.
It was this hope of yours that kept me following.

I was your hallucination, listening
and floral, and you were singing me:
already new skin was forming on me
within the luminous misty shroud
of my other body; already
there was dirt on my hands and I was thirsty.

I could see only the outline
of your head and shoulders,
black against the cave mouth,
and so could not see your face
at all, when you turned

and called to me because you had
already lost me. The last
I saw of you was a dark oval.
Though I knew how this failure
would hurt you, I had to
fold like a gray moth and let go.

You could not believe I was more than your echo.

Orpheus and Eurydice

Love

Leighton



Love is a literary genre.

Thursday, February 28, 2013

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Some psychologist's jokes



A very shy guy goes into a bar and sees a beautiful woman sitting at the bar. After an hour of gathering up his courage, he finally goes over to her and asks, tentatively, "Um, would you mind if I chatted with you for a while?"


She responds by yelling, at the top of her lungs, "NO! I won't sleep with you tonight!" Everyone in the bar is now staring at them. Naturally, the guy is hopelessly and completely embarrassed and he slinks back to his table.


After a few minutes, the woman walks over to him and apologizes. She smiles at him and says, "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you. You see, I'm a graduate student in psychology, and I'm studying how people respond to embarrassing situations."


To which he responds, at the top of his lungs, "What do you mean $200?!"


*******

Joe has been seeing a psychoanalyst for four years for treatment of the fear that he had monsters under his bed. It had been years since he had gotten a good night's sleep. Furthermore, his progress was very poor, and he knew it. So, one day he stops seeing the psychoanalyst and decides to try something different.

A few weeks later, Joe's former psychoanalyst meets his old client in the supermarket, and is surprised to find him looking well-rested, energetic, and cheerful. "Doc!" Joe says, "It's amazing! I'm cured!"
"That's great news!" the psychoanalyst says. "you seem to be doing much better. How?"
"I went to see another doctor," Joe says enthusiastically, "and he cured me in just ONE session!"
"One?!" the psychoanalyst asks incredulously.
"Yeah," continues Joe, "my new doctor is a behaviorist."
"A behaviorist?" the psychoanalyst asks. "How did he cure you in one session?"
"Oh, easy," says Joe. "He told me to cut the legs off of my bed."



********


A guy goes in to see a psychologist. He says, "It seems I can't make any friends. Can you help me, you fat slob?"

*******

Why is psychoanalysis a lot quicker for a man then for a women?
Because when it's time to go back to childhood, a man is already there.

Madredeus: Carta para ti

Sunday, February 17, 2013

Sunday, January 06, 2013