O olhar de Deus
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Diante de Vós, Senhor, o mundo inteiro
é como um grão de areia na balança,
como a gota de orvalho que de manhã cai sobre a terra.
De todos Vos compadeceis,
porque sois omnipotente e não olhais para os seus pecados,
para que se arrependam.
Vós amais tudo o que existe
e não odiais nada do que fizestes;
porque, se odiásseis alguma coisa,
não a teríeis criado.
E como poderia subsistir,
se Vós não a quisésseis?
Como poderia durar,
se não a tivésseis chamado à existência?
Mas a todos perdoais,
porque tudo é vosso, Senhor, que amais a vida.
O vosso espírito incorruptível está em todas as coisas.
Por isso castigais brandamente aqueles que caem
e advertis os que pecam, recordando-lhes os seus pecados,
para que se afastem do mal
e acreditem em Vós, Senhor.
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Livro da Sabedoria
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Dalton Ghetti
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Isto é arte, porque um lápis não se usa na vertical; não é o Sagrado Coração de Jesus, porque do chumbo não saem raios de luz; a arte está no facto de serem dois corações de amor que não se completam em Amor. Não se notam vestígios da seta mas de um canivete.
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Indian Camp - Ernest Hemingway
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At the lake shore there was another rowboat drawn up. The two Indians stood waiting.
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Nick and his father got in the stern of the boat and the Indians shoved it off and one of them got in to row. Uncle George sat in the stern of the camp rowboat. The young Indian shoved the camp boat off and got in to row Uncle George.
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The two boats started off in the dark. Nick heard the oarlocks of the other boat quite a way ahead of them in the mist. The Indians rowed with quick choppy strokes. Nick lay back with his father's arm around him. It was cold on the water. The Indian who was rowing them was working very hard, but the other boat moved further ahead in the mist all the time.
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"Where are we going, Dad?" Nick asked.
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"Over to the Indian camp. There is an Indian lady very sick."
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"Oh," said Nick.
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Across the bay they found the other boat beached. Uncle George was smoking a cigar in the dark. The young Indian pulled the boat way up on the beach. Uncle George gave both the Indians cigars.
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They walked up from the beach through a meadow that was soaking wet with dew, following the young Indian who carried a lantern. Then they went into the woods and followed a trail that led to the logging road that ran back into the hills. It was much lighter on the logging road as the timber was cut away on both sides. The young Indian stopped and blew out his lantern and they all walled on along the road.
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They came around a bend and a dog came out barking. Ahead were the lights of the shanties where the Indian bark-peelers lived. More dogs rushed out at them. The two Indians sent them back to the shanties. In the shanty nearest the road there was a light in the window. An old woman stood in the doorway holding a lamp.
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Inside on a wooden bunk lay a young Indian woman. She had been trying to have her baby for two days. All the old women in the camp had been helping her. The men had moved off up the road to sit in the dark and smoke cut of range of the noise she made. She screamed just as Nick and the two Indians followed his father and Uncle George into the shanty. She lay in the lower bunk, very big under a quilt. Her head was turned to one side. In the upper bunk was her husband. He had cut his foot very badly with an ax three days before. He was smoking a pipe. The room smelled very bad.
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Nick's father ordered some water to be put on the stove, and while it was heating he spoke to Nick.
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"This lady is going to have a baby, Nick," he said.
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"I know," said Nick.
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"You don't know," said his father. "Listen to me. What she is going through is called being in labor. The baby wants to be born and she wants it to be born. All her muscles are trying to get the baby born. That is what is happening when she screams."
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"I see," Nick said.
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Just then the woman cried out.
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"Oh, Daddy, can't you give her something to make her stop screaming?" asked Nick.
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"No. I haven't any anaesthetic," his father said. "But her screams are not important. I don't hear them because they are not important."
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The husband in the upper bunk rolled over against the wall.
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The woman in the kitchen motioned to the doctor that the water was hot. Nick's father went into the kitchen and poured about half of the water out of the big kettle into a basin. Into the water left in the kettle he put several things he unwrapped from a handkerchief.
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"Those must boil," he said, and began to scrub his hands in the basin of hot water with a cake of soap he had brought from the camp. Nick watched his father's hands scrubbing each other with the soap. While his father washed his hands very carefully and thoroughly, he talked.
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"You see, Nick, babies are supposed to be born head first but sometimes they're not. When they're not they make a lot of trouble for everybody. Maybe I'll have to operate on this lady. We'll know in a little while."
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When he was satisfied with his hands he went in and went to work.
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"Pull back that quilt, will you, George?" he said. "I'd rather not touch it."
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Later when he started to operate Uncle George and three Indian men held the woman still. She bit Uncle George on the arm and Uncle George said, "Damn squaw bitch!" and the young Indian who had rowed Uncle George over laughed at him. Nick held the basin for his father. It all took a long time.
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His father picked the baby up and slapped it to make it breathe and handed it to the old woman.
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"See, it's a boy, Nick," he said. "How do you like being an interne?"
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Nick said. "All right." He was looking away so as not to see what his father was doing.
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"There. That gets it," said his father and put something into the basin.
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Nick didn't look at it.
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"Now," his father said, "there's some stitches to put in. You can watch this or not, Nick, just as you like. I'm going to sew up the incision I made."
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Nick did not watch. His curiosity had been gone for a long time.
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His father finished and stood up. Uncle George and the three Indian men stood up. Nick put the basin out in the kitchen.
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Uncle George looked at his arm. The young Indian smiled reminiscently.
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"I'll put some peroxide on that, George," the doctor said.
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He bent over the Indian woman. She was quiet now and her eyes were closed. She looked very pale. She did not know what had become of the baby or anything.
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"I'll be back in the morning." the doctor said, standing up.
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"The nurse should be here from St. Ignace by noon and she'll bring everything we need."
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He was feeling exalted and talkative as football players are in the dressing room after a game.
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"That's one for the medical journal, George," he said. "Doing a Caesarian with a jack-knife and sewing it up with nine-foot, tapered gut leaders."
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Uncle George was standing against the wall, looking at his arm.
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"Oh, you're a great man, all right," he said.
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"Ought to have a look at the proud father. They're usually the worst sufferers in these little affairs," the doctor said. "I must say he took it all pretty quietly."
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He pulled back the blanket from the Indian's head. His hand came away wet. He mounted on the edge of the lower bunk with the lamp in one hand and looked in. The Indian lay with his face toward the wall. His throat had been cut from ear to ear. The blood had flowed down into a pool where his body sagged the bunk. His head rested on his left arm. The open razor lay, edge up, in the blankets.
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"Take Nick out of the shanty, George," the doctor said.
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There was no need of that. Nick, standing in the door of the kitchen, had a good view of the upper bunk when his father, the lamp in one hand, tipped the Indian's head back.
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It was just beginning to be daylight when they walked along the logging road back toward the lake.
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"I'm terribly sorry I brought you along; Nickie," said his father, all his post-operative exhilaration gone. "It was an awful mess to put you through."
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"Do ladies always have such a hard time having babies?" Nick asked.
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"No, that was very, very exceptional."
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"Why did he kill himself, Daddy?"
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"I don't know, Nick. He couldn't stand things, I guess."
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"Do many men kill themselves, Daddy?"
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"Not very many, Nick."
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"Do many women?"
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"Hardly ever."
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"Don't they ever?"
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"Oh, yes. They do sometimes."
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"Daddy?"
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"Yes."
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"Where did Uncle George go?"
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"He'll turn up all right."
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"Is dying hard, Daddy?"
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"No, I think it's pretty easy, Nick. It all depends."
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They were seated in the boat. Nick in the stern, his father rowing. The sun was coming up over the hills. A bass jumped, making a circle in the water. Nick trailed his hand in the water. It felt warm in the sharp chill of the morning.
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In the early morning on the lake sitting in the stern of the boat with his father rowing; he felt quite sure that he would never die.
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Hemingway, 1924
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Nota: Relembro este conto dos tempos de Coimbra. Disseram-me nessa altura, que era um 'conto de iniciação' e 'perda de inocência' como nenhum outro. Uma criança, de nome Nick Adams, atravessa um rio com o pai para se confrontar - em consciência, com o inicio violento da vida e com o fim também violento da morte. Ficou-me - entre outras -, a dúvida sobre o suicídio do índio. Seria pelas dores da mulher que amava, pela sua dor, ou por o cirurgião ser um homem branco? Que o 'understated style' de Hemingway nos continue a sugerir segmentos de leitura.
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Judy Collins - Turn Turn Turn
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Esta é uma das melhores canções de sempre. Baseada no livro Eclesiastes tem nos versos a sabedoria de Salomão. O tempo é o professor.
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Andrey Remnev
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Andrey Remnev nasceu em 1962, na cidade russa de Yachroma, na região de Moscovo. Ainda no tempo da URSS aprendeu com os mestres russos Fyodor Shapaev, Claudia Tutevol e Eugeni Maksimov a desenvolver os dons. No seu site encontrei esta descrição de si mesmo:
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'I was born in the town of Yachroma. This is a place on a hill, from which a perspective reminding Brueghel paintings opens. The crossed landscape with significant differences of heights, channel between the rivers Moscow and Volga, small rivers and springs, woods, fields and villages, the railway, an ancient town Dmitrov in the neighbourhood, ships going along the channel and trains overtaking them, and so on and so on… - all this I saw through a window of my house since my birth. The view was like a picture, which includes all the variety of the world. So I can say that for my inspiration impressions of my childhood and youths - beautiful nature and the non-ordinary people which surrounded me, are more important.'
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'In a museum of Spaso-Andronikov monastery, Moscow, I copied the best samples of Old Russian paintings of the 15 - 17 centuries. At the same time I worked on my own paintings. By this period I had finally created my individual technique, which was founded on combination of methods of the Russian medieval icon painting, the 18th century Russian painting, composition methods of art group 'World of Art' and the Russian constructivism. Following the artists of the past, I work with hand-made colors and use natural pigments ground with the egg yolk.'
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Breve encontro
Dois cliques
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Este é o amor das palavras demoradas
Moradas habitadas
Nelas mora
Em memória e demora
O nosso breve encontro com a vida.
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Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen
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O que por fim somos
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O homem vive, e corrige, ajusta, edifica, e destrói, algumas vezes, a sua vida; mas, passado tempo, dá-se conta de que o todo, tal como está, por força dos erros e do acaso, é imodificável. E quando alguém emerge do passado para anunciar, em voz comovida, que quer pôr 'tudo' em ordem, só podemos lamentar e sorrir das suas intenções; o tempo já tudo 'pôs em ordem', à sua estranha maneira, da única maneira possível.
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Sándor Márai in, A Herança de Eszter
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Walter Crane 1845 - 1915
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Lily Maid of Astolat
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The Garden of Love
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Diane and Endymion
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A beleza, a delicadeza, e a simplicidade destas ilustrações de Walter Crane fazem-me esquecer por momentos, o que não consigo esquecer. Na primeira, o rosto sereno da jovem Elaine de Astolat; que importa se foi traída por Lancelot? Que importa o ar carregado do barqueiro? O rio está calmo. Na segunda, a sedutora ouve o anúncio da chegada do tempo das flores, e o amor virá. Na terceira, a deusa da caça, ainda virgem, toma chá com um estranho javali. Endymion é a caça ou o caçador? Já estou menos só. Obrigado Sr. Crane por estes 20 minutos.
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Fado Malhoa - Amália Rodrigues
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Alguém que Deus já lá tem
Pintor consagrado,
Que foi bem grande
E nos doi já ser do passado,
Pintou numa tela
Com arte e com vida
A trova mais bela
Da terra mais querida.
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Subiu a um quarto que viu
À luz do petróleo
E fez o mais português
Dos quadros a óleo:
Um Zé de samarra
Com a amante a seu lado
Com os dedos agarra
Percorre a guitarra
E ali vê-se o fado.
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Faz rir a ideia de ouvir
com os olhos, senhores.
Fará, mas não para quem já
ouviu, mas em cores.
Há vozes de Alfama
naquela pintura
e a banza derrama
canções de amargura.
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Dali vos digo que ouvi
A voz que se esmera:
Boçal, um faia banal
Cantando à Severa
Aquilo é bairrista;
Aquilo é Lisboa,
Boémia e fadista
Aquilo é de artista
E aquilo é Malhoa.
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Nota: José Malhoa nasceu nas Caldas da Rainha em 28 de Abril de 1855. Com apenas 12 anos entrou para a escola de Belas Artes. Em todos os anos ganhou o primeiro prémio, devido às suas enormes faculdades e qualidade artísticas. Realizou inúmeras exposições, tanto em Portugal como no estrangeiro, designadamente em Madrid, Paris e Rio de Janeiro. Foi pioneiro do Naturalismo em Portugal, tendo integrado o Grupo do Leão. Destacou-se também por ser um dos pintores portugueses que mais se aproximou da corrente artística Impressionista. Foi o primeiro presidente daSociedade Nacional de Belas Artes e foi condecorado com a Grã-Cruz da Ordem de Santiago. Em 1933, ano da sua morte, foi criado o Museu José Malhoa nas Caldas da Rainha.
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in, Wiki
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As Folhas de Outono - John Everett Millais
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.jpg)
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Esta tela de John Millais despede a vida até que a vida volte. E mostra a juventude ali, a pegar na cesta.
A Night at the Opera - 1935 - 87m
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Nunca me foi fácil rir ou chorar, mas ao rever o filme dos irmãos Marx 'A Night at the Opera', tudo se rende em mim. Afinal, também sou um tenor que estaria desempregado num coro profissional. Hilariante.
Nota: Os Irmãos Marx estão, desta vez, na alta sociedade. Dois apaixonados que cantam ópera são impedidos de estarem juntos por um terrível tenor. Utilizando as inúmeras tropelias de que são capazes, os irmãos Marx vão conseguir juntar os dois apaixonados. Um fabuloso filme com Groucho, Chico, Harpo e ainda Kitty Carlisle, Allan Jones e a magnífica Margaret Dumont,a eterna apaixonada de Groucho.
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Nunca mais
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A tua face será pura limpa e viva
Nem o teu andar como onda fugitiva
Se poderá nos passos do tempo tecer.
E nunca mais darei ao tempo a minha vida.
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Nunca mais servirei senhor que possa morrer.
A luz da tarde mostra-me os destroços
Do teu ser. Em breve a podridão
Beberá os teus olhos e os teus ossos
Tomando a tua mão na sua mão.
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Nunca mais amarei quem não possa viver sempre,
Porque eu amei como se fossem eternos
A glória, a luz e o brilho do teu ser.
Amei-te em verdade e transparência
E nem sequer me resta a tua ausência.
És um rosto de nojo e negação
E eu fecho os olhos para não te ver.
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Nunca mais servirei senhor que possa morrer.
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Sophia de Mello Breyner
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O canto na luta
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Quando se fizer a síntese das consequências sociais, que tiveram as canções de protesto em quase todos os povos do mundo, alguém dirá que muitas serviram ideologias e regimes totalitários. Mas, ninguém poderá negar, que muitas outras estiveram ao serviço da esperança, da paz e da liberdade.
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Mull of Kintyre
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A Sir Paul McCartney não deve faltar dinheiro, mas hoje pôs à venda por 3,36 milhões de Euros a sua velha propriedade rural em Mull of Kintyre. Este local, na Escócia, era onde Paul descansava do cansaço que lhe sobrava dos Beatles ou dos Wings. Um dia, com a Campbeltown Pipe Band, dedicou-lhe uma canção bonita.
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A Rosinha do Silvado
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Heidenröslein
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Sah ein Knab ein Röslein stehn,
Röslein auf der Heiden,
War so jung und morgenschön,
Lief er schnell, es nah zu sehn,
Sah’s mit vielen Freuden.
Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,
Röslein auf der Heiden.
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Knabe sprach: „Ich breche dich,
Röslein af der Heiden!“
Röslein sprach: „Ich steche dich,
Dass du ewig denkst an mich,
und ich wills nicht leiden.“
Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,
Röslein auf der Heiden.
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Und der wilde Knabe brache
‚s Röslein auf der Heiden;
Röslein wehrte sich und stach,
Half ihm doch kein Weh und Ach,
Musst es eben leiden!
Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,
Röslein auf der Heiden.
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Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Rosinha do Silvado
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Viu um rapaz uma rosa,
Rosinha do silvado,
Tão fresquinha, tão formosa,
Que em carreira pressurosa
Salta a vê-la, extasiado,
Linda, linda rosa corada,
Rosinha do silvado.
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Vai ele diz: “Vou-te cortar,
Rosinha do silvado!”
Diz ela: “E eu vou-te picar,
Que de mim te hás-de lembrar,
Se me cortares, malcriado!”
Linda, linda rosa corada,
Rosinha do silvado.
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E o maroto cortou
A rosinha do silvado;
Defendeu-se ela, e picou;
Bem se carpiu e gritou…
Sempre a colheu, o malvado!
Linda, linda rosa corada,
Rosinha do silvado.
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Tradução de Paulo Quintela
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Ir ao teatro
Dois cliques
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'Para seres um bom actor, tens de odiar o teatro' disse ela. 'O teatro é falso... a faca não é real, o sangue não é real e as emoções não são reais. Na verdade actuar é precisamente o oposto: a faca é real, o sangue é real e as emoções são reais.'
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Marina Abramovic
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Na mão dos deuses
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O fogo celeste - esse fogo que Prometeu, simbolicamente, quis roubar aos deuses - só na mão dos deuses está em segurança. Se o houvessem para si, os homens em breve teriam feito dele o que fizeram a tanta outra dádiva divina - tê-lo-iam, talvez, aproveitado para carburante de automóvel ou combustível de fogareiros de cozinha. É nas mãos dos deuses que ele deve estar, e os poetas que ousam, como Prometeu, subir até eles no seu despeitado desígnio, esses, e só esses, têm o direito de ser considerados grandes poetas.
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João Gaspar Simões in, Crítica II
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República Portuguesa - 1910-2010
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'Não nasças! Nada temos que te dar: mirrada a mirra, o oiro gasto e o incenso apenas a incensar o ladrão que roubou o rebanho e o pasto.'
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António Manuel Couto Viana in, Nado Nada
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