tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18182169802683334242024-02-07T18:57:42.656+00:00control frictionchiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.comBlogger47125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-71626663390262777402012-11-20T13:22:00.001+00:002012-11-20T13:22:05.771+00:00the flattering light of the subjunctive<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv361-NCUOwo9-Ef2KXBlm9DY6zbpAnGP7mQtBfwi8JxtrHNOMFqXC8JY51ruis-ZHG7VIZgdcihbPocoweCNVruIX-ojD5uQMST1DCc0cQN_At5D0Wd5xK8h6gF-2lXdzzbX-FFkrw1cb/s1600/poster,+ministerio+de+propaganda+espan%CC%83a,+augusto%3f+1936.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv361-NCUOwo9-Ef2KXBlm9DY6zbpAnGP7mQtBfwi8JxtrHNOMFqXC8JY51ruis-ZHG7VIZgdcihbPocoweCNVruIX-ojD5uQMST1DCc0cQN_At5D0Wd5xK8h6gF-2lXdzzbX-FFkrw1cb/s640/poster,+ministerio+de+propaganda+espan%CC%83a,+augusto%3f+1936.jpeg" width="468" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">poster by the spanish ministry of propaganda, english version (1936)</td></tr>
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'The joint was before me again and the woman who passed it began to speak to me and either because I was high or upset I couldn't understand her spanish, but that's not really right. Her Spanish, like Teresa's poem, became a repository for whatever meaning I assigned it, and I felt I understood, although I knew I was talking to myself. It was as if she said: Think about the necklace. Think about the making of the necklace. About Isabel's brother's notebook. I could hear what she was actually saying beneath this and I heard myself respond but all of that was very distant. It was as if she said: Imagine her brother writing. Think of the little scrap of paper Teresa tore from her novel and put into your notebook. Think of the hash transported inside one body as a solid and expelled and sold and then drawn into your body as vapor and gas. Think of the bombers purchasing the backpacks. Always think of the objects. Think of the necklaces and novels and bodies torn apart by the blast. Think of the making of the necklaces and the novels and the bodies and Isabel's brother in the crushed red car. But then think of a poster of Michael Jordan on the wall of Isabel's brother's room while he wrote the years down in the notebook. Where is that poster now. And think of the field opposite the telephone pole her brother wrapped the car around. How can you turn your attention away from the crushed red car and his body and walk into the field where nothing is happening, just indifferent wind in the indifferent grass, but a particular wind in particular grass. You can stay there for as long as you want, easily blocking out the sirens. Or you can enter the poster with the sea of camera flashes as Michael Jordan jumps and you can leave the arena as the crowd is roaring and walk into the Chicago of the recent past where novels are being written and necklaces are being made and gases are being inhaled and dates are being memorized by brains and brains destroyed in crashes. You can see all of this from a great height and zoom out until it is no longer visible or you can zoom in on the writing hand or the face of the dead, zoom in until it's no longer a face. Or you can click on something and drag it. You can adjust the color or you can make it black and white. You can view any object from any angle or multiple angles simultaneously or you can shut your eyes and listen to the crowd in the arena or the sirens slowly approaching the red car or the sound of the pen writing down the years as silver is hammered and shaped.'</div>
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ben lerner,<i> leaving the atocha station</i> (2011)</div>
chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-43913588505479676902012-11-02T13:35:00.001+00:002012-11-02T13:35:35.937+00:00a few leagues from the hexagon<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSjBE9tmSqYSrzFHHZfLR2YVrvwGnEuw1bNovSpa_F_Z5UHaS8OfL0bIdUEVidD1VWKD_T5ycPEluCwqvsGeKNfQfaz2Pw-0kmlwswunBRwwmNo_Y238j52Vn2e3Q0P14hUCIkmyNR2GMu/s1600/Abbas,+mexico+state+of+guerrero,+village+of+san+augustin+de+oapan,+girl+becomes+ghost,+her+doll+is+white+(1984)+from+return+to+mexico+1992.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSjBE9tmSqYSrzFHHZfLR2YVrvwGnEuw1bNovSpa_F_Z5UHaS8OfL0bIdUEVidD1VWKD_T5ycPEluCwqvsGeKNfQfaz2Pw-0kmlwswunBRwwmNo_Y238j52Vn2e3Q0P14hUCIkmyNR2GMu/s640/Abbas,+mexico+state+of+guerrero,+village+of+san+augustin+de+oapan,+girl+becomes+ghost,+her+doll+is+white+(1984)+from+return+to+mexico+1992.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">abbas: mexico state of guerrero, village of san augustin de oapan. 'girl becomes ghost, her doll is white (1984).' from <i>return to mexico</i> (1992)</td></tr>
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'Curled up by the chimney, I pass the time hypnotised by the fire, spellbound. My eyes follow the path of the flames. It's crazy, the way everything changes, so quickly, so imperceptibly. And by the time I've registered it, there it is, it's already changed. There are those first timid flames that need to be revived by blowing, then the powerful ones that wrap around trunks and branches, from the smallest to the largest, the thinnest to the thickest. Each flame follows its own path. Sometimes, for some reason that escapes me, the fire swirls and forms corkscrews that come and go from yellow to red, so frenziedly. And they hollow out the wood, forming eyes in it. But from a distance, the most fascinating, beautiful, and at the same time terrible part is the moment of destruction. The burning wood splitting into two, falling into pieces, turning into smoke. They are tiny catastrophes, homemade, controlled, miniature cataclysms. Jaime is standing in silence behind me. He's watching too.'</div>
iosi havilio, <i>open door </i>(2006)chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-73116184977453644992012-09-28T20:33:00.000+01:002012-10-15T13:59:08.005+01:00ibsen às portas de comala<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPNgqJF5DVAcvupLn31qqBTryAjIkI_2oNKXTA5QyBWmw7l9FgLdmBsG0G7Mq8WVogg7ZuVFeh7JyWpy0cHJkOgYS4Qf1Q-43n-gezoVV5gGcIoGwD24wSI5AocfhqPVE0GR9Ye7Hkp1Ak/s1600/Patrick+Zachmann,+Atacama+Desert,+along+the+panamerican+route+number5+between+the+towns+of+Antofagasta+and+Calama,+cemetery+near+the+town+of+Pampa+Union+(chile+1999+from+chili+les+routes+de+la+memoire).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPNgqJF5DVAcvupLn31qqBTryAjIkI_2oNKXTA5QyBWmw7l9FgLdmBsG0G7Mq8WVogg7ZuVFeh7JyWpy0cHJkOgYS4Qf1Q-43n-gezoVV5gGcIoGwD24wSI5AocfhqPVE0GR9Ye7Hkp1Ak/s1600/Patrick+Zachmann,+Atacama+Desert,+along+the+panamerican+route+number5+between+the+towns+of+Antofagasta+and+Calama,+cemetery+near+the+town+of+Pampa+Union+(chile+1999+from+chili+les+routes+de+la+memoire).jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">patrick zachmann: atacama desert, along the panamerican route no. 5, between the towns of antofagasta and calama. cemetery near the town of pampa unión. from <i>chili, les routes de la mémoire </i>(1999)</td></tr>
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'It was with Homer that I developed my theory of multiple deaths. Or perhaps I should say that it was he who proposed it, and I just elaborated it at his side.<br />
What happens is that people die many times in a single life, my dear Mr Owen.<br />
How come, Mr Collyer?<br />
People die, irresponsibly leave a ghost of themselves hanging around, and then they, the original and the ghost, go on living, each in his own right.<br />
And how can you tell who's whose ghost?<br />
Sometimes it's easy. Physical similarities, especially the ears. Have you heard of a young writer, Samuel Beckett, who published a story this year called "Assumption"?<br />
No, never.<br />
And the Viennese philosopher who, a few years back, brought out some crazy stuff about language and logic that he'd written in a trench during the war?<br />
Of course, Ludwig Wittgenstein, he's really famous: "The world is everything that happens." But I haven't read him either.<br />
Well, it's not important. The other day my brother came home with the newspaper. As he does every day, he read me the society, culture and politics pages. In politics there was a note about Wittgenstein, and in culture one on young Beckett. It seemed to me that both notes were talking about the same person. I asked him if there were pictures of the two of them. My brother confirmed my suspicions: the same ears. We turned the affair over for hours and both agreed: of the two, Ludwig is the ghost and Samuel the original.<br />
But isn't Wittgenstein older?<br />
That's not important.<br />
Huh?<br />
Dammit, Mr Owen. Aren't you the one who can remember the future?'<br />
valeria luiselli, faces in the crowd (2011)chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-54898129407466181492012-09-09T14:30:00.000+01:002012-09-09T14:30:02.714+01:00blind spots #02<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrFbGuC_D1OeS3KnmXWnnyb0pHMb6Nwg6MlLXbKdtl6SETAiIqz8LP4hxaVHu5VdNdGPpBX0L0wTG56IoKJKQjRkzKw0p7vy16P5tu01k4D_A6q67LM-rkkR2eYX-nsGI6h2O4IWYQ2e9o/s1600/tg2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrFbGuC_D1OeS3KnmXWnnyb0pHMb6Nwg6MlLXbKdtl6SETAiIqz8LP4hxaVHu5VdNdGPpBX0L0wTG56IoKJKQjRkzKw0p7vy16P5tu01k4D_A6q67LM-rkkR2eYX-nsGI6h2O4IWYQ2e9o/s1600/tg2.jpeg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVJl5NziGYrrzLF2By-JurRsZ1XK0illt4q1LW0LP_jNodKn2Xp_-CFYlE5gFUIVWvf8KMRM1SGloutX5jc0mrK_LQCYZKEASucZRwXMqWurWK6vecG8IQBBckRzpN8tT5rU6pEr3g8QdB/s1600/tg1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVJl5NziGYrrzLF2By-JurRsZ1XK0illt4q1LW0LP_jNodKn2Xp_-CFYlE5gFUIVWvf8KMRM1SGloutX5jc0mrK_LQCYZKEASucZRwXMqWurWK6vecG8IQBBckRzpN8tT5rU6pEr3g8QdB/s1600/tg1.jpeg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ9pEwaDnei6qc1pEQl4mSE-u1sBASD4pin2ENQEK6AIeWmaAPg9yfdObOgcZn6uy0dac9_-3SQoEEbaPlBjW8KgHNG-85LQEnEeS-4mzXEsaw5PpbMeQKa-MXpkjzkgx4pjTb-xafBwbC/s1600/tg4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ9pEwaDnei6qc1pEQl4mSE-u1sBASD4pin2ENQEK6AIeWmaAPg9yfdObOgcZn6uy0dac9_-3SQoEEbaPlBjW8KgHNG-85LQEnEeS-4mzXEsaw5PpbMeQKa-MXpkjzkgx4pjTb-xafBwbC/s1600/tg4.jpeg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVj_uZVJF9wtt741yOvFFAPWcw_pM-ZE2V_qPw-dXjP31Z155UtKGbhKNeWTsAoRcXJihq67uGdCaJFzi5bYaqgKmJBbU0id0V5gbk8SQ6WH60pVNZ3Fw8k0l5n5yuoo8yVdZA9zxsArzC/s1600/tg3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVj_uZVJF9wtt741yOvFFAPWcw_pM-ZE2V_qPw-dXjP31Z155UtKGbhKNeWTsAoRcXJihq67uGdCaJFzi5bYaqgKmJBbU0id0V5gbk8SQ6WH60pVNZ3Fw8k0l5n5yuoo8yVdZA9zxsArzC/s1600/tg3.jpeg" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://myjetpack.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">tom gauld</a>.</div>
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<br />chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-66311625187557631252012-09-07T16:00:00.000+01:002012-09-07T16:00:04.944+01:00leve, breve, suave<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjTKacEXm_mqdgN45PjCc0hVJ_S75hVpskRxcI3n4qwIMK_L2eQYtmqV7nXDD_yHBYlM-SuGnUMo-ZrYxiLE1x-4nB5bsB0vczLd0_zi1I3cRhq6vdnDtuDxbEc4PVtyTCNnTELDPnWhcO/s1600/Celso+Oliveira,+from+the+series+Quem+Somos+No%CC%81s+(1990).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjTKacEXm_mqdgN45PjCc0hVJ_S75hVpskRxcI3n4qwIMK_L2eQYtmqV7nXDD_yHBYlM-SuGnUMo-ZrYxiLE1x-4nB5bsB0vczLd0_zi1I3cRhq6vdnDtuDxbEc4PVtyTCNnTELDPnWhcO/s1600/Celso+Oliveira,+from+the+series+Quem+Somos+No%CC%81s+(1990).jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">celso oliveira, from <i>quem somos nós?</i> (1990)</td></tr>
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'Henrique aparece no acampamento. Está sozinho. Assim que Donato o vê sai correndo em sua direção, Maína acha graça naquele bonequinho de três anos tão receptivo à presença de um sujeito que há menos de quatro meses era um estranho. Henrique está abatido, disse que passou ali porque não aguentava de saudade do menino. Trouxe livrinhos do tipo que se dá a crianças com menos de quatro anos, trouxe uma caixa de jogos de mesa pras irmãs de Maína. Pergunta se pode ficar pro almoço e lhe passa uma sacola com um frango assado e polenta. Maína o abraça e agradece. Leva um tempo até que ela pergunte sobre Luisa, e ele responda dizendo que decidiram se separar. Luisa voltou pro Rio, fará o doutorado lá, porque de uma hora pra outra achou que estava tempo demais longe de seus pais e, sim, por ser teimosa e impulsiva mesmo. Maína o deixa brincando com Donato e prepara um arroz, suas irmãs se divertem com o xadrez chinês, cujas regras ele tenta explicar enquanto serve de <i>massa humana de escalada</i> pra Donato. A mãe de Maína diz que vai preparar uma canjica pra Henrique comer de sobremesa e levar num vidro pra depois, canjica ajuda a reanimar o espírito, garante. Enquanto o arroz cozinha, Maína entrega um pacote a Henrique, diz que ali tem dois envelopes, um com o nome dele e outro com o de Luisa, são umas coisas que pretende que eles recebam como presentes. Só pede que o dele seja aberto depois que comerem a canjica e o dela seja entregue só quando os dois fizerem as pazes. Henrique pega o pacote dizendo que não tem certeza se voltará a falar com Luisa tão cedo. Maína diz ter certeza que eles vão reatar em breve, diz que Luisa o ama demais, que nunca viu alguém amar outra pessoa assim. Henrique deixa o pacote do lado do banco no qual está sentado, volta a brincar com Donato. O dia está lindo, a brisa que sopra é a mais agradável possível. Maína convida sua mãe pra levarem a mesa de dentro da barraca pra debaixo da árvore que fica na lateral norte do acampamento, diz a Henrique (que tenta se levantar ao vê-las com a mesa) pra não se mexer, ele é o convidado de honra hoje. Ajeitam os pés pra que não fiquem desnivelados e a cobrem com uma toalha de mesa flanelada com temas natalinos que sua mãe guarda há muitos anos, um acessório que só usam em situações especiais. O almoço é uma festa, Henrique deixou o rádio da camioneta ligado a bom volume, as meninas pediram, estão ruidosas como nunca. Maína propõe um brinde dizendo que nunca aprendeu tanto em tão pouco tempo com alguém e que sentirá saudade. Brindam. Suas irmãs não entendem direito o porquê daquilo, Henrique brinca dizendo que Maína aprendeu direitinho o toque de dramaticidade que Luisa costuma colocar em cada situação por mais simples que seja. Riem. Maína diz que sairá pra recolher umas folhas e ervas e fazer um chá enquanto esperam a canjica da sua mãe. Henrique diz que está com tempo de sobra. Maína pega o cesto (que é um pouco grande pra quem vai colher folhas e ervas, mas ninguém repara). O dia está lindo. Ela entra naquele pouco de mato que avizinha o lado norte da barraca, caminha o que talvez seja uns trinta metros, sobe na árvore, chega ao galho que escolhera há anos, dá quatro nós bem firmes, espera alguma série de caminhões que sempre vêm e passam estridentes pra se somarem ao som alto da camioneta de Henrique (pensa na vez em que falou a respeito de Deus com Luisa e, talvez por ter tanto estudo, Luisa disse orgulhosa que preferia não acreditar nas chances de haver um Deus, pede pelo sumiço de Paulo, um sumiço completo, um sumiço por anos), passa a corda ao redor do pescoço e pula.'</div>
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paulo scott, <i>habitante irreal</i> (2011)</div>
chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-74484795855699289672012-09-06T15:21:00.002+01:002012-09-06T15:21:54.719+01:00sweetness and light<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIdz308qnb-yyfS-3NCx0lK16lew7F2YQc6rkkBSeNUmDj7cX_v8y7ddFAVpTX20K0igVBFYB3CcW6dz1kZf6ck75UkbbMlpMgv4WeYyIvSZI4Yj_Kg8JDHXP8wYCPEUuDmfLhGybqJ30I/s1600/erich+comeriner,+mannequins+(1929).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIdz308qnb-yyfS-3NCx0lK16lew7F2YQc6rkkBSeNUmDj7cX_v8y7ddFAVpTX20K0igVBFYB3CcW6dz1kZf6ck75UkbbMlpMgv4WeYyIvSZI4Yj_Kg8JDHXP8wYCPEUuDmfLhGybqJ30I/s1600/erich+comeriner,+mannequins+(1929).jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">erich comeriner, 'mannequins' (1929)</td></tr>
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'Wherever his eyes turned, in the stifling, empty room, it was on her that they fell. The shape of Elisabeth's face swayed in the air, filling the whole place. And her body, the mass of well-closed skin that contained her hermetically, that too was everywhere. It walked about, bent forward, lay down, glided across the floor or flew close to the ceiling, that elusive body; it danced, it divided up, it could be smelt, touched, heard, it was radiant light.'</div>
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j.m.g. le clézio, 'fever' in <i>fever</i> (1965)</div>
chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-24378247949086092552012-09-05T17:01:00.004+01:002012-09-05T17:01:42.961+01:00homo sacer<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUmYxJUIuUfGu8oXT8ki92KyHFAJACDWE2j1joK3g2qJd7dMf6Lf92nn7ZsnzwjRhha6I6APzLrvFkp8N88llwEPy9JVTv5TWGAoXFjta38soenWHWDOKtxloTBy17GET8Ifi6YJCWP-QW/s1600/john+hinde,+a+member+of+the+wardens+service+fitting+a+gas+mask+(1944).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUmYxJUIuUfGu8oXT8ki92KyHFAJACDWE2j1joK3g2qJd7dMf6Lf92nn7ZsnzwjRhha6I6APzLrvFkp8N88llwEPy9JVTv5TWGAoXFjta38soenWHWDOKtxloTBy17GET8Ifi6YJCWP-QW/s400/john+hinde,+a+member+of+the+wardens+service+fitting+a+gas+mask+(1944).jpeg" width="295" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: justify;">john hinde, 'a member of the wardens service fitting a gas mask' (1944)</td></tr>
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'Como encontrar na floresta, quando se está perdido, a verdadeira casa? Eis o difícil. Encontrar casa na casa é para pessoas que se orientam bem, que têm bússola, que reconhecem o caminho já feito e o rosto das pessoas que se sabe que, em princípio, não são lobos que de noite gostem do seu pescocinho tenro. Coisa, pois, de amadores, de pessoas pouco habilitadas.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Encontrar casa no perigo, isso sim — como um carpinteiro que põe as diversas madeiras num equilíbrio de alguns segundos. Decerto vão cair, mas repara que, por enquanto, uns segundos assim, não cai estando no ponto em que devia cair. De qualquer maneira, isto: como na discussão das bandeiras de <b>Koen</b> — o difícil é no meio da floresta agressiva impor uma estaca mais ou menos maternal. Voltar a casa é fácil, basta não te enganares no caminho. Não voltar a casa é que é difícil: é necessário que não queiras reconhecer, outra vez, o caminho.'</div>
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gonçalo m. tavares, <i>matteo perdeu o emprego</i> (2010)</div>
chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-31399587866909463092012-08-22T23:16:00.000+01:002012-08-22T23:16:38.333+01:00blind spots #01<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbFZqekaH8TLk3XBqFQDLzI6gp9HvXAXYmcjMAM4KilriHEHI5fYrKyNYIISSWMCqqWrJuoqnloyIO8wt9IuwfYUYAXegQWNCxjKKay9gbHqc3e-0-FnIG-lCAd54qJQESLhDc-knN2mr4/s1600/wellsvernesm.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbFZqekaH8TLk3XBqFQDLzI6gp9HvXAXYmcjMAM4KilriHEHI5fYrKyNYIISSWMCqqWrJuoqnloyIO8wt9IuwfYUYAXegQWNCxjKKay9gbHqc3e-0-FnIG-lCAd54qJQESLhDc-knN2mr4/s640/wellsvernesm.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZVpWY8iJTjvi6rswp5-Wud0CKxyadO0QuoUyxnBcv3VSzEAcZAq7a4IcYkvi-_Rw_JwKWUO3szOSU_BNfDwkxmuKGP4iZuf3d8L-uWNi5wsLvs-rrJUPApa5gahQ2oszArjvRYx0KFuJ9/s1600/brontessm.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZVpWY8iJTjvi6rswp5-Wud0CKxyadO0QuoUyxnBcv3VSzEAcZAq7a4IcYkvi-_Rw_JwKWUO3szOSU_BNfDwkxmuKGP4iZuf3d8L-uWNi5wsLvs-rrJUPApa5gahQ2oszArjvRYx0KFuJ9/s640/brontessm.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://harkavagrant.com/" target="_blank">kate beaton</a>.</span></div>
<br />chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-86593645765986193992012-08-08T23:12:00.001+01:002012-08-08T23:14:26.161+01:00subterrâneo #02as mãos e o livro. acaricia as páginas como coxas de mulher, com a parte de trás da mão. para cima. para baixo. a paragem, sai. chega a casa e vê-se a corpo inteiro reflectido no espelho da entrada, despe-se. senta-se. à beira da janela, bebe de um trago os restos da bebida que repousavam no copo da noite anterior.chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-45257620556496588992012-08-01T20:58:00.003+01:002012-08-01T21:02:45.302+01:00da lama ao caos<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf2F7iKtnDD53v6OPtYlkuqNgmhNGROTKahXxpyJspRj2M2Uu3rj4X7DFDRmL9FTjjrGtE2-SuiDhartL7A9f_Ug_NgkPafPoU-XacRyQdAlgqYm-yKKhbzdgSqQcYJMPo69KWIlblC_OP/s1600/Edouard+Boubat,+la+petite+fille+aux+feuilles+mortes,+paris+1947.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf2F7iKtnDD53v6OPtYlkuqNgmhNGROTKahXxpyJspRj2M2Uu3rj4X7DFDRmL9FTjjrGtE2-SuiDhartL7A9f_Ug_NgkPafPoU-XacRyQdAlgqYm-yKKhbzdgSqQcYJMPo69KWIlblC_OP/s640/Edouard+Boubat,+la+petite+fille+aux+feuilles+mortes,+paris+1947.jpg" width="463" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">edouard boubat, <i>la petite fille aux feuilles mortes</i> (paris: 1947)</span></td></tr>
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'A lama, as pedras e uma mão aberta, enterrada. Não chove mais. Dois cachorros famintos procuram alguma coisa no meio dos destroços: é difícil distinguir o que seja cano, palhas de coqueiro, madeira, tijolos, raízes; tudo foi transformado em uma mesma tonalidade, mistura da cor de ossos, da cor de coisas enterradas, da cor daquilo que comprime, acumula. Acima dos destroços, um colchão amarelado se pendura nos fios elétricos. Casas em pedaços: de uma delas, restou apenas uma parede de azulejos brancos, que agora estão cobertos com lama, como tudo o mais depois que a água invadiu as ruas, endemoniada. Há muito alagamento. Aquele trecho à direita, que se observa, é um rio recém-nascido cheio de pedaços de tecido e de sapatos, misturado a centenas de livros; uma só massa morta, pastosa. O focinho de um dos cães empurra os dedos enlameados. No dedo indicador é possível enxergar a aliança, na qual se encosta agora o focinho do animal. Ele cheira, cheira. Até sua boca se abrir no momento em que os gritos de Teresa podem ser ouvidos, afastando-os do corpo de Petrúcio. Ajoelhada, ela limpa o rosto do marido com papel sujo, manchado, apagado, borrado, amassado, rasgado; papel-mortalha.</div>
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Ali, Teresa vomitou os pássaros.</div>
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Sobem ao céu como urubus.’ </div>
cristhiano aguiar, ‘teresa’ in <i>silêncio</i> (2013)chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-36221178834260876642012-07-12T19:45:00.001+01:002012-08-08T23:14:37.125+01:00subterrâneo #01o exterminador disse que são canibais, que se comem uns aos outros. basta uma dessas putas comer o veneno que quando morrer cai-lhe a pele e os outros comem-na e depois morrem e cai-lhes a pele e os outros comem-na e depois e depois e depois e por aí fora. perguntei-lhe por gregor samsa, não conheço. contei. mas um dia sonhei que acordava feito barata, de pernas para o ar, contou de volta.chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-51907567080351216852012-05-22T23:37:00.001+01:002012-05-22T23:38:57.894+01:00fogo lento<div style="text-align: justify;">
'Queres saber a guerra no Bié?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Matámo-nos a não sobrar. Sem quartel — não saímos de casa, nem para o enterro. Uma guerra civil é isso. Demência em redor da mesa de jantar. A nossa exorbitou-nos. Exterminámos na linhagem, do mais novo ao mais defunto, dos que ainda estavam por conceber aos que já não tinham missa por alma. Morremos no lar e no cemitério, na cama na campa no campo. No Cuíto também se mataram os mortos, a guerra chegou até eles, não os desperdiçou, mereceu-os, morreram duas vezes. Os vivos muitas mais. No Bié somos sobreviventes ou ressuscitantes e tu não vais conseguir dizer aquilo que eu sou. Ninguém tem essa coragem. Nem nós. Teríamos de vazar os olhos de modo que nada ficasse em órbita, para então enfrentar a verdade. Mas ficaria sempre uma imagem invertida no colo da colher. Maracujá come-se assim.'<br />
pedro rosa mendes, <i>baía dos tigres</i> (1999)<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivxvUlNTWOUkLlPZIn8521oD6QrPQfsKnt7ZUHllZhoSkkN0419l6aFJuO8JZus50hfNhblZAjUVMaU6FzvxQ0WTK_a2gvXYwiVLjv6amDhh7CA9OO-2qI00Ca0FGTu62bSaAHVIY6wKPf/s1600/Miguel+Rio+Branco,+Blue+Tango+with+(version+with+nine+images),+1984.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="479" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivxvUlNTWOUkLlPZIn8521oD6QrPQfsKnt7ZUHllZhoSkkN0419l6aFJuO8JZus50hfNhblZAjUVMaU6FzvxQ0WTK_a2gvXYwiVLjv6amDhh7CA9OO-2qI00Ca0FGTu62bSaAHVIY6wKPf/s640/Miguel+Rio+Branco,+Blue+Tango+with+(version+with+nine+images),+1984.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: justify;">miguel rio branco, <i>blue tango</i>, version with nine images (1984)</td></tr>
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</div>chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-65019774413778622882012-03-28T23:22:00.000+01:002012-03-28T23:22:27.774+01:00l'écume des jours<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbrXYFBmK0rVdgPlKEx75jpFrzSGrqXtrL1tB_5sO5h01s-7cRqdGBa5skx8Dtu2gHlDd9RYiuDJBaI6agshYLcPAYlVZ40xaj6rX3h_TjYHakXSGe2YeNLfY-43Pt5tP2AZzNkr9wE4_t/s1600/history.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbrXYFBmK0rVdgPlKEx75jpFrzSGrqXtrL1tB_5sO5h01s-7cRqdGBa5skx8Dtu2gHlDd9RYiuDJBaI6agshYLcPAYlVZ40xaj6rX3h_TjYHakXSGe2YeNLfY-43Pt5tP2AZzNkr9wE4_t/s1600/history.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #3b0000; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 14px;">alfredo da cunha, </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #3b0000; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 14px;"> </i><span style="background-color: white; color: #3b0000; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 14px;">from</span><i style="background-color: white; color: #3b0000; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 14px;"> o 25 de abril de 1974 - 77 fotografias e um retrato</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #3b0000; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 14px;"> (1998)</span></td></tr>
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'Lá vai o português,</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
diz o mundo, quando diz, apontando umas criaturas carregadas de História que formigam à margem da Europa.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Lá vai o português, lá anda. Dobrado ao peso da História, carregando-a de facto, e que remédio - índias, naufrágios, cruzes de padrão (as mais pesadas). Labuta a côdea do sol a sol e já nem sabe se sonha ou se recorda. Mal nasce deixa de ser criança: fica logo com oito séculos.</div>
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[...]</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Chega-se a perguntar: está vivo? E claro que está: vivo e humilhado de tanto se devorar por dentro. Observado de perto pode até notar-se que escoa um brilho de humor por sob a casca, um riso cruel, de si para si, que lhe serve de distância para resistir e que herdou dos mais heróicos, com Fernão Mendes à cabeça, seu avô de tempestades. Isto porque, lá de quando em quando, abre muito em segredo a casca empedernida e, então sim, vê-se-lhe uma cicatriz mordaz que é o tal humor. Depois fecha-se outra vez, no escuro, no olvidado.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Lá anda, é deixá-lo. Coberto de luto, suporta o sol africano que coze o pão na planície; mais a norte veste-se de palha e vai atrás da cabra pelas fragas nordestinas. Empurra bois para o mar, lavra sargaços; pesca dos restos, cultiva na rocha. Em Lisboa, é trepador de colinas e de calçadas; mouro à esquina, acocorado diante do prato. Em Paris e nos Quintos dos Infernos topa-a-tudo e minador. Mas esteja onde estiver, na hora mais íntima lembrará sempre um cismador deserto, voltado para o mar.</div>
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É um pouco assim o nosso irmão português. Somos assim, bem o sabemos.</div>
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Assim como?'</div>
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josé cardoso pires, 'lá vai o português' in <i>e agora, josé?</i> (1977)</div>chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-2228274155693354062012-03-25T23:00:00.000+01:002012-03-25T23:00:25.222+01:00sturm und drang<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz62Ybm0NI4VRaYDs0y9-tmhAB40BuPb05tdBHbnaN4H_UvjLMqMUDgjuXyjaIoTAqyuuv_oDk6izLVdrvv5ELSiFx5YGs5iE1xt9Zre2FQR6GRUHweFYnGUlax3PXt5iluVxZ9PT3B-tj/s1600/umberto+boccioni,+study+for+%22mourning%22+(1910).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz62Ybm0NI4VRaYDs0y9-tmhAB40BuPb05tdBHbnaN4H_UvjLMqMUDgjuXyjaIoTAqyuuv_oDk6izLVdrvv5ELSiFx5YGs5iE1xt9Zre2FQR6GRUHweFYnGUlax3PXt5iluVxZ9PT3B-tj/s1600/umberto+boccioni,+study+for+%22mourning%22+(1910).jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">umberto boccioni, study for <i>mourning</i> (1910)</td></tr>
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<br />
'When they were introduced, he made a witticism, hoping to be liked. She laughed extremely hard, hoping to be liked. Then each drove home alone, staring straight ahead, with the very same twist to their faces.<br />
The man who'd introduced them didn't much like either of them, though he acted as if he did, anxious as he was to preserve good relations at all times. One never knew, after all, now did one now did one now did one.'<br />
david foster wallace, 'a radically condensed history of postindustrial life' in <i>brief interviews with hideous men</i> (1999)chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-78302163052973134312012-02-20T00:52:00.000+00:002012-02-20T00:52:37.095+00:00noite dos mascarados<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXsGhp8SewB8_BW3DWcquniB7IJrrMTbHqNCD5vjK-TpH3mOJEdLYShtAa4BkYOWy7a0aNwUUX18YQjvc03hkytbvOuaJLk2y05aRMxzq07kURBL8tGMzu_ZA8KPBS-zRQuilmIGgNGbOY/s1600/roge%CC%81rio+reis,+from+na+lona+(2001).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXsGhp8SewB8_BW3DWcquniB7IJrrMTbHqNCD5vjK-TpH3mOJEdLYShtAa4BkYOWy7a0aNwUUX18YQjvc03hkytbvOuaJLk2y05aRMxzq07kURBL8tGMzu_ZA8KPBS-zRQuilmIGgNGbOY/s1600/roge%CC%81rio+reis,+from+na+lona+(2001).jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">rogério reis, from <i>na lona </i>(2001)</td></tr>
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'Tudo é um Maracanã<br />
sem amanhã<br />
onde só vale o momento do gol<br />
e o gole do vinho<br />
sem fim da vitória<br />
em taças precárias que caem<br />
e se quebram<br />
Ou uma terça-feira gorda<br />
sem quarta de cinzas<br />
sangüínea<br />
com o samba nas veias<br />
cortadas<br />
pelos mesmos gritos e calos<br />
da primeira cena.'<br />
armando freitas filho, 'tudo é um maracanã' in <i>3x4 </i>(1985)chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-32002196676332455232012-02-04T13:27:00.002+00:002012-02-04T13:27:19.941+00:00à sombra de pedro páramo<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLXYC10h_V1PlpdWn8Hme7lvQkkyU9RcZU6C-0O7GEsUJUEhdgugrpcl7QgQSXWndQ107HaHxJEwMdsAnpmqb9aVUChVbTxAAdO46yyZVdXIyD40lW5NXDKcCelQVbMMqpRlDsxV9H0E3f/s1600/56.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLXYC10h_V1PlpdWn8Hme7lvQkkyU9RcZU6C-0O7GEsUJUEhdgugrpcl7QgQSXWndQ107HaHxJEwMdsAnpmqb9aVUChVbTxAAdO46yyZVdXIyD40lW5NXDKcCelQVbMMqpRlDsxV9H0E3f/s640/56.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">francisco mata rosas, from the series <i>méxico tenochtitlán </i>(2006)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
'This really is mysterious: the minuscule bullets from the tiny little pistol do make corpses. Maybe not human corpses, and not corpses of big animals either, but corpses of small animals at least. I didn't mean to kill the lovebird, I wanted to see what the birds would do when they heard the sound of the bullets. What happened was after the first shot all the parakeets and lovebirds started flying around as if they'd gone mad. They crashed into the walls of the cage and attacked each other as if one of them was doing the shooting. Coloured feathers started flying around everywhere. There were red ones, blue ones, green ones, yellow ones, white ones, black ones and grey ones. Then I shot twice more, aiming at the feathers. The problem was that inside the cage there was a lot of confusion. It was when the parakeets and lovebirds calmed down and went back into their houses and to their branches that I discovered the lovebird's corpse on the ground. It was a sky-blue lovebird, although it wasn't really a lovebird any more, because it was dead and the dead are not lovebirds. The minuscule bullet had made the blood come out of one of its wings.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Before anyone came I hid the tiny little pistol in the weeds in the garden. I threw it as far as I could into a part where the undergrowth is so high Azcatl doesn't even bother cutting it back any more. Itzcuauhtli came over to the cage and started looking at the mess of feathers and the lovebird's corpse. This was the most mysterious and enigmatic thing I've ever seen in my life. How did he hear the shots if he's a deaf mute? Itzcuauhtli went into the cage and picked up the lovebird's corpse from the floor. As he saw it was already dead he didn't even go and get the medicine to make it better. The good thing is that since he's a deaf mute and I'm a mute we stood there in silence and he didn't ask me for an explanation. But that's when Cinteotl and Itzpapalotl arrived and when they saw the corpse they started saying Oh my goodness, poor little thing, how could someone kill a lovebird that never hurt anyone and all it does is give kisses to other lovebirds. They also said that because of me one of the lovebirds had been left a widow and they'd have to find it another mate so it didn't die of sadness. And they went to Yolcaut and told on me.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Yolcaut didn't care about the lovebird's life, because he didn't make a fuss like Cinteotl and Itzpapalotl did. Lovebirds are faggots.'</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
juan pablo villalobos, <i>down the rabbit hole</i> (2010)</div>chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-61166168048229769292012-01-26T19:39:00.001+00:002012-01-30T16:18:50.998+00:00paredes brancas<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvpZr5gl51k9Q5dBoQJO7E0UuUvSmzgXE7AhToR-F_GCB0DDTnhmIR54ZnghkHJ40MgfqmjFqRIm60CSpSdCDLWTDArh94iiL_PtgcGZlFBv18aO2miW6R_RsN1lMK9dpfv-eLRlQnwjIg/s1600/Derek+Ridgers,+van+without+wheels,+feltham,+1981.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvpZr5gl51k9Q5dBoQJO7E0UuUvSmzgXE7AhToR-F_GCB0DDTnhmIR54ZnghkHJ40MgfqmjFqRIm60CSpSdCDLWTDArh94iiL_PtgcGZlFBv18aO2miW6R_RsN1lMK9dpfv-eLRlQnwjIg/s1600/Derek+Ridgers,+van+without+wheels,+feltham,+1981.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: justify;">derek ridgers, 'van without wheels' (feltham: 1991)<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
'Não tardou a cair um silêncio absoluto sobre a casa. Os meus olhos fecharam-se outra vez e vi aquela vasta e deserta paisagem, aquela que tanto dói ao contemplar, demasiado deserta e demasiado vasta, senti-a de alguma forma simultaneamente dentro e fora de mim. Abri os olhos para que desaparecesse, mas estava tão cansado que voltaram a fechar-se. Suponho que se devia aos comprimidos. Não tenho medo, disse em voz alta, basta falar. Repeti-o várias vezes. Até não recordar mais nada.'</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
kjell askildsen, 'uma vasta e deserta paisagem' in <i>uma vasta e deserta paisagem</i> (1991)</div>
<br /></div>chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-36506879627277743702012-01-21T12:27:00.001+00:002012-03-25T22:54:23.383+01:00eu, memória<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEino4HIcTz97U-r9MnhkoaUq09l6dLmP5XIC_ZJ3E4Wv0OO6QnF8rkMnM5raZvkre6uIM0RPWfb59WC-EKWwPPF6TCmC7BWCmUgbdXblo7X4-ccvBwAEPYDONlI78SQp39gd_57VDkTtt61/s1600/alfredo+da+cunha%252C+o+25+de+abril+de+1974%252C+76+fotografias+e+um+retrato.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEino4HIcTz97U-r9MnhkoaUq09l6dLmP5XIC_ZJ3E4Wv0OO6QnF8rkMnM5raZvkre6uIM0RPWfb59WC-EKWwPPF6TCmC7BWCmUgbdXblo7X4-ccvBwAEPYDONlI78SQp39gd_57VDkTtt61/s1600/alfredo+da+cunha%252C+o+25+de+abril+de+1974%252C+76+fotografias+e+um+retrato.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">alfredo da cunha, <i> </i>from<i> o 25 de abril de 1974 - 77 fotografias e um retrato</i> (1998)</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
'no calor morria e nesse medo matava rasgando capim folhas lianas a tiros de raiva e metal escaldante metralha a abrir o caminho para hoje percorrido comigo desde o meu corpo espalmado na terra a beber o suor e o sangue e os olhos fechados invocavam imagens e logo se abriam para a dor real naquele longe de casa que eu era rastejando entre os silvos e explosões zumbidos aos ouvidos meus sentidos todos na fusão com o nada e desesperado disso que eu sabia ser tarde para a escolha que não fiz e matava e no meio desse calor morria e me abria o caminho da justiça sem voz já o silêncio pesava e prometia delírios de possesso que os tive e deles saí já homem sem o resgate que quis e sempre perseguindo este meu futuro que na verdade vem da mais aguda dor da morte da mais monstruosa memória que a antecede humedecida com uma lágrima ainda que caída dos olhos ou do que resta dos olhos no meio de uma cabeça rebentada a tiros os mesmos com que cheguei a esta tão nítida visão de um corpo o meu suspenso e trespassado a caminho da terra quente gretada mas assim mesmo prenhe a acolher-me numa envolvente fertilidade como a um feto regressando à madre não obstante meu dedo lesto no gatilho a disparar-me em cada uma das minhas balas encharcando-me com o sangue do mundo e o sofrimento e a violência de que sou berço me vinham ensinando a imaginar e então pensei só no acertar que é também uma angústia e um modo de sobreviver no mato ou algures quer a morte ou a vida sejam quer apenas em metáforas soldados de chumbo castelos aviões e pistolas de infância e também os inofensivos jogos de adulto explodindo e desintegrando-se no delírio que passou através dos ferros brancos da cama qual fera rebentando sua jaula ou desejado diabo redentor saltando em cima da minha barriga e então nasci de súbito confirmando o celerado que disse ser a morte o princípio de toda a vida e eu nela com a memória do meu princípio assim neste visitar-me e reconhecer o rosto e o gesto uma paragem brusca um espanto de aqui estar a convencer-me de razões para comigo que sei como se morre nesta guerra de todos os anos discreta guerra de poucos mortos por semana e bondosas senhoras que mandam tantos presentes para os valentes soldados e os mais valentes de todos e os que mais matam vêm de medalha ao peito matar saudades à terra onde estoiram foguetes e sai a banda e é portanto a morte o princípio de tudo este nada estes heróis estas bandeiras pesados como um remorso atrás das impenetráveis paredes de pedras grandes lajes dos túmulos dos reis e dos santos muros de castelos conventos catedrais lendas profecias fantasmas e o mar que é nosso e dele nós e as ilhas e as terras e os escravos e a pimenta e o ouro e o marfim pesados como uma herança que havemos de gastar até ao último cruzado que é o preço de tudo quanto perseguimos e está no vento e dentro de nós respira e pulsa nossa ânsia e combate nosso doce e nosso amargo que eu na morte chorei e gritei e clamei pelo nome de liberdade uma suspeita uma vontade que é nossa nossa ainda que emparedados neste passado de névoa de onde só nós poderemos sair vivos mesmo quando ou só quando chegados para demolir as velhas casas da família primeiro os painéis de azulejos o da entrada com o pajem empunhando o bastão e os outros nos vãos das janelas junto aos bancos de pedra com aves e cornucópias de um mundo azul e branco sobre as tábuas carunchosas o pó antigo deslizando para dentro de caves frescas garrafeiras vazias teias de aranha e baús e depois as paredes e os metros quadrados para o edifício de quatro andares e assim até à liquidação total da qual sobram mancas mobílias de estilo que não cabem em parte nenhuma o arcabuz os candelabros e a colecção da illustration com gravuras da guerra da crimeia e da guerra russo-japonesa folheadas na infância durante a qual aprendi mal a violência antes daquela minha morte daquele meu princípio e isso foi entre beijos cachecóis xaropes bonitas palavras e respeito e tudo isto magoa tão perto como um desmoronamento ainda no seu eco e estas paragens de capricho para sem lamentos assumir a terraplanagem que começamos nós que do napalm e da tortura só conhecemos o clarão longínquo e os gritos e a terra queimada e as feridas e assim dizemos o não que não fazemos.'</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
álvaro guerra, 'memória 1.' in <i>memória</i> (1971)</div>chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-35395594031808010872012-01-17T07:36:00.002+00:002012-01-17T10:53:32.344+00:00onde fica a culpa<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9lYvUfkRmXqK6z-aL7UWQNFdQ7E9WB63l0Xz3zsQmdI-tMyUoIjrs5Y5eAg2fXPPhEqQD02udcXYz4lGChvxqH97_hl4N7g5wEm0uvuvK2qWQYQO1zeG1Rf5C4_4PDj7pbQfmxiB-svC5/s1600/Malevich_Kasimir-Suprematism.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9lYvUfkRmXqK6z-aL7UWQNFdQ7E9WB63l0Xz3zsQmdI-tMyUoIjrs5Y5eAg2fXPPhEqQD02udcXYz4lGChvxqH97_hl4N7g5wEm0uvuvK2qWQYQO1zeG1Rf5C4_4PDj7pbQfmxiB-svC5/s640/Malevich_Kasimir-Suprematism.jpeg" width="528" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: justify;">kazimir malevitch, <i>supremus 56</i> (1915)<br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
'After the dead had been buried a little way apart from the collective farm, the sun set and it at once became desolate and alien in the world. A dense underground cloud was rising beneath the morning edge of the district; by midnight it would reach the fields here and pour down on them its entire weight of cold water. Looking that way, the members of the collective farm were starting to feel chilled; as for the hens, they had long been clucking in their coops, foreseeing the duration of time of an autumn night. Soon total darkness set in on earth, and this was intensified by the blackness of the soil that the wandering masses had trampled; the upper strata, however, were still bright — in the midst of height, damp, and an inaudible wind the departed sun had left a yellow glimmer, which was reflected in the last leaves of orchards that had bowed down in the silence. People did not wish to be inside their huts, where they were assailed by thoughts and moods, so they walked about the open places of the village and tried constantly to keep one another in sight. In addition, they listened intently: Might not some found from far away carry through the damp air and bring them comfort in this difficult space? The activist had long ago issued an oral directive about the observance of sanitary principles in the people's life; persons that were obliged to be found outside all the time and not suffocate in family huts. This made it easier for the sitting activist committee to observe the masses through the window and so lead them further and further.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The activist had also managed to notice this yellow dusk that was like the light of a burial, and he decided to appoint for the very next day, in the morning, a collective-farm star march through the neighbouring villages still clinging to private ownership, and to follow this star march with popular games.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The chairman of the village soviet, a little old middle peasant, went up to the activist, about to ask him for some instructions or other, since he was afraid of inactivity, but the activist dismissed him with his hand, saying merely that the village soviet should secure the near conquests of the activist committee and guard the now dominant poor peasants against kulak predators. The old chairman gratefully calmed down and went off to make himself a night-watchmen's wooden rattle.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Voshchev was afraid of nights; he lay in them without sleep and doubted; his fundamental sense of life strove towards something right and fitting in the world, and the secret hope of thought promised him distant salvation from the obscurity of general existence. He walked beside Chiklin towards their night quarters and felt anxious that Chiklin would immediately lie down and go to sleep, and that he alone would be looking with his eyes into the dark above the collective farm.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
'Don't sleep tonight, Chiklin. Somehow I feel afraid.'</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
'Don't be afraid. Tell me who's frightening you and I'll kill him.'</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
'What frightens me, comrade Chiklin, is the bewilderment in my heart. I don't even know what it is myself. I keep thinking that there's something special far in the distance, or some luxurious object that will never come true — and so I live sadly.'</div>
vladimir platonov, the foundation pit (1969)</div>chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-50544983656987698252012-01-08T22:14:00.000+00:002012-01-08T22:15:56.964+00:00inverno<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgND2_gjzFzHMMDZZoLWMAssbzJTfCa5BzEckowbU41OXdMcP7O-ihbvspq70ktlIt2dzNN5-3F_XSkO8qkJEXHfg_vHvbQNkWSDXHq9XIE4FJJwksF3LyPXoWdfOCZ1nlH4wn8O1uzJO4x/s1600/Rinko+Kawauchi%252C++Unittled+2007.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgND2_gjzFzHMMDZZoLWMAssbzJTfCa5BzEckowbU41OXdMcP7O-ihbvspq70ktlIt2dzNN5-3F_XSkO8qkJEXHfg_vHvbQNkWSDXHq9XIE4FJJwksF3LyPXoWdfOCZ1nlH4wn8O1uzJO4x/s1600/Rinko+Kawauchi%252C++Unittled+2007.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">rinko kawauchi, <i>untitled</i> (2007)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
'For Shimamura there was none of the pain that the sight of something truly sad can bring. Rather it was as if he were watching a tableau in a dream — and that was no doubt the working of his strange mirror.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
In the depths of the mirror the evening landscape moved by, the mirror and the reflected figures like motion pictures superimposed one on the other. The figures and the background were unrelated, and yet the figures, transparent and intangible, and the background, dim in the gathering darkness, melted together into a sort of symbolic world not of this world. Particularly when a light out in the mountains shone in the center of the girl's face, Shimamura felt his chest rise at the inexpressible beauty of it.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The mountain sky still carried traces of evening red. Individual shapes were clear far into the distance, but the monotonous mountain landscape, undistinguished for mile after mile, seemed all the more undistinguished for having lost its traces of color. There was nothing in it to catch the eye, and it seemed to flow along in a wide, unformed emotion. That was of course because the girl's face was floating over it. Cut off by the face, the evening landscape moved steadily by around its outlines. The face too seemed transparent — but was it really transparent? Shimamura had the illusion that the evening landscape was actually passing over the face, and the flow did not stop to let him be sure it was not.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The light inside the train was not particularly strong, and the reflection was not as clear as it would have been in a mirror. Since there was no glare, Shimamura came to forget that it was a mirror he was looking at. The girl's face seemed to be out in the flow of the evening mountains.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It was then that a light shone in the face. The reflection in the mirror was not strong enough to blot out the light outside, nor was the light strong enough to dim the reflection. The light moved across the face, though not to light it up. It was a distant, cold light. As it sent its small ray through the pupil of the girl's eye, as the eye and the light were superimposed one on the other, the eye became a weirdly beautiful bit of phosphorescence on the sea of evening mountains.'</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
yasunari kawabata, <i>snow country</i> (1956)</div>chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-28011070929044308112011-12-08T12:28:00.000+00:002011-12-08T12:33:26.822+00:00arrebatamentos<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYKt_QUeXLrNCBAjzIWKuBmkgLMm1heOmRCLCOaswBC6EZdwZX_IXi0grF5MMDS3hpswo7aC-ukAg-1FBbjUmKX_3Nn8kfhkx3cWtjDshHDH0tS2ofjMFgmMqiGgi4d20lBmsmxqs1eki/s1600-h/burning-ice.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431811493479852194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYKt_QUeXLrNCBAjzIWKuBmkgLMm1heOmRCLCOaswBC6EZdwZX_IXi0grF5MMDS3hpswo7aC-ukAg-1FBbjUmKX_3Nn8kfhkx3cWtjDshHDH0tS2ofjMFgmMqiGgi4d20lBmsmxqs1eki/s320/burning-ice.jpg" style="height: 296px; width: 233px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;">david buckland, </span><span style="font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; text-align: justify;">ice texts</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; text-align: justify;"> (2004-2005)</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span lang="PT">'e enquanto falas e me enredas e me envolves e me fascinas com tua voz monoc</span><span lang="PT">ó</span><span lang="PT">rdica e sempre baixa, de estranho acento estrangeiro, penso sempre que o mar n</span><span lang="PT">ã</span><span lang="PT">o </span><span lang="PT">é</span><span lang="PT"> esse denso escuro que me contas, sem palmeiras nem ilhas nem ba</span><span lang="PT">í</span><span lang="PT">as nem gaivotas, mas um outro mais claro e verde, num lugar qualquer onde </span><span lang="PT">é</span><span lang="PT"> sempre ver</span><span lang="PT">ã</span><span lang="PT">o e as emo</span><span lang="PT">çõ</span><span lang="PT">es limpas como as areias que pisamos, n</span><span lang="PT">ã</span><span lang="PT">o sabes desse meu mar porque nada te digo, e temo que seja outra vez aquela coisa piedosa, faminta, as pequenas-esperan</span><span lang="PT">ç</span><span lang="PT">as, mas quando desvio meu olho do teu, dentro de mim guardo sempre teu rosto e sei que seria imposs</span><span lang="PT">í</span><span lang="PT">vel recuar para n</span><span lang="PT">ã</span><span lang="PT">o ir at</span><span lang="PT">é</span><span lang="PT"> o fim e o fundo disso que nunca vivi antes e talvez tenha inventado apenas para me distrair nesses dias onde aparentemente nada acontece e tenha inventado quem sabe em ti um brinquedo semelhante ao meu para que n</span><span lang="PT">ã</span><span lang="PT">o passem t</span><span lang="PT">ã</span><span lang="PT">o desertas as manh</span><span lang="PT">ã</span><span lang="PT">s e as tardes buscando motivos para os sustos e as ins</span><span lang="PT">ô</span><span lang="PT">nias e as in</span><span lang="PT">ú</span><span lang="PT">teis esperas ardentes e loucas inven</span><span lang="PT">çõ</span><span lang="PT">es noturnas, e lentamente falas, e lentamente calo, e lentamente aceito, e lentamente quebro</span><span lang="PT">, [...] nesse mar aberto que n</span><span lang="PT">ó</span><span lang="PT">s sabemos que n</span><span lang="PT">ã</span><span lang="PT">o acaba nem come</span><span lang="PT">ç</span></span><span lang="PT" style="font-size: 100%;">a agora nem aqui................'</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span lang="PT">caio fernando abreu, 'a beira do mar aberto', in<i> os </i></span><i><span lang="PT">dragões não conhecem o paraíso</span></i></span><span lang="PT" style="font-size: 85%;"> (1988)</span></span></div>chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-5659336818766380852011-12-01T00:07:00.001+00:002011-12-08T12:26:22.405+00:00o navio dos loucos<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig-LLkzCsK9Gm-yW7o9YsgnGnf-OqgvFUO4thlq1QstYAtHEAw7FObHwtTBriCVKNx9287qe3ejqjaC1IzOTSkPi1BQESqyu3wQMqOLoSjG0CEuj8pMaD_2BFugDj9i-JDjHQoCI5vN5b4/s1600/georges+me%25CC%2581lie%25CC%2580s%252C+le+voyage+dans+la+lune+%25281902%252C+poster%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig-LLkzCsK9Gm-yW7o9YsgnGnf-OqgvFUO4thlq1QstYAtHEAw7FObHwtTBriCVKNx9287qe3ejqjaC1IzOTSkPi1BQESqyu3wQMqOLoSjG0CEuj8pMaD_2BFugDj9i-JDjHQoCI5vN5b4/s640/georges+me%25CC%2581lie%25CC%2580s%252C+le+voyage+dans+la+lune+%25281902%252C+poster%2529.jpeg" width="380" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">georges méliès, <i>la voyage dans la lune</i>, poster (1902)</td></tr>
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'You are too lazy to think,' was Mr Vladimir's comment upon that gesture. 'Pay attention to what I say. The fetish of today is neither royalty nor religion. Therefore the palace and the church should be left alone. You understand what I mean, Mr Verloc?'</div>
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The dismay and the scorn of Mr Verloc found vent in an attempt at levity.</div>
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'Perfectly. But what of the Embassies? A series of attacks on the various Embassies,' he began; but he could not withstand the cold, watchful stare of the First Secretary.</div>
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'You can be facetious, I see,' the latter observed, carelessly. 'That's all right. It may enliven your oratory at socialistic congresses. But this room is no place for it. It would be infinitely safer for you to follow carefully what I am saying. As you are being called upon to furnish facts instead of cock-and-bull stories, you had better try to make your profit off what I am taking the trouble to explain to you. The sacrosanct fetish of today is science. Why don't you get some of your friends to go for that wooden-faced panjandrum? - eh? Is it not part of these institutions which must be swept away before the F.P. comes along?'</div>
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Mr Verloc said nothing. He was afraid to open his lips lest a groan should escape him.</div>
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'This is what you should try for. An attempt upon a crowned head or on a president is sensational enough in a way, but no so much as it used to be. It has entered into the general conception of the existence of all chiefs of state. It's almost conventional - especially since so many presidents have been assassinated. Now let us take an outrage upon - say, a church. Horrible enough at first sight, no doubt, and yet not so effective as a person of ordinary mind might think. No matter how revolutionary and anarchist in inception, there would be fools enough to give such an outrage the character of a religious manifestation. And that would detract from the especial alarming significance we wish to give to the act. A murderous attempt on a restaurant or a theatre would suffer in the same way from the suggestion of non-political passion; the exasperation of a hungry man, an act of social revenge. All this is used up; it is no longer instructive as an object lesson in revolutionary anarchism. Every newspaper has ready made phrases to explain such manifestations away. I am about to give you the philosophy of bomb throwing from my point of view; from the point of view you have pretended to be serving for the last eleven years. I will try not to talk above your head. The sensibilities of the class you are attacking are soon blunted. Property seems to them an indestructible thing. You can't count on their emotions either of pity or fear for very long. A bomb outrage to have any influence on public opinion now must go beyond the intention of vengeance or terrorism. It must be purely destructive. It must be that, and only that, beyond the faintest suspicion of any other object. You anarchists should make it clear that you are perfectly determined to make a clean sweep of the whole social creation. But how to get that appallingly absurd notion into the heads of the middle classes so that there should be no mistake? That's the question. By directing your blows at something outside the ordinary passions of humanity is the answer. Of course, there is art. A bomb in the National Gallery would make some noise. But it would not be serious enough. Art has never been their fetish. It's like breaking a few back windows in a man's house; whereas, if you want to make him really sit up, you must try at least to raise the roof. There would be some screaming of course, but from whom? Artists - and art critics and such like - people of no account. Any imbecile that has got an income believes in that. He does not know why, but he believes it matters somehow. It is the sacrosanct fetish. All the damned professors are radicals at heart. Let them know that their great panjandrum has got to go, too, to make room for the Future of the Proletariat. A howl from all these intellectual idiots is bound to help forward the labours of the Milan Conference. They will be writing to the papers.Their indignation would be above suspicion, no material interests being openly at stake, and it will alarm every selfishness of the class which should be impressed. They believe that in some mysterious way science is at the source of their material prosperity. They do. And the absurd ferocity of such a demonstration will affect them more profoundly than the mangling of a whole street - or theatre - full of their own kind. To that last they can always say: 'Oh! It's mere class hate!' But what is one to say to an act of destructive ferocity so absurd as to be incomprehensible, inexplicable, almost unthinkable; in fact, mad? Madness alone is truly terrifying, inasmuch as you cannot placate it either by threats, persuasion, or bribes. Moreover, I am a civilized man. I would never dream of directing you to organize a mere butchery, even if I expected the best results from it. But I wouldn't expect from a butchery the result I want. Murder is always with us. It is almost an institution. The demonstration must be against learning - science. But not every science will do. The attack must have all the shocking senselessness of gratuitous blasphemy. Since bombs are your means of expression, it would be really telling if on could throw a bomb into pure mathematics. But that is impossible. I have been trying to educate you; I have expounded to you some serviceable arguments. The practical application of my teaching interests <i>you</i> mostly. But from the moment I have undertaken to interview you I have also given some attention to the practical aspect of the question. What do you think of having a go at astronomy?'</div>
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For sometime already Mr Verloc's immobility by the side of the armchair resembled a state of collapsed coma - a sort of passive insensibility interrupted by slight convulsive starts, such as may be observed in the domestic dog having a nightmare on the hearthrug. And it was in an uneasy, doglike growl that he repeated the word:</div>
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'Astronomy.'</div>
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joseph conrad, the secret agent (1907) </div>
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</div>chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-69160443814565870162011-11-20T15:43:00.000+00:002011-11-20T15:43:25.069+00:00a janela<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm7KrnZLtkZKWy4ZiIqfJtKY72dgVW65uzguJ9YzDigMJrsZR2aWXNv0Ggz-vvLX3qyAHrC0GMAqTvsgo42kRTHnepDUoMWDrdGDp67FtnnMIqHtX_cfsLsxqmbG-TJ9aBgfqeR4N12Uv_/s1600/synecdoche+new+york+4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm7KrnZLtkZKWy4ZiIqfJtKY72dgVW65uzguJ9YzDigMJrsZR2aWXNv0Ggz-vvLX3qyAHrC0GMAqTvsgo42kRTHnepDUoMWDrdGDp67FtnnMIqHtX_cfsLsxqmbG-TJ9aBgfqeR4N12Uv_/s640/synecdoche+new+york+4.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">charlie kaufman, <i style="text-align: justify;">synechdoche, new york </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-align: justify;">(2008)</span></td></tr>
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contando os minutos caindo por terra, um a um, o homem despede-se do tempo num gesto perfeito. de seguida, apagam-se as memórias. sem excepção, o actor perde o papel, segue a linha fugaz do horizonte, desaparecendo lentamente até esbater a côr. do sonho a morrer, sobra-nos o pó. no instante seguinte, o mundo esquece. perdido. somos a música na cara do vento, suspirando para longe um nome que já não sabemos ler.</div>chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-13004472853324114062011-11-16T21:43:00.001+00:002011-11-20T15:34:42.667+00:00ora pro nobis<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKePtnh2GdpwtaSlObDD1UWEBEN84sgsyiX8n3vThT7wLTa9b6OjNSV7OArHeqi629QDLd9w8UPfXBUd1JX0g-VzZqG66HUc7oLp6MErMx82ypL3i3zaLI_ocxM2afdvGB8V_1O2CU_wyb/s1600/alfred+horsley+hinton%252C+fleeting+and+far+%25281903%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKePtnh2GdpwtaSlObDD1UWEBEN84sgsyiX8n3vThT7wLTa9b6OjNSV7OArHeqi629QDLd9w8UPfXBUd1JX0g-VzZqG66HUc7oLp6MErMx82ypL3i3zaLI_ocxM2afdvGB8V_1O2CU_wyb/s1600/alfred+horsley+hinton%252C+fleeting+and+far+%25281903%2529.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">alfred horsley hinton, 'fleeting and far' (1903)</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">'Falaremos do fogo. Nós, os camponeses, em último lugar (biblicamente, claro, os últimos são os primeiros). Antes, porém, uma advertência inicial sobre o escalonamento dos malefícios: fogo durante a vida; fogo depois da morte (pouca duração); e fogo toda a eternidade. Sequência que será respeitada. Falem os cavalos.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Sofrer o ferro em brasa, as siglas tatuadas a lume. Forma de sadismo rural. O instinto de propriedade (a posse directa da terra) exacerba-o. Cheiro a carne queimada, ferimentos perto da gangrena, cicatrizes que o frio acorda de vez em quando: nunca mais se esqueçam. Mas há coisas piores. Esta aparência de serpentes. E o soro transformado em veneno, o relincho em silvo, o galope impossível (agora, rastejamos). Quem nos garante que a metamorfose volta à encarnação precedente (com o vento a palpitar entre as crinas)? Duvidamos muito.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Os bois, fazem favor.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">O mesmo ódio, o mesmo ferrete. Marcar as reses, dizem eles. Esquecer a manada solta através dos prados. Criar o animal doméstico, a paciência que se ouve nos provérbios. E a nossa memória (ruminada) de chifres contra chifres? Querem lá saber. O fogo continua: nas cozinhas, nas matanças festivas. Até que surge este desenho. Francamente. Não nos poupa as chamas (reacende-as) e os carneiros têm figura de gigantes. Qualquer dia, a canga (a paciência) acaba. Esperança, vai havendo.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">E agora, os carneiros.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Pobre pele. O estilete a lavrar paisagens nos almofadões. O oiro queimando (gota a gota) a lombada dos livros. Siglas depois da morte. Passarmos a vida a dizer: aqui está a lã, agasalhem-se bem. Para isto. A arte inútil, o fogo que prolonga o fogo do cordeiro imolado (quando os filhos pródigos regressam). Faltava a rã da fábula. E ficámos com o dobro dos bois. Mas, realmente, mal sabemos marrar.'</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">carlos de oliveira, <i>finisterra</i> (1978)</span></div>chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1818216980268333424.post-69921837922576492262011-11-07T23:51:00.003+00:002011-11-20T15:34:20.165+00:00miserere nobis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3aMfnWJb_ZZWQsMiQZm5j1ewrLcyBd3rgOwS0MCrturV57brR2ZxhCxi9YGMkMY9amRmFf4znHBxk_GJKaYvlLylIHxWuIe7UHqKyGSPdJQAHcwNgMDL9obWKQhFW7IDp-x0rWA6dUCnT/s1600/ti.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3aMfnWJb_ZZWQsMiQZm5j1ewrLcyBd3rgOwS0MCrturV57brR2ZxhCxi9YGMkMY9amRmFf4znHBxk_GJKaYvlLylIHxWuIe7UHqKyGSPdJQAHcwNgMDL9obWKQhFW7IDp-x0rWA6dUCnT/s640/ti.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">dario mitidieri, <i>tiananmen square</i> <i>series</i> (beijing: 1989)</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">‘O fragmento de uma notícia torna-se hipótese para um verso. Johana está quieta e o jornal nas suas mãos inquieto. Quem foi morto hoje?</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">De manhã os tanques parecem objectos particulares, coisas grandes feitas para a higiene das ruas. Limpam as praças, limpam o lixo das praças. Limpam a linguagem das praças e dos cafés, e limpam a linguagem porque quando os tanques passam os homens falam baixo, já reparaste nisso? É Johana que o diz a Klaus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">Nunca viste um tanque a trabalhar. Este país ainda é perfeito, esta rua ainda é perfeita: nunca uma bomba rebentou próximo de ti.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">É bom ter assim os inimigos tão perto, a passar com os tanques nas nossas ruas: assim temos a certeza de não ser bombardeados.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit;">Os tanques passam nas ruas. As ruas têm o nome dos nossos heróis. Eles não conhecem a língua: não sabem dizer o nome. Tropeçam nas sílabas. E os tanques não têm tempo para aprender línguas.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">gonçalo m. tavares, <i>um homem: klaus klump</i> (2003)</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>chiconotbuarquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08683553951424094273noreply@blogger.com0