control friction

mundos de outros mundos

2012-02-10T16:37:00.002Z

à sombra de pedro páramo

2012-02-04T13:27:00.002Z

francisco mata rosas, from the series méxico tenochtitlán (2006)

'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.

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.

Yolcaut didn't care about the lovebird's life, because he didn't make a fuss like Cinteotl and Itzpapalotl did. Lovebirds are faggots.'

juan pablo villalobos, down the rabbit hole (2010)

paredes brancas

2012-01-26T19:39:00.001Z

derek ridgers, 'van without wheels' (feltham: 1991)

'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.'

kjell askildsen, 'uma vasta e deserta paisagem' in uma vasta e deserta paisagem (1991)

eu, memória

2012-01-21T12:27:00.001Z

alfredo da cunha, from o 25 de abril de 1974 - 77 fotografias e um retrato (1998)

'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.'

álvaro guerra, 'memória 1.,' in memória (1971)

que a morte me desmembre em outro, e eu fique

2012-01-20T19:32:00.000Z

frank driggs, etta james (1960)

que a morte me desmembre em outro, e eu fique

2012-01-17T16:14:00.001Z

francis miller, untitled (washington, d.c.: 1963)

onde fica a culpa

2012-01-17T07:36:00.002Z

kazimir malevitch, supremus 56 (1915)

'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.

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.

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.

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.

'Don't sleep tonight, Chiklin. Somehow I feel afraid.'

'Don't be afraid. Tell me who's frightening you and I'll kill him.'

'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.'

vladimir platonov, the foundation pit (1969)

inverno

2012-01-08T22:14:00.000Z

rinko kawauchi, untitled (2007)

'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.

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.

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.

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.

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.'

yasunari kawabata, snow country (1956)

arrebatamentos

2011-12-08T12:28:00.000Z

david buckland, ice texts (2004-2005)

'e enquanto falas e me enredas e me envolves e me fascinas com tua voz monocórdica e sempre baixa, de estranho acento estrangeiro, penso sempre que o mar não é esse denso escuro que me contas, sem palmeiras nem ilhas nem baías nem gaivotas, mas um outro mais claro e verde, num lugar qualquer onde é sempre verão e as emoções limpas como as areias que pisamos, não sabes desse meu mar porque nada te digo, e temo que seja outra vez aquela coisa piedosa, faminta, as pequenas-esperanças, mas quando desvio meu olho do teu, dentro de mim guardo sempre teu rosto e sei que seria impossível recuar para não ir até 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 não passem tão desertas as manhãs e as tardes buscando motivos para os sustos e as insônias e as inúteis esperas ardentes e loucas invenções noturnas, e lentamente falas, e lentamente calo, e lentamente aceito, e lentamente quebro, [...] nesse mar aberto que nós sabemos que não acaba nem começa agora nem aqui................'

caio fernando abreu, 'a beira do mar aberto', in os dragões não conhecem o paraíso (1988)

o navio dos loucos

2011-12-01T00:07:00.001Z

georges méliès, la voyage dans la lune, poster (1902)

'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?'

The dismay and the scorn of Mr Verloc found vent in an attempt at levity.

'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.

'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?'

Mr Verloc said nothing. He was afraid to open his lips lest a groan should escape him.

'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 you 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?'

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:

'Astronomy.'

joseph conrad, the secret agent (1907)

a janela

2011-11-20T15:43:00.000Z

charlie kaufman, synechdoche, new york (2008)

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.

ora pro nobis

2011-11-16T21:43:00.001Z

alfred horsley hinton, 'fleeting and far' (1903)

'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.

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.

Os bois, fazem favor.

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.

E agora, os carneiros.

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.'

carlos de oliveira, finisterra (1978)

miserere nobis

2011-11-07T23:51:00.003Z

dario mitidieri, tiananmen square series (beijing: 1989)

‘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?

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.

Nunca viste um tanque a trabalhar. Este país ainda é perfeito, esta rua ainda é perfeita: nunca uma bomba rebentou próximo de ti.

É bom ter assim os inimigos tão perto, a passar com os tanques nas nossas ruas: assim temos a certeza de não ser bombardeados.

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.’

gonçalo m. tavares, um homem: klaus klump (2003)

cores de almodóvar

2011-10-18T15:37:00.002+01:00

gerhard richter, 256 farben (1974-1984)

‘Bartlebooth never talked verymuch about his travels, and for some years now he hasn’t spoken of them at all.Smautf, for his part, quite enjoys recounting them, but his memory lets himdown with increasing frequency. During all those peripatetic years he kept akind of notebook in which he noted his daily occupations (alongsideprodigiously lengthy calculations calculating he no longer knew what). Ha had arather curious hand, in which the strokes of his t’s appeared to be underlining the words in the preceding line andthe dots on his i’s appeared to bepunctuating the sentence above; and on the other hand the line below wasinterspersed with the tails and flourishes of the words above. The result of itis today far from always clear, particularly as Smautf was convinced thatrereading a single word which had then summarised the whole scene perfectlywould be enough to reawaken his integral memory of it, like those dreams thatreturn all of a sudden as soon as you recall a single element: and so he noteddown things in a far from explicit manner. For instance, the entry for 10August 1939 – Takaungu, Kenya – reads as follows:

Coachhorses that go on order, without a driver

Copperchange given wrapped in paper

Openrooms at the inn

Do youwant … me?

It’scalf’s-foot jelly

Way ofcarrying children

Dinnerat Mr Macklin’s

Smautf no longer knows what hemeant to remember by this. All he can recall – and he did not make a note of it– is that Mr Macklin was a botanist, aged over sixty, who had spent twentyyears cataloguing butterflies and heathers in the basement of the BritishMuseum before setting off into the field to make a systematic inventory ofKenyan flora. When Smautf arrived for dinner at the botanist’s – Bartleboothwas at a reception that evening at the provincial governor’s at Mombasa – hefound the man kneeling in his drawing room sorting, into little rectangulartins, basil plants (Ocymum basilicum)and several samples of epiphyllum, one of which, with ivory-coloured flowers,was manifestly not an Epiphyllumtruncatum but, he told him with trembling voice, might one day be named Epiphyllum paucifolium Macklin (he wouldrather have had Epiphyllum macklineum,but even then that was not done any more). Indeed, for more than twenty years,this old man had cherished a dream of leaving his name to one of these cactior, failing that, to a local variety of squirrel, sending ever more detaileddescriptions of it to his superiors, who persisted in replying that thisvariety was not sufficiently different from other African sciuridae (Xerus getelus, Xerus capensis, etc,) to merit a species name.

The most extraordinary part ofthis tale is that Smautf met another Mr Macklin twelve and a half years later,in the Solomon Islands, scarcely younger than the first, who was his uncle; hisforename was Corbett: he was a narrow-faced missionary of ashen complexion whofed himself exclusively on milk and cream cheese; his wife was a bright, neatlittle woman, answering to the name of Bunny, who looked after the villagegirls; she made them do gym practice on the beach, and every Saturday morningthey could be seen dressed in pleated slips, embroidered hairbands, and coralbracelets, swaying in time to the tinny sound of a Handel oratorio played on aclockwork phonograph, to the greater glee of some idle Tommies whom the goodlady never let out of her lethal glare.’

georges perec, life a user’s manual (1978)

my anxiety acts like aerobics, so i get the exercise

2011-09-18T12:53:00.000+01:00

woody allen, scoop (2006)

casta diva

2011-08-15T13:46:00.002+01:00

izis, 'sur le quais de la seine, petit pont' (paris: 1949)

'— Sabe o que mais eu aprendi? Eles disseram que se devia ter alegria de viver. Então eu tenho. Eu também ouvi uma música linda, eu até chorei.

— Era samba?

— Acho que era. E cantada por um homem chamado Caruso que se diz que já morreu. A voz era tão macia que até doía ouvir. A música chamava-se "Una Furtiva Lacrima". Não sei por que eles não disseram lágrima.

"Una Furtiva Lacrima" fora a única coisa belíssima na sua vida. Enxugando as próprias lágrimas tentou cantar o que ouvira. Mas a sua voz era crua e tão desafinada como ela mesma era. Quando ouviu começara a chorar. Era a primeira vez que chorava, não sabia que tinha tanta água nos olhos. Chorava, assoava o nariz sem saber mais por que chorava. Não chorava por causa da vida que levava: porque, não tendo conhecido outros modos de viver, aceitara que com ela era "assim". Mas também creio que chorava porque, através da música, adivinhava talvez que havia outros modos de sentir, havia existências mais delicadas e até com um certo luxo de alma. Muitas coisas sabia que não sabia entender. "Aristocracia" significaria por acaso uma graça concedida? Provavelmente. Se é assim, que assim seja. O mergulho na vastidão do mundo musical que não carecia de se entender. Seu coração disparara. E junto de Olímpico ficou de repente corajosa e arrojando-se no desconhecido de si mesma disse:

— Eu acho que até sei cantar essa música. Lá-lá-lá-lá-lá.

— Você até parece uma muda cantando. Voz de cana rachada.

— Deve ser porque é a primeira vez que canto na vida.

Ela achava que "lacrima" em vez de lágrima era erro do homem da rádio. Nunca lhe ocorrera a existência de outra língua e pensava que no Brasil se falava brasileiro. Além dos cargueiros do mar nos domingos, só tinha essa música. O substrato último da música era a sua vibração.'

clarice lispector, a hora da estrela (1977)

ou o nada do nada ou o tudo

2011-07-20T16:34:00.001+01:00

Ontem jantei com a tua filha. Hoje a história conta-se assim, hoje conto-ta eu, bebes? Senta-te,deixa a música tocar, hoje é a BrendaLee, o Bobby Darin, hoje é o Sammy Davis, já o viste, no Ocean’s Eleven?, o Sinatradeu cabo dele ficou-lhe com os papéis todos, lembras-te daquela parte, o gajodança em cima do balcão e parte os copos todos com os pés, sempre a cantar, lembro-mesempre, de ti a contá-la, em verdade, lembro-me sempre, de ti a segurar ocigarro feito espada desembainhada de dentro do bolso da camisa, o fumo aapontar para cima em linha recta, nãotens idade para gostar destas coisas, gosto mais de tas ouvir, ee o eleven.

A marta fala e tu nos olhosdela, quando era puto desenhei a marcaamarela pelo liceu inteiro, havias de ter visto, queres outra?, hoje são as aventuras do Blake e doMortimer, é o Alan Moore, hoje são os bonecos do Batman, hoje são osuniversos impossíveis desenhados para ti, porque a vida não chega para tudo, que a morte me desmembre em outro, e eufique. ficamos, pois, e tu sempre aqui connosco também. Ergam-se os copos,fumem-se os cigarros. À tua, artur.

edgar p. jacobs, la marque jaune (1953)

putaria, gente fina

2011-07-10T23:52:00.000+01:00


willy-ronis, place vendôme sous la pluie (paris: 1947)

'I. Books and whores can be taken to bed.

II. Books and whores cut joggles in time. They dominate night as they do day and day as they do night.

III. Neither books nor whores give any sign that the minutes are precious to them. Become more involved with them and you will note for the first time what a hurry they are in. What makes them count along is our burying ourselves in them.

IV. Books and whores have always had this unrequited love for each other.

V. Books and whores — they each have their own kind of men who live off and torment them. Books have critics.

VI. Books and whores on public premises — for students.

VII. Books and whores — one seldom sees their end, having once possessed them. They tend to disappear before they die.

VIII. Books and whores love to tell and tell such lies about how they became such. Truth is, they often do not notice themselves. For years one pursues everything "for love" before suddenly, very much the fuller figure, finding oneself walking streets that previously, "for study purposes," one have simply hovered above.

IX. Books and whores love to turn their backs when showing themselves off.

X. Books and whores make many young.

XI. Books and whores — "sanctimonious old cow — young slut." How many books were once non grata from which young people today are supposed to learn!

XII. Books and whores will squabble in front of people.

XIII. Books and whores — footnotes in the one are what banknotes in stocking-tops are to the other.'

walter benjamin, one-way street (1928)

benfica bop, lieu de mèmoire.

2011-07-05T20:21:00.000+01:00

nuno ferrari, josé águas (1961)

'Há mais de trinta anos que não assisto a um jogo de futebol. Não conheço os estádios novos, vejo, às vezes, um bocadinho na televisão. Mas entre os dez e os vinte anos não falhava um jogo do Benfica. E não falhei enquanto Águas jogou. Claro que não era apenas Águas: era Costa Pereira, Germano, Ângelo, Simões, Eusébio, Cavém, o grande Mário Esteves Coluna que Otto Glória considerava o melhor jogador português, outros mais artistas que jogadores, como José Augusto, por exemplo, a todos estou grato pela beleza e a alegria que me deram, porém nunca admirei tanto um atleta como admirei José Águas. Para quê, portanto, ir ao futebol se ele já não se encontra no estádio? Era a elegância, a inteligência, a integridade, o talento, e ao pensar em escrever o meu desejo era ser o Águas da literatura. Vi Pelé, Didi, Nilton Santos, Puskas, Di Stefano, Santamaria, tantos outros génios, no tempo em que o futebol não era ainda uma indústria nem os jogadores funcionários competentes, comandados por esse horror a que chamam técnicos: era pura criação, uma actividade eufórica, uma magia cinzelada, uma nascente de prazer, uma inspiração, um entusiasmo. Águas foi tudo isso e, muito novo, ganhou o respeito dos colegas, dos adversários, dos jornalistas da época, que os havia de grande qualidade, Carlos Pinhão, Carlos Miranda, Aurélio Márcio, Homero Serpa, tantos outros. Não jogava futebol: criava futebol, respirava futebol, inventava futebol, e teria sido um privilégio para mim conhecê-lo. Não para falar com ele, para o ouvir. A sua beleza física invulgar distinguia-o de todos os outros, a forma de se mover em campo era única, a autoridade sobre os companheiros natural e humilde. Os miúdos que iam comigo à bola chamavam-lhe senhor Águas, sem sonharem que era desse modo que Simões e Eusébio o tratavam, como tratavam Coluna. Senhor Águas, senhor Coluna. Reconhecíamo-lo, do alto do terceiro anel, no estádio de então, onde, de tão longe, os jogadores minúsculos, pelo modo de correr, se deslocar no campo, passar, rematar, reconhecíamo-lo pelos seus golpes de cabeça, inimitáveis, pelo sentido da ocupação do espaço, pela simplificada geometria do seu futebol. Não tinha a garra de Ângelo ou Cavém, a força de Coluna, o gigantesco talento de Eusébio, o poder do drible de Simões, a velocidade de José Augusto: era uma espécie de rei sereno e eficaz, um aristocrata perfeito. Até a andar os olhos ficavam presos nele, na harmonia dos gestos, no modo de ajeitar bola, e eu, criança de dez anos ou adolescente de quinze, pensava tenho de trabalhar mais esta página, ainda não chego aos calcanhares de José Águas. Escrever como ele jogava, com a mesma subtileza e a mesma eficácia. Escrever como a equipa do Benfica, umas vezes à Ângelo, outras à Germano, outras à Coluna, e finalizar à Águas. Nunca deve ter ouvido falar em mim nem podia adivinhar que um garoto qualquer o tomava não apenas como mestre de futebol mas como mestre de escrita. Só, mais tarde, certos saxofonistas de jazz, Bird, Coltrane, Webster, Coleman, Hodges, alguns mais, tiveram, sobre o meu trabalho, influência semelhante. Mas Águas foi o meu primeiro e indisputado professor: escreve como ele joga, meu estúpido, aprende a escrever como ele jogava. Como morava em Benfica via-o, às vezes, no autocarro do clube e ficava, pasmado de admiração, a fitá-lo. Isto lembra-me o meu irmão Nuno chegando a casa de dedo no ar

- Toquei no Eusébio, toquei no Eusébio

como provavelmente, eu o faria, porque na infância e na adolescência o futebol era, para além de uma aprendizagem do mundo, um prazer infinito. A cor dos equipamentos

(o meu amigo Artur Semedo:

- Não sou um homem às riscas, sou homem de uma cor só)

a entrada em campo, o hino, tudo isto me exaltava e fazia feliz. E as vitórias, comemoradas em Benfica com bebedeiras eufóricas. Uma das minhas glórias secretas, confesso-o agora, consiste em ter visto a fotografia do meu pai no balneário do hóquei em patins do Benfica, de ele ter estado no Campeonato da Europa de 1936, em Estugarda, com vinte ou vinte e um anos, e de brincarmos com uma caixa de lata cheia de medalhas, a que o meu pai não dava importância alguma e eu considerava inestimáveis. Há pouco, a minha mãe

- O que faço eu a isto?

exibindo-me uma espécie de troféu ou de placas num estojo, que alguns anos antes de morrer a Federação de Patinagem lhe entregou, juntamente com outras antigas glórias, e que me recordo de o meu pai, que não saía, ir receber com satisfação secreta. Mas, claro, eu era só filho do Lobo Antunes, não era filho do Águas, e ainda sei medir as distâncias. Portanto, o que vou eu fazer a um campo de futebol se ele já não joga? Seguir os funcionários competentes de um negócio? Assistir ao bailado dos técnicos? Ver a fantasia substituída pela sofreguidão, a ambição pela avidez, o amor ao clube pela violência idiota? Claro que continuo a querer que o Benfica ganhe. Claro que sou, como em tudo o resto, parcial, sectário, por vezes sem bom senso algum. Mas há séculos que não sofro com as derrotas e, sobretudo, não choro lágrimas sinceras com elas: estou-me nas tintas. Contudo voltaria a trotar, radiante, para assistir à entrada em campo de Costa Pereira, Mário João, Germano, Ângelo, Cavém, Cruz, José Augusto, Eusébio, Águas, Coluna e Simões, a agradecer-lhes o facto de me terem, durante anos e anos, colorido a existência. E talvez no fim do jogo, postado junto ao autocarro, quando os jogadores saíssem do balneário, o senhor Águas me apertasse a mão.'
antónio lobo antunes, 'o senhor águas' (2011)

é antes do ópio

2011-05-27T00:01:00.002+01:00

shirin neshat, way in way out - women of allah (1994)

'Now I could feel the warmth of her body, and I could smell the damp scent that rose from the heavy, black locks. My hand was not under my control, but yet I raised it and caressed a lock of her hair with it, the lock that was always stuck to her temple. Then I sank my fingers in. Her hair was cold and damp, cold, absolutely cold. It was as though she had died several days ago. And I was not mistaken, she was dead. I passed my hand in front of her chest and placed it on her breast and her heart. There was no sign of a heartbeat. Then I brought the mirror and held it in front of her nose. There was not even a trace of life in her.

Intending to make her warm with the heat of my own body, to give her my warmth and receive the coldness of death from her, hoping that in this way I could possibly blow my own soul into her body, I took off my clothes, climbed onto the bed and lay down beside her. We became stuck like the male and female mandrake. To be exact, her body was like the body of the female mandrake severed from its mate, and it had the same burning love of the mandrake. Her mouth, acrid and bitterish tasted like the bitter end of a cucumber. Her whole body had become cold, as cold as hailstones. I felt my blood freezing in my veins, and the cold penetrating to the depths of my heart. All my efforts being useless, I climbed off the bed and put my clothes back on. Not it was not a lie. She had come here to my room, to my bed and surrendered her body to me. She gave me her body, and she gave me her soul — both!

While she was still alive, while her eyes were brimful with life, only the memory of her eyes tortured me, but now, devoid of feeling and motionless and cold, with eyes already closed, she came and surrendered herself to me. With closed eyes!

This was the same creature that had poisoned my entire life; or maybe my life was originally susceptible to being poisoned, and I could not have had any life besides a poisoned life. Now, here in my room, she gave me her body and her shadow. Her brittle, transient soul, which had no relation to the world of earthly beings, slowly came out of her black, wrinkled dress — the body that tortured her — and went away to the world of wandering shadows. Perhaps it took my shadow with it as well. Her body, however, devoid of any feeling or motion, was lying there. Her soft, lax muscles, her veins, tendons and bones were waiting to rot. A delicious feast was prepared for the worms and rats who dwell under the ground. In this adversity-stricken, miserable room, itself a grave; amidst the darkness of the eternal night which was surrounding me, and which was sinking into the walls. I had to pass an endless, long, dark and cold night beside a corpse — beside her corpse. It occurred to me that from the beginning to the end of eternity, since the beginning of my creation, a dead body, a cold, feelingless, motionless corpse had shared my dark room with me.'

sadeq hedayat, the blind owl (1937)

que a morte me desmembre em outro, e eu fique

2011-05-01T13:29:00.000+01:00


leonard mccombe, 'ernesto sábato' (1964)

'Bastará decir que soy Juan Pablo Castel, el pintor que mató a María Iribarne; supongo que el proceso está en el recuerdo de todos y que no se necesitan mayores explicaciones sobre mi persona.

Aunque ni el diablo sabe qué es lo que ha de recordar la gente, ni por qué. En realidad, siempre he pensado que no hay memoria colectiva, lo que quizá sea una forma de defensa de la especie humana. La frase "todo tiempo pasado fue mejor" no indica que antes sucedieran menos cosas malas, sino que —felizmente— la gente las echa en el olvido. Desde luego, semejante frase no tiene validez universal; yo, por ejemplo, me caracterizo por recordar preferentemente los hechos malos y, así, casi podría decir que "todo tiempo pasado fue peor", si no fuera porque el presente me parece tan horrible como el pasado; recuerdo tantas calamidades, tantos rostros cínicos y crueles, tantas malas acciones, que la memoria es para mí como la temerosa luz que alumbra un sórdido museo de la vergüenza. ¡Cuántas veces he quedado aplastado durante horas, en un rincón oscuro del taller, después de leer una noticia en la sección policial!. Pero la verdad es que no siempre lo más vergonzoso de la raza humana aparece allí; hasta cierto punto, los criminales son gente más limpia, más inofensiva; esta afirmación no la hago porque yo mismo haya matado a un ser humano: es una honesta y profunda convicción. ¿Un individuo es pernicioso?. Pues se lo liquida y se acabó. Eso es lo que yo llamo una buena acción. Piensen cuánto peor es para la sociedad que ese individuo siga destilando su veneno y que en vez de eliminarlo se quiera contrarrestar su acción recurriendo a anónimos, maledicencia y otras bajezas semejantes. En lo que a mí se refiere, debo confesar que ahora lamento no haber aprovechado mejor el tiempo de mi libertad, liquidando a seis o siete tipos que conozco.'

ernesto sábato, el túnel (1948)

l'être et le néant

2011-04-17T21:36:00.002+01:00

paul klee, der selbstmörder auf der brücke (1913)

'Preordained was one of his expressions, the idea fits his suicide exactly, I thought, his suicide was preordained, I thought. All my tendencies are deadly ones he once said to me, everything in me has a deadly tendency to it, it's in my genes, as Wertheimer said, I thought. He always read books that were obsessed with suicide, with disease and death, I thought while standing in the inn, books that described human misery, the hopeless, meaningless, senseless world in which everything is always devastating and deadly. That's why he especially loved Dostoevsky and all his disciples, Russian literature in general, because it actually is a deadly literature, but also the depressing french philosophers. He most loved to read and study medical texts, and again and again his walks took him to hospitals and sanatoria, to nursing homes and morgues. He kept this habit to the very end. Although he feared hospitals and sanatoria and nursing homes and morgues, he always went into these hospitals and sanatoria and nursing homes and morgues. And if he didn't go to a hospital because he couldn't, he would read articles or books about sick people and diseases, and books or articles about the terminally ill if he didn't have the opportunity to go to a sanatorium for the terminally ill, or read articles and books about old people if he couldn't visit a nursing home, and articles and books about the dead if he hadn't had the opportunity to visit a morgue. Naturally we want to have a practical relationship with the things that fascinate us, he once said, that is above all a relationship with the sick and the terminally ill and the old and the dead, because a theoretical relationship isn't enough, but for long periods we depend on a theoretical relationship, just as we often depend on a theoretical relationship as far as music is concerned, so Wertheimer, I thought. He was fascinated with people themselves but with their unhappiness, and he found it wherever there were people, I thought, he was addicted to people because he was addicted to unhappiness. Man is unhappiness, he said over and over, I thought, only an idiot would claim otherwise. To be born is to be unhappy, he said, and as long as we live we reproduce this unhappiness, only death puts an end to it. That doesn't mean that we are only unhappy, our unhappiness is the precondition for the fact that we can also be happy, only through the detour of unhappiness can we be happy, he said, I thought.'

thomas bernhard, the loser (1983)

gestos do corpo do fogo

2011-04-12T15:21:00.001+01:00

miyako ishiuchi, no. 17, 1906 to the skin series (1993)

'quem foi que à tua pele conferiu esse papel
de mais que tua pele ser pele da minha pele'
david mourão-ferreira, 'pele', in do tempo ao coração (1962-1966)

the sounding sea

2011-04-06T22:08:00.000+01:00

'El Mar. Azul. Al principio no. Al principio es más bien amarillo. Cenizo, diría… Aunque tampoco es cenizo. Blanco, quizás. Blanco no quiere decir transparente. Blanco. Pero luego, casi también al principio, se vuelve gris. Gris, por un rato. Y después, oscuro. Lleno de surcos todavía más oscuros. Rajaduras dentro del agua. Quizás sean las olas. O no: sólo espejismos del agua, y del sol. Si fueran olas llegarían a la costa. Es decir, a la arena. Pero no hay olas. Solamente, el agua. Que golpea, casi torpe, la tierra. Pero, no la golpea. Si la golpeara se oiría algún ruido. Hay silencio. Solamente el agua, tocando la tierra. Sin golpearla. Llega, blanca, no transparente, la toca, torpemente, y se aleja. No es la tierra: es la arena. Cuando el agua sube, sin olas, la arena quizás suelte un ruido. Satisfecha. Desde aquí no oigo nada. El agua sube, pero no se ve bajar. La arena la absorbe. Por debajo vuelve al mar… Y, más allá, ya no es gris, sino pardusco. Muy oscuro. Casi negro. Hasta que al fin, efectivamente, es negro. Pero ya es muy alto. Se une con el cielo. Los dos, por separados, no se pueden distinguir. Así que entonces, mirando fijamente, nunca es azul.'

reinaldo arenas, otra vez el mar (1982)

hiroshi sugimoto, north atlantic ocean (1996)

enter the ghost, exit the ghost, re-enter the ghost.

2011-04-02T16:33:00.000+01:00

francesca woodman, house #3 (providence, rhode island: 1976)

'Denver stood on the bottom step and was suddenly hot and shy. It had been a long time since anybody (good-willed whitewoman, preacher, speaker or newspaperman) sat at their table, their sympathetic voices called liar by the revulsion in their eyes. For twelve years, long before Grandma Baby died, there had been no visitors of any sort and certainly no friends. No coloredpeople. Certainly no hazelnut man with too long hair and no notebook , no charcoal, no oranges, no questions. Someone her mother wanted to talk to and would even consider talking to while barefoot. Looking, in fact acting, like a girl instead of the quiet, queenly woman Denver had known all her life. The one who never looked away, who when a man got stomped to death by a mare right in front of Sawyer's restaurant did not look away; and when a sow began eating her own litter did not look away then either. And when the baby's spirit picked up Here Boy and slammed him into the wall hard enough to break two of his legs and dislocate his eye, so hard he went into convulsions and chewed up his tongue, still her mother had not looked away. She had taken a hammer, knocked the dog unconscious, wiped away the blood and saliva, pushed his eye back in his head and set his leg bones. He recovered, mute and off-balance, more because of his untrustworthy eye than his bent legs, and winter, summer, drizzle or dry, nothing could persuade him to enter the house again.'

toni morrison, beloved (1987)

à la recherche du temps perdu

2011-03-19T21:07:00.002Z

roman signer, laüten auf dem fluss (river widawka, poland: 1986)

'On. Say on. Be said on. Somehow on. Till nohow on. Said nohow on.

Say for be said. Missaid. From now say for be missaid.

Say a body. Where none. No mind. Where none. That at least. A place. Where none. For the body. To be in. Move in. Out of. Back into. No. No out. No back. Only in. Stay in. On in. Still.

All of old. Nothing else ever. Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

First the body. No. First the place. No. First both. Now either. Now the other. Sick of the either try the other. Sick of it back sick of the either. So on. Somehow on. Till sick of both. Throw up and go. Where neither. Till sick of there. Throw up and back. The body again. Where none. The place again. Where none. Try again. Fail again. Better again. Or better worse. Fail worse again. Still worse again. Till sick for good. Throw up for good. Go for good. Where neither for good. Good and all.

It stands. What? Yes. Say it stands. Had to up in the end and stand. Say bones. No bones but say bones. Say ground. No ground but say ground. So as to say pain. No mind and pain? Say yes that the bones may pain till no choice but stand. Somehow up and stand. Or better worse remains. Say remains of mind where none to permit of pain. Pain of bones till no chance but up and stand. Somehow up. Somehow stand. Remains of mind where none for the sake of pain. Here of bones. Other examples if needs must. Of pain. Relief from. Change of.

All of old. Nothing else ever. But never so failed. Worse failed. With care never worse failed.

Dim light source unknown. Know minimum. Know nothing no. Too much to hope. At most mere minimum. Meremost minimum.

No choice but stand. Somehow up and stand. Somehow stand. That or groan. The groan so long on its way. No. No groan. Simply pain. Simply up. A time when try how. Try see. Try say. How first it lay. The somehow knelt. Bit by bit. Then on from there. Bit by bit. Till up at last. Not now. Fail better worse now.'

samuel beckett, worstward ho (1983)

punctum

2011-03-18T01:07:00.003Z

yomiuri shimbun, 'sixty-six-year-old yoshikatsu hiratsuka cries in front of his collapsed house with his mother still missing, possibly buried in the rubble' (onagawa, japan: 2011)

'One can feel obliged to look at photographs that record great cruelties and crimes. One should feel obliged to think what it means to look at them, about the capacity actually to assimilate what they show. Not all reactions to these pictures are under the supervision of reason and conscience. Most depictions of tormented, mutilated bodies do arouse a prurient interest. [...] All images that display the violation of an attractive body are, to a certain degree, pornographic. But images of the repulsive can also allure. Everyone knows that what slows down highway traffic going past a horrendous car crash is not only curiosity. It is also, for many, the wish to see something gruesome. Calling such wishes "morbid" suggests a rare aberration, but the attraction to such sights is not rare, and is a perennial source of inner torment.'

susan sontag, regarding the pain of others (2003)

vos estis sal terrae

2011-03-11T15:31:00.002Z

sebastião salgado, 'southern sudanese boys in hiding' (sudan: 1993)

'I climbed the riverbank and a man grabbed my arm. Again it was Dut. He lifted me up and threw me to the grass next to him. We both lay with our stomachs upon the grass, looking back across the river.

— We can't move here, he said. — They'll see us and shoot. Right now they're shelling the area beyond the river, so we're safest here.

We lay on our stomachs for thirty minutes as people scrambled up the bank and rushed past. From the high riverbank, we could see everything, could see far too much.

— Close your eyes, Dut said.

I said I would, and I pushed my face into the dirt, but secretly I watched the slaughter below. Thousands of boys and men and women and babies were crossing the river, and soldiers were killing them randomly and sometimes with great care. There were a few SPLA troops fighting from our side of the river, but for the most part they had already escaped, leaving the Sudanese civilians alone and unprotected.

The Ethiopians, then, had their choice of targets, most of them unarmed. Amid the chaos were the Anyuak, now joining the Ethiopian army in their war against us. All of the pent-up animosity of the Anyuak was released that day, and they chased the Sudanese from their land with machetes and the few rifles they possessed. They hacked and shot those running to the river, and they shot those failing across the water. Shells exploded, sending plumes of white twenty feet into the air. Women dropped babies in the river. Boys who could not swim simply drowned. A woman fleeing would be moving one moment, there would be a hail of bullets or a mortar's plume, and then she would be still, floating downstream. Some of the dead were then eaten by crocodiles. The river ran in many colors that day, green and white, black and brown and red.'

dave eggers, what is the what (2006)

lisboa

2011-03-08T01:26:00.000Z

eduardo gageiro, bairro alto (lisboa: 1969)

'E o relógio deu horas que eu contei mas não eram quatro nem cinco era um algarismo que eu nunca vi escrito e que só agora é que eu reparei que existe realmente entre o quatro e o cinco. Mais ninguém tinha ouvido senão eu. Felizmente que o relógio era de repetição e eu pedi a atenção de todos e estavam todos atentos e só eu é que ouvi. De repente partiu-se a fita e lá adiante começaram a dar pateada. Depois comecei a sentir muito frio só no ombro direito, tinham-se esquecido de fechar a janela. Vinha muita gente a fugir pelo Chiado abaixo e o Chiado parecia naquela noite sem arcos voltaicos uma ponte levadiça sobre uma barbacã descomunal. Do outro lado a Alice tinha chegado tarde. O post-scriptum tinha na última página escrito em letra romana 33. Depois ia a andar, a andar pela margem fora e começou a ver uma bola muito sumida que ia crescendo, crescendo em tamanho mas que ficava sempre sumida: tornava a começar cá de baixo e já não crescia, subia toda deitada prà esquerda a diminuir a velocidade, a diminuir pra azul, pra azul até começar a ser devagarinho um boneco mal desenhado a dançar uma imitação dos fantoches. Depois a cabeça do fantoche começou a inchar molemente sem firmeza nenhuma e quando já era um balão muito grande que vinha cair ao pé de mim tocou num bico de alfinete que estava no tecto e entornou-se um balde de sangue que nunca acabava de se entornar mesmo no meio das merendas do bosque. De repente os andaimes começaram a desabar sobre mim. Os garotos apregoavam nas ruas A Capital... muito longe, sem chão, alargava-se apressadamente uma cova de luz com as árvores nas nuvens de pernas prò ar, e a cova furou tudo prò lado de lá e ia-se abrindo mais depressa, muito mais depressa do que eu lhe fugia.'

josé de almada negreiros, a engomadeira (1915)

marginalia

2011-02-25T19:56:00.001Z

david cronenberg, spider (2002)

'I am a sick man . . . I'm a spiteful man. I'm an unattractive man. I think there is something wrong with my liver. But I cannot make head or tail of my illness and I'm not absolutely certain which part of me is sick. I'm not receiving any treatment nor have I ever done, although I do respect medicine and doctors. Besides, I'm still extremely superstitious, if only in that I respect medicine. (I'm sufficiently well educated not to be superstitious, but I am.) No, it's out of spite that I don't want to be cured. You'll probably not see fit to understand this. But I do understand it. Of course, I won't be able to explain to you precisely whom I will harm in this instance by my spite; I know perfectly well that I cannot in any way "sully" the doctors by not consulting them. I know better than anyone that in doing this I shall harm no one but myself. Anyway, if I'm not receiving medical treatment it's out of spite. If my liver is hurting, then let it hurt all the more!'

fyodor dostoevsky, notes from the underground (1864)

nove meses e catorze dias.

2011-02-23T23:07:00.000Z

antony gormley, firmament (london: white cube mason's yard, 2008)

olho para o lado:

um vento pequeno adormece

entre nós,

via da nossa distância corporal.

uma mão pede um beijo

à tua.

os meus dedos, por quererem,

estão junto aos teus.

e, folhas caindo na noite,

encontramos um olhar.

ponte nossa...

primeira ponte

entre nós.

ondjaki, 'ii', in dentro de mim faz sul seguido de acto sanguíneo (2010)

punctum

2011-02-13T16:05:00.003Z

art spiegelman, breakdowns - a portrait of the artist as a young %@&* (1979)

'We talk about these things, stumbling from one puddle to the other, between the black of the sky and the mud of the road. We talk and we talk. I carry the two empty bowls, Alberto the happy weight of the full menaschka. Once again the music from the band, the ceremony of 'Mützen ab', hats smartly off in front of the SS; once more Arbeit Macht Frei, and the announcement of the Kapo: 'Kommando 98, zwei and sechzig Häftlinge, Stärke stimmt', sixty-two prisoners, number correct. But the collumn has not broken up, they have made a march as far as the roll-call square. Is there to be a roll-call? It is not a roll-call. We have seen the crude glare of the searchlight and the well-known profile of the gallows.

For more than an hour the squads continued to return, with the hard clatter of their wooden shoes on the frozen snow. When all the Kommandos had returned, the band suddenly stopped and a raucous German voice ordered silence. Another German voice rose up in the sudden quiet, and spoke for a long time angrily into the dark and hostile air. Finally the condemned man was brought out into the blaze of the searchlight.

All this pomp and ruthless ceremony are not new to us. I have already watched thirteen hangings since I entered the camp; but on the other occasions they were for ordinary crimes, thefts from the kitchen, sabotage, attempts to escape. Today it is different.

Last month one of the crematoriums at Birkenau had been blown up. None of us knows (and perhaps no one will ever know) exactly how the exploit was carried out: there was talk of the Sonderkommando, the Special Kommando attached to the gas chambers and the ovens, which is itself periodically exterminated, and which is kept scrupulously segregated from the rest of the camp. The fact remains that a few hundred men at Birkenau, helpless and exhausted slaves like ourselves, had found in themselves the strength to act, to mature the fruits of their hatred.

The man who is to die in front of us today in some way took part in the revolt. They said he had contacts with the rebels of Birkenau, that he carried arms into our camp, that he was plotting a simultaneous mutiny among us. He is to die today before our very eyes: and perhaps the Germans do not understand that this solitary death, this man's death which has been reserved for him, will bring him glory, not infamy.

At the end of the German's speech, which nobody understood, the raucous voice of before again rose up: 'Habt ihr verstanden?' Have you understood?

Who answered 'Jawohl'? Everybody and nobody: it was as if our cursed resignation took body by itself, as if it turned into a collective voice above our heads. But everybody heard the cry of the doomed man, it pierced through the old thick barriers of inertia and submissiveness, it struck the living core of man in each of us:

'Kamaraden, ich bin der Letz!' (Comrades, I am the last one!)

I wish I could say that from the midst of us, an abject flock, a voice rose, a murmur, a sign of assent. But nothing happened. We remained standing, bent and grey, our heads dropped, and we did not uncover our heads until the German ordered us to do so. The trapdoor opened, the body wriggled horribly; the band began playing again and we were once more lined up and filed past the quivering body of the dying man.

At the foot of the gallows, the SS watch us pass with indifferent eyes: their work is finished, and well finished. The Russians can come now: there are no longer any strong men among us, the last one is now hanging above our heads, and as for the others , a few halters had been enough. The Russians can come now: they will only find us, the slaves, the worn-out, worthy of the unarmed death which awaits us.

To destroy a man is difficult, almost as difficult as to create one: it has not been easy, nor quick, but you Germans have succeeded. Here we are, docile under your gaze; from our side you have nothing more to fear; no acts of violence, no words of defiance, not even a look of judgement.'

primo levi, if this is a man (1958)

margaret bourke-white, untitled (buchenwald: 1945)

que a morte me desmembre em outro, e eu fique

2011-01-27T01:08:00.002Z

ara guler, 'john updike in his study at his home' (ipswich, massachusetts: 1973)

'The white is light; the pillow glows against his eyes and sunlight projects the bubble flaws of the window panes onto the drawn shade. This woman is curled up under the blankets between him and the window. Her hair in sunlight sprays red, brown, gold, white, and black across her pillow. Smiling with relief, he gets up on an elbow and kisses her solid slack cheek, admires its tough texture of pores. He sees by faint rose streaks how imperfectly he scrubbed her face in the dark. He returns to the position in which he slept, but he has slept too much in recent hours. As if to seek the entrance to another dream he reaches for her naked body across the little distance and wanders up and down broad slopes, warm like freshly baked cake. Her back is toward him; he cannot see her eyes. Not until she sighs heavily and stretches and turns towards him does he know she is awake.'

john updike, rabbit, run (1960)

¡no pasarán!

2011-01-23T17:04:00.002Z

ken loach, land and freedom (1995)

'O navio atracou a um cais deserto, onde autoridades, com muitas botas altas, muitos uniformes, esperavam para subir a bordo, de braço erguido, vozeando orfeonicamente ‹‹Arriba España››. Só então, com esses vivas a rarear e os braços descaindo, o comandante mandou que, em cinco minutos, a roupa fosse recolhida. Postas as pontes, as autoridades subiram, houve apitos, continências, e depois abraços cordiais, olhares em volta e para o cordame do navio, e, quando se enfiavam todos para o ‹‹vinho de honra›› que estaria posto no salão dos oficiais, pudemos desembarcar. Até ao meio-dia o tempo era já pouco, e ao meio-dia devíamos estar concentrados na Praça da Catedral, para um almoço e um passeio, tendo, para tanto, ao portaló, recebido um cartão de convite, em que as bandeiras de Portugal e da Espanha franquista, atadas pelo pé com um lacinho, apareciam ao alto, ladeadas por uma grinalda protectora de fáscios e cruzes gamadas, e em baixo a legenda: ‹‹Por una España Mayor››.

[...]

A casa dela ardera. O avô era republicano, toda a gente o conhecia, todos sabiam que era republicano. O pai também era, mas pouca gente sabia. Tinham fuzilado o avô, à porta de casa, o pai e a mãe estavam presos, a irmã mais velha levaram-na para Espanha, levou-a um oficial com quem ela já vivia, o avô nem a queria ver. E, quando tinham assaltado a casa, ela estava em casa, não tinha ido trabalhar na fábrica, a fábrica estava fechada, em greve, era de conservas, o avô trabalhava lá, o pai também, o avô era um dos maiorais da greve, tinha uma barba branca, era muito bonito. E ela estava em casa, e eles tinham amarrado o pai e a mãe, que não diziam nada, e o avô, que gritava ‹‹viva a República››, e tinham-na atirado para cima da cama grande, e um tinha sido o primeiro, ela julgara que morria, e depois tinham ido os outros, mas não doíam tanto, e ela desmaiara, não se lembrava de mais nada. Quando acordara, não podia andar, a barriga ardia-lhe toda, o irmão estava ao pé dela, e ela veio à porta, e o avô estava morto na rua, com os olhos abertos e a boca aberta, e havia sangue no chão, à volta dele.'

jorge de sena, 'a grã-canária', in os grão capitães (1971)

no princípio, há o homem em queda livre.

2010-12-06T15:20:00.000Z

garry winogrand, untitled (1950s)

'Que faire dans l'abime a moins que l'on ne cause.'
victor hugo, les misérables (1862)