a mesa de luz
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
e dedos com ferrugem.
nunca ligamos a isto. cresci e aprendi as primeiras palavras a olhar para este rio e quem sabe o que me ia pela cabeça, a ver este fim de dia sem alarido. mas o pôr-do-sol no mar não é um privilégio de todos. por exemplo no imenso Brasil há só um (bom, talvez...) local onde isso é possível, a duna do pôr-do-sol em Jericoacoara.
Sunday, December 1, 2013
vendia-se água em vasilhas de metal. cada vasilha a sua água, vinda de lugares exóticos: estabelece-se uma escola de bebedores de água, diz Pialat, aliás Gerard de Nérval, em La Corne d'or, a água do Nilo é a mais estimada visto que é a única que o sultão bebe, a água do Eufrates, um pouco verde, recomendada aos mais débeis, a água do Danúbio, carregada de sal, é bebida por homens de temperamento enérgico. aprecia-se a água do Nilo de 1833 vendida em garrafas especiais a preços exorbitantes.
Publicado por Ana V. às 11:32 PM
prestes a entrar na test kitchen.
misturar 1 cháv. de manteiga (menos uma colher de sopa) com uma cháv e meia de açúcar amarelo. juntar 2 ovos, um de cada vez. juntar 1 cháv. de manteiga de amendoim e 1 colher de chá de extracto de baunilha. juntar depois os ingredientes secos peneirados (ok é uma mariquice): 2 cháv e um quarto de farinha sem fermento, 1 colher de sobremesa de baking power e meia colher de sobremesa de sal. misturar bem e refrigerar meia hora.
derreter a colher de manteiga e 340g de chocolate.
tirar a massa do frigorífico e dividir a massa em duas bolas. estender uma das bolas num rectângulo de 25 por 40 cm, que geografia deuses, espalhar o chocolate sem chegar às bordas do rectângulo. enrolar a massa e embrulhá-la no papel. fazer o mesmo à outra bola. refrigerar 3 horas ou de um dia para o outro. cortar as bolachas e levar ao forno, uns 180º uns 10 min., mas isso é no meu forno. não sei quantas bolachas dá, deve depender do tamanho. vou fazê-las pequenas.
planos no fim de mais um gentle sunday of work.
Saturday, November 30, 2013
para além das vítimas mortais a lamentar, sem grau de palavras, tem servido em Portugal para mostrar a total ignorância de quem faz "notícias" (como se isso fosse novidade), com mapas delirantes e fronteiras a roçar o fantasioso.
o melhor conto que li até agora na Granta 2, se alguém percebe cuba, parece que essa pessoa é Raquel. e escreve também.
(está bem exagero no perceber, mas escreve, e sem maneirismos de amador. a carreira jornalística deve ser decisiva nesse modo de escrita. por outro lado, e talvez por causa dessa carreira jornalística, um estilo de 'contar história' em que não chegam a surgir personagens que são figuras quase sem nome e sem substância. podia comparar este conto a outro, o genial "A Rose for Emily", mas que comparação, seria injusto, não?)
talvez no romance editado este mês haja mais espaço para as personagens.
Friday, November 29, 2013
a queda de bagdad e da pérsia às mãos de Ghengis Khan, não sei em que resultou porque poucos escaparam, mas preciso de ver melhor. a queda de constantinopla deu o renascimento italiano, a segunda guerra o nascimento do (short-lived) império americano. o que sucede quando as brilliant minds têm de fugir. (embora no caso dos mongóis julgo que fugir não foi uma opção). divagações úteis no enquadramento do êxodo de portugueses nos últimos dois anos ou para aqueles amigos que por alguma razão estranha são contra o financiamento das artes e da ciência.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
e um pouco aqui:
"Though Maurice Pialat began making short films and documentaries in 1951, at the age of 26, it wasn't until 1968 that he completed his first feature, L'enfance nue. The years before this were a long period of experimentation, using whatever materials he could get with limited means to create a series of rough amateur works that both presaged and overlapped with the nascent French New Wave. This period was capped off by the director's 1964 trip to Turkey, where, using spare reels of film stock taken from Alain Robbe-Grillet, he made a series of six fascinating, poetic documentaries about the country. These Turkish films, each of them around 10-15 minutes long, represent the finest accomplishment of Pialat's early work, with the director turning his keen cinematic eye and feel for observation on this foreign land, its culture, its architecture and its history.
All of Pialat's Turkish films are uniquely interested in the country — especially Istanbul — as it was, not just as it is at the precise moment that Pialat is filming it. History informs these films in a big way, with the voiceover narration (which incorporates excerpts from various authors) introducing tension between the images of the modern-day city and the descriptions of incidents from its long and rich history.
daqui, no only the cinema.
e aqui, na cinemateca francesa.
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
desconhecidos que se tornam entretanto conhecidos, a obra de Yeats para ler aqui.
The Gift of Harun Al-Rashid (1923)
KUSTA BEN LUKA is my name, I write
To Abd Al-Rabban; fellow-roysterer once,
Now the good Caliph’s learned Treasurer,
And for no ear but his.
Carry this letter
Through the great gallery of the Treasure House
Where banners of the Caliphs hang, night-coloured
But brilliant as the night’s embroidery,
And wait war’s music; pass the little gallery;
Pass books of learning from Byzantium
Written in gold upon a purple stain,
And pause at last, I was about to say,
At the great book of Sappho’s song; but no,
For should you leave my letter there, a boy’s
Love-lorn, indifferent hands might come upon it
And let it fall unnoticed to the floor.
Pause at the Treatise of Parmenides
And hide it there, for Caiphs to world’s end
Must keep that perfect, as they keep her song,
So great its fame.
When fitting time has passed
The parchment will disclose to some learned man
A mystery that else had found no chronicler
But the wild Bedouin. Though I approve
Those wanderers that welcomed in their tents
What great Harun Al-Rashid, occupied
With Persian embassy or Grecian war,
Must needs neglect, I cannot hide the truth
That wandering in a desert, featureless
As air under a wing, can give birds’ wit.
In after time they will speak much of me
And speak but fantasy. Recall the year
When our beloved Caliph put to death
His Vizir Jaffer for an unknown reason:
“If but the shirt upon my body knew it
I’d tear it off and throw it in the fire.”
That speech was all that the town knew, but he
Seemed for a while to have grown young again;
Seemed so on purpose, muttered Jaffer’s friends,
That none might know that he was conscience-struck —
But that’s a traitor’s thought. Enough for me
That in the early summer of the year
The mightiest of the princes of the world
Came to the least considered of his courtiers;
Sat down upon the fountain’s marble edge,
One hand amid the goldfish in the pool;
And thereupon a colloquy took place
That I commend to all the chroniclers
To show how violent great hearts can lose
Their bitterness and find the honeycomb.
“I have brought a slender bride into the house;
You know the saying, ‘Change the bride with spring.’
And she and I, being sunk in happiness,
Cannot endure to think you tread these paths,
When evening stirs the jasmine bough, and yet
“I am falling into years.”
“But such as you and I do not seem old
Like men who live by habit. Every day
I ride with falcon to the river’s edge
Or carry the ringed mail upon my back,
Or court a woman; neither enemy,
Game-bird, nor woman does the same thing twice;
And so a hunter carries in the eye
A mimic of youth. Can poet’s thought
That springs from body and in body falls
Like this pure jet, now lost amid blue sky,
Now bathing lily leaf and fish’s scale,
“What matter if our souls
Are nearer to the surface of the body
Than souls that start no game and turn no rhyme!
The soul’s own youth and not the body’s youth
Shows through our lineaments. My candle’s bright,
My lantern is too loyal not to show
That it was made in your great father’s reign,
And yet the jasmine season warms our blood.”
“Great prince, forgive the freedom of my speech:
You think that love has seasons, and you think
That if the spring bear off what the spring gave
The heart need suffer no defeat; but I
Who have accepted the Byzantine faith,
That seems unnatural to Arabian minds,
Think when I choose a bride I choose for ever;
And if her eye should not grow bright for mine
Or brighten only for some younger eye,
My heart could never turn from daily ruin,
Nor find a remedy.”
“But what if I
Have lit upon a woman who so shares
Your thirst for those old crabbed mysteries,
So strains to look beyond Our life, an eye
That never knew that strain would scarce seem bright,
And yet herself can seem youth’s very fountain,
Being all brimmed with life?”
“Were it but true
I would have found the best that life can give,
Companionship in those mysterious things
That make a man’s soul or a woman’s soul
Itself and not some other soul.”
Must needs be in this life and in what follows
Unchanging and at peace, and it is right
Every philosopher should praise that love.
But I being none can praise its opposite.
It makes my passion stronger but to think
Like passion stirs the peacock and his mate,
The wild stag and the doe; that mouth to mouth
Is a man’s mockery of the changeless soul.”
And thereupon his bounty gave what now
Can shake more blossom from autumnal chill
Than all my bursting springtime knew. A girl
Perched in some window of her mother’s house
Had watched my daily passage to and fro;
Had heard impossible history of my past;
Imagined some impossible history
Lived at my side; thought time’s disfiguring touch
Gave but more reason for a woman’s care.
Yet was it love of me, or was it love
Of the stark mystery that has dazed my sight,
perplexed her fantasy and planned her care?
Or did the torchlight of that mystery
Pick out my features in such light and shade
Two contemplating passions chose one theme
Through sheer bewilderment? She had not paced
The garden paths, nor counted up the rooms,
Before she had spread a book upon her knees
And asked about the pictures or the text;
And often those first days I saw her stare
On old dry writing in a learned tongue,
On old dry faggots that could never please
The extravagance of spring; or move a hand
As if that writing or the figured page
Were some dear cheek.
Upon a moonless night
I sat where I could watch her sleeping form,
And wrote by candle-light; but her form moved.
And fearing that my light disturbed her sleep
I rose that I might screen it with a cloth.
I heard her voice, “Turn that I may expound
What’s bowed your shoulder and made pale your cheek
And saw her sitting upright on the bed;
Or was it she that spoke or some great Djinn?
I say that a Djinn spoke. A livelong hour
She seemed the learned man and I the child;
Truths without father came, truths that no book
Of all the uncounted books that I have read,
Nor thought out of her mind or mine begot,
Self-born, high-born, and solitary truths,
Those terrible implacable straight lines
Drawn through the wandering vegetative dream,
Even those truths that when my bones are dust
Must drive the Arabian host.
The voice grew still,
And she lay down upon her bed and slept,
But woke at the first gleam of day, rose up
And swept the house and sang about her work
In childish ignorance of all that passed.
A dozen nights of natural sleep, and then
When the full moon swam to its greatest height
She rose, and with her eyes shut fast in sleep
Walked through the house. Unnoticed and unfelt
I wrapped her in a hooded cloak, and she,
Half running, dropped at the first ridge of the desert
And there marked out those emblems on the sand
That day by day I study and marvel at,
With her white finger. I led her home asleep
And once again she rose and swept the house
In childish ignorance of all that passed.
Even to-day, after some seven years
When maybe thrice in every moon her mouth
Murmured the wisdom of the desert Djinns,
She keeps that ignorance, nor has she now
That first unnatural interest in my books.
It seems enough that I am there; and yet,
Old fellow-student, whose most patient ear
Heard all the anxiety of my passionate youth,
It seems I must buy knowledge with my peace.
What if she lose her ignorance and so
Dream that I love her only for the voice,
That every gift and every word of praise
Is but a payment for that midnight voice
That is to age what milk is to a child?
Were she to lose her love, because she had lost
Her confidence in mine, or even lose
Its first simplicity, love, voice and all,
All my fine feathers would be plucked away
And I left shivering. The voice has drawn
A quality of wisdom from her love’s
Particular quality. The signs and shapes;
All those abstractions that you fancied were
From the great Treatise of Parmenides;
All, all those gyres and cubes and midnight things
Are but a new expression of her body
Drunk with the bitter sweetness of her youth.
And now my utmost mystery is out.
A woman’s beauty is a storm-tossed banner;
Under it wisdom stands, and I alone —
Of all Arabia’s lovers I alone —
Nor dazzled by the embroidery, nor lost
In the confusion of its night-dark folds,
Can hear the armed man speak.
"The dervish order best known in the West, the Mevlevi Order, was founded after the death of the poet and mystic Rumi (Jalal al-Din Muhammad Rumi, d. 1273), known as Mevlana (our guide), by his followers, and their ritual cosmological dance (sema) could well lie behind Yeats’s Dance of the Four Royal Persons (AV A 9-10). In a journal entry of 4 June 1909, Yeats had recorded a story told to him by R. W. Felkin: "Felkin told me that he had seen a Dervish dance a horoscope. He went round and round on the sand and then circle to centre. He whirled round at the planets making round whorls in the sand by doing so. He then danced the connecting lines between the planets and fell in trance. This is what I saw in dream or vision years ago."
portas fechadas que entretanto se abriram.
para ler: A Vision, Yeats.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
(nerdy being my daughter's word for it, for me): listen to the diversity test, gender and literature in translation, a PEN initiative on youtube taking place in the bygone year of 2010. at some point one of the panelists says that first person narrative in on a steep decline and I wonder. but then another panelist had said that only 3% of all books published in the US are translations and there I rest my case. what really bothers me, and spooks me to no end, is the fact that of all the people we had to go and mimic their market, as if we had something to do with it. (actually it's about the American literary market and I really couldn't care less about that).