raspberry and lemon cake

daqui, e estava bom. com alteração mínima: raspa de um limão na massa.

Magroll

aqui.

'peasant fare'

""Ours is peasant fare," sighed Kiruha.

"Peasant fare is welcome, too, when one is hungry."

They gave Yegorushka a spoon. He began eating, not sitting, but standing close to the cauldron and looking down into it as in a hole. The grain smelt of fish and fish-scales were mixed up with the millet. The crayfish could not be hooked out with a spoon, and the men simply picked them out of the cauldron with their hands; Vassya did so particularly freely, and wetted his sleeves as well as his hands in the mess. But yet the stew seemed to Yegorushka very nice, and reminded him of the crayfish soup which his mother used to make at home on fast-days. Panteley was sitting apart munching bread."

Chekhov, em A Estepe.

passado dourado

"While they were eating they all talked. From this conversation Yegorushka gathered that all his new acquaintances, in spite of the differences of their ages and their characters, had one point in common which made them all alike: they were all people with a splendid past and a very poor present. Of their past they all -- every one of them -- spoke with enthusiasm; their attitude to the present was almost one of contempt. The Russian loves recalling life, but he does not love living. Yegorushka did not yet know that, and before the stew had been all eaten he firmly believed that the men sitting round the cauldron were the injured victims of fate. Panteley told them that in the past, before there were railways, he used to go with trains of waggons to Moscow and to Nizhni, and used to earn so much that he did not know what to do with his money; and what merchants there used to be in those days! what fish! how cheap everything was! Now the roads were shorter, the merchants were stingier, the peasants were poorer, the bread was dearer, everything had shrunk and was on a smaller scale. Emelyan told them that in old days he had been in the choir in the Lugansky works, and that he had a remarkable voice and read music splendidly, while now he had become a peasant and lived on the charity of his brother, who sent him out with his horses and took half his earnings. Vassya had once worked in a match factory; Kiruha had been a coachman in a good family, and had been reckoned the smartest driver of a three-in-hand in the whole district. Dymov, the son of a well-to-do peasant, lived at ease, enjoyed himself and had known no trouble till he was twenty, when his stern harsh father, anxious to train him to work, and afraid he would be spoiled at home, had sent him to a carrier's to work as a hired labourer. Styopka was the only one who said nothing, but from his beardless face it was evident that his life had been a much better one in the past. ",

Chekhov, em A Estepe, para ler toda aqui.
a viagem de Chekhov fez-me em tudo lembrar As I Lay Dying, de Faulkner- um, o princípio, e outro o final. que relacionamento interessantíssimo.



"Shortly before Chekhov's death, Faulkner listed him among the writers whose books he reread every year."

(ou "Only Chekhov, in "The Steppe," has recorded a more vivid journey through barren prairie country.", num artigo que não consigo ler)

fim de festa

assim

: carabineiros grelhados, sopa de peixe trinta estrelas da mãe, douradas assadas, frango grelhado com 'passion fruit salsa', waffle baunilha mel pêssego, salmão e atum grelhados, amêijoas, uma festa do Sul para lembrar.

color

"Para lá do murinho distinguiam-se as cruzes e os jazigos, que, de longe, punham nódoas brancas e alegres por entre a folhagem das cerejeiras. Iegoruchka recordou-se que, quando estavam em flor, essas nódoas se confundiam com as flores de cerejeira num mar de brancura e que, quando as cerejas amadureciam, as cruzes e os jazigos ficavam salpicados de manchas vermelhas como sangue.", na Estepe de Chekhov.

--
That year, exhausted from overwork and ill health, Chekhov took a trip to Ukraine which reawakened him to the beauty of the steppe.[40] On his return, he began the novella-length short story The Steppe, "something rather odd and much too original," --na wiki.

(stipi) e nem acredito que não tinha Chekhov na cabeceira, sendo tão recorrentes as visitas.

s/n (ou idleness)

s/n

Scott

true sentence (2)

true sentence

"But sometimes when I was starting a new story and I could not get it going, I would sit in front of the fire and squeeze the peel of the little oranges into the edge of the flame and watch the sputter of blue that they made. I would stand and look over the roofs of Paris and think, ‘Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to write is one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.’ So finally I would write a true sentence and go on from there."

Hemingway na p. 22 da minha A Moveable Feast, a 'restored edition'.

"It was when we had come back from Canada and were living in the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs and Miss Stein and I were still good friends that Miss Stein made the remark about the lost generation. She had some ignition trouble with the old Model T Ford she then drove and the young man who worked in the garage and had served in the last year of the war had not been adept, or perhaps had not broken the priority of other vehicles, in repairing Miss Stein's Ford. Anyway he had not been sérieux and had been corrected severely by the patron of the garage after Miss Stein's protest. The patron had said to him, 'You are all a génération perdue.'

'That's what you are. That's what you all are,' Miss Stein said. 'All of you young people who served in the war. You are a lost generation.'

'Really?' I said.

'You are,' she insisted. 'You have no respect for anything. You drink yourselves to death...'"

na p. 61 e,

"But the hell with her lost-generation talk and all the dirty, easy labels.", na p. 62.

também aqui, na Life de 10 Abril 64.

'On writing in the first person'

"When you first start writing stories in the first person, if the stories are made so real that people believe them, the people reading them nearly always think the stories really happened to you. That is natural because while you were making them up you had to make them happen to the person who was telling them. If you do this successfully enough, you make the person who is reading them believe that the things happened to him too. If you can do this you are beginning to get what you are trying for, which is to make something that will become a part of the reader's experience and a part of his memory. There must be things that he did not notice when he read the story or the novel which, without his knowing it, enter into his memory and experience so that they are a part of his life. This is not easy to do."  (...)

E. Hemingway, 'On Writing in the First Person' em A Moveable Feast.
---

não acredito que seja possível discutir a lost generation sem ler este livro.

"Across the river and into the trees"

Publicado em 1950, Adriana substitui Tadzio sem o ultrapassar. Veneza, a morte que imaginou dez anos antes da sua própria. apesar das más críticas, ainda assim admirável, uma história de morte com Dante, com Mann, Othelo e com todos os regimentos perdidos nas Grandes Guerras. de certo modo, e talvez por isso o excesso, espreitar para dentro de um soldado, como eram os soldados, como sempre foram, e andando mais ainda, espreitar as razões do mundo ter crescido desta maneira.

Tennessee Williams, in The New York Times, wrote: "I could not go to Venice, now, without hearing the haunted cadences of Hemingway's new novel. It is the saddest novel in the world about the saddest city, and when I say I think it is the best and most honest work that Hemingway has done, you may think me crazy. It will probably be a popular book. The critics may treat it pretty roughly. But its hauntingly tired cadences are the direct speech of a man's heart who is speaking that directly for the first time, and that makes it, for me, the finest thing Hemingway has done."  --na wiki.

lido numa versão-oferta que acompanhou um qualquer jornal ou revista e onde se traduz character por caracter. ainda assim vive. e eu bem gostaria de ter todo o Hemingway em casa.

foto da foto, num artigo de Clara Ferreira Alves para a Única, neste verão.

todos os

anos lhes tiro o mesmo retrato. ao contrário de Hemingway, na cidade da água não fui ao Harry's nem bebi nenhuma das herdeiras das misturas de Cipriani. gostaria de dizer que fica para o próximo inverno. gostei de saber dos rapazes de Torcello. neste caso, 'os rapazes' diz muito. Hemingway, como muitos dos do seu pais, foi um fundador de religiões.

s/n

juice

a casa de Sabato

sei pouco dele para além deste livro Resistir, que me faz argumentar em silêncio. sim, e longa conversa, ou não e porque-- acima de tudo, uma conversa calorosa e aberta, do século que passou. fazem este ano cem anos que Sabato nasceu em Rojas. o mundo que acabou em Resistir. seremos todos tentados, em final de vida, em projectá-lo para o mundo, o fim de tudo e das ideias e do que era. não creio que seja assim. não tive de o fechar como a Magris, já que permaneceu caloroso até ao final. um senhor, sim.

contos

"Não podemos continuar a ler às crianças contos sobre galinhas e frangos quando temos essas aves submetidas aos maiores suplícios." Ernesto Sabato em Resistir.

e mais: a queixa da televisão, do barulho, da falta de pontos de encontro, o elogio da lentidão, das ideias. hoje tão surpreendente, o mundo renovado. porque vivemos tanto tempo na dualidade do bem e do mal. foi necessário que se eliminasse a divindade para conseguir ver todas as tonalidades de uma cor, todas as iluminações e todas as sombras.

trovejou cá e persegui dezenas de relâmpagos que se desenharam no céu, uma escrita em negativo. foi antes de ontem.

alte (3)

o cheiro da serra algarvia, do interior das alfarrobeiras, figueiras, amendoeiras, laranjeiras. das estevas e da erva seca no verão, o barulho das cigarras e outros insectos do calor. se chove são gotas e a terra ferve como ao lume. (ou o da minha serra, do caminho da Pena, diferente do ar da lagoa azul, mais árvores vulgares).

julgo que já foram feitos levantamentos e estudos sobre as casas do sotavento algarvio, não só as urbanas mas também as do campo que as imitam. urbanizações e 'aldeamentos' usam o cliché da casa branca, mais alentajana com a risca azul ou amarela ou ocre. nunca vi que se tenha pegado na fachada de janelas altas e porta central de uma cara plana escondendo o volume de telhados, pátios e longos corredores interiores.  cara que podia ser pintada em trompe l'oeil rude, nos vermelhos e laranjas - cor deste solo, ou escondida por azulejos escuros e pesados, verde musgo escuro, cores de garrafa de cerâmica pouco graciosa, pesada. vejo este carácter desaparecer, não lentamente mas de uma golfada.

afinal era tudo menos Alte, vilarejo que pretende representar o sonho de um algarve branco, e cuja atracção é uma construção kitsch acastelada e de pedras que ecoam as muralhas de Silves.

alte (2)

alte

e agora

praia.

não se diz isto todos os dias,

pelo menos aqui- o meu irmão está em Florianópolis.

entretanto a mudança, entre-arrumar de leituras, entendendo que este ciclo se fechou, abrindo um novo. uma carreira de livros que mudou de habitação, alguns com os quais pretendo fechar estes meses: a obra de Antônio Cunha, continuar Photography Reader, reler Vertigo. e abrindo os meses seguintes, que sinto seguirem com uma calma de gôndola na água verde, Baudelaire-Ilíada-Lessing. e a rosa de Pasolinini. a vida segue-os.

a porta de chegada dos aeroportos é uma fonte de esperança-

to do

burgers.

para ver

Per Grazia Ricevuta, Nino Manfredi. tinha uma ideia da televisão italiana, cheia de concursos reluzentes, dominada pelo poder central. é verdade. mas não só. para além de inundada do habitual trash americano, há bom cinema todos os dias. muita comédia. em Milão, vi o corpo morto do museu do cinema, um local abandonado, mas falhei miseravelmente o original. que seguiram a viagem: Mann e, finalmente encontrada, a Poesia in forma di rosa, Pasolini [numa hora espreguiçada na Mondadori, comercial, do Duomo]. se puder, se pudesse, gostaria de traduzir todo o livro. Un fiore labile di poesia, nulla di píú, mio amore, escrevia Pavese.

home

passaram anos e, no entanto, será preciso sonhar a viagem para a começar a entender.

s/n