Friday, July 28, 2006
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Monday, July 24, 2006
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Friday, July 21, 2006
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Friday, July 14, 2006
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Poem by Elizabeth Bishop
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Wolfgang von Goethe -- German dramatist, novelist, poet, & scientist (1749 - 1832)
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Monday, July 10, 2006
Cool summer nights.
Fruit in the bowl.
And your head on my shoulder.
These the happiest moments in the day.
Next to the early morning hours,
of course. And the time
just before lunch.
And the afternoon, and
early evening hours.
But I do love
these summer nights.
Even more, I think,
than those other times.
The work finished for the day.
And no one who can reach us now.
poem by Raymond Carver
Schumann was a precocious child who began playing piano at the age of six and gave his first public performance when he was eleven. He attended Leipzig University to study law, but music was his real love. He studied piano under Friedrich Wieck from 1830 and eventually married Clara, Wieck's daughter, herself an accomplished pianist. Schumann had envisaged a career as a concert pianist, but permanently damaged the phalanges of his left hand because of a device he had invented to hold the third finger motionless during practice. Thereafter, he devoted himself to composition. His first piano works, the Abegg Variations, date from 1830. After his marriage in 1840, Schumann produced 130 lieder (or songs) during that year alone. He was to go on to produce more than 250 songs, four symphonies, numerous piano works and chamber music. His mental health began to fail him by 1844 and in 1854, in a state of mental depression, he threw himself into the Rhine. Thereafter, he was confined to an asylum until his death in 1856. Schumann was one of the greatest of the Romantics and an outstanding genius in the history of music. --- from eBooks-Library
Add their good performance at school to the fact that they are healthy, cheerful, popular, caring and gorgeous and you've got everything a mum needs to be on cloud nine.
Please indulge my pride, just this once, and knock on wood.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Since none of these works are (yet) available in English, I'm not writing about them in my Codices blog (which always links to Amazon for further reviews and the possibility to purchase). However, I must say that they are excellent products of brilliant and exceptional minds.
Saramago's tortuous but genial mind usually delivers works that are streaked with powerful philosophical and sociological considerations and sublime, surrealist moments of revelation.
A.Lobo Antunes IS a genius with an unmatched balance of intelligence and sensibility in contemporary Portuguese literature (I especially enjoy his chronicles, far less demanding than his novels... I'm a bit lazy sometimes...). The compilation of letters he wrote, daily, to his wife during the two years (1971-1973) when he was stationed in Angola during the colonial war (and which were written long before he had published a book) are a compelling tribute to love and courage and provide an exceptional close up of what the colonial war must have been like for those directly fighting in it. A. Lobo Antunes had just finished his medicine degree and got married when he went to Africa to serve as a doctor near the Angola-Zambia frontier. His wife was a couple of months pregnant when he left. A touching and extremely interesting book, put together by the couple's two daughters after their mother's death.
I haven't finished reading Vasco Graça Moura's novel yet (I'll post about it when I have, at the end of the week) but, as with most anything he writes, I'm thoroughly enjoying it.
I've started, but won't be able to finish before the holidays, Eduardo Prado Coelho's Ph.D. thesis, Os Universos da Crítica (1987). It's demanding and slow reading but it's been yielding its rewards. Found interesting blog entry about EPC here.
Friday, July 07, 2006
Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
When the last fires will wave to me
And the silence will set out
Like the beam of a lightless star
Then I will no longer
Find myself in life as in a strange garment
Surprised at the earth
And the love of one woman
And the shamelessness of men
As today writing after three days of rain
Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
And bowing not knowing to what
poem by W.S. Merwin
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Dad, weren't you here?
The arrival of Maria Callas in Lisbon in March 1958.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Monday, July 03, 2006
Sunday, July 02, 2006
you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
they dress well, eat
well, sleep well.
they are contented with
they have moments of
but all in all
they are undisturbed
and often feel
and when they die
it is an easy
death, usually in their
you may not believe
but such people do
but I am not one of
oh no, I am not one
I am not even near
but they are
and I am
poem by Charles Bukowski