Be music, night, That her sleep may go Where angels have their pale tall choirs
Be a hand, sea, That her dreams may watch Thy guidesman touching the green flesh of the world
Be a voice, sky, That her beauties may be counted And the stars will tilt their quiet faces Into the mirror of her loveliness
Be a road, earth, That her walking may take thee Where the towns of heaven lift their breathing spires
O be a world and a throne, God, That her living may find its weather And the souls of ancient bells in a child's book Shall lead her into Thy wondrous house
"My mind is a raging torrent, flooded with rivulets of thought, cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives."(*) Oh, how true! I just seem to be utterly useless at putting them into words, though... is there a bigger frustration than that? As I'm not much good at expressing them any other way either but they ARE nevertheless there, tormenting me and begging to come out, I believe I might just suffer from some form of autism or some other kind of impairment which I am very aware of but just can't identify or shake off...
One of the reasons why I love reading and listening to good oratory and intelligent debates is the sensation of sheer joy and fulfilment I get every time I find someone articulately and brilliantly expressing an idea or point of view which exists in my head but won't come out. It's a very rewarding click.
"Affliction is a marvel of divine technique. It is a simple and ingenious device to introduce into the soul of a finite creature that immensity of force, blind, brutal, and cold. The infinite distance which separates God from the creature is concentrated into a point to transfix the centre of a soul.... In this marvellous dimension, without leaving the time and place to which the body is bound, the soul can traverse the whole of space and time and come into the actual presence of God." —Simone Weil
Mark Rothko, No.5 / No.22, 1949, Oil on canvas, 297 x 272 cm
"I realize that historically the function of painting large pictures is painting something very grandiose and pompous. The reason I paint them, however is precisely because I want to be very intimate and human. To paint a small picture is to place yourself outside your experience, to look upon an experience as a stereopticon view or with a reducing glass. However you paint the larger picture, you are in it. It isn’t something you command!"
"I am not an abstract painter. I am not interested in the relationship between form and color. The only thing I care about is the expression of man's basic emotions: tragedy, ecstasy, destiny."
"Since my pictures are large, colorful and unframed, and since museum walls are usually immense and formidable, there is the danger that the pictures relate themselves as decorative areas to the walls. This would be a distortion of their meaning, since the pictures are intimate and intense, and are the opposite of what is decorative."
"It never does to overestimate the intelligence of the art lover. They say Rothko killed himself because he met the people who bought his art" -- Adrian Searle in The Guardian
What a brilliant start to a story! And indeed Margaret Atwood's whole rendition of Penelope is superbly shrewd and witty. Penelope's assertion falls flat on its face after being dead for a while, by the way.
The idea of letting the gods and the dead inhabit the internet to keep up with the modern world I thought was fantastic. After all, that's one of the devious and obscure roles some of us modern mortals subconsciouly assign the web.
I still tend to think of the instant of death as the instant of absolute truth and revelation (even if it all doesn't make sense). Rationally it's absolutely rubbish, of course, but there's a lot more to life and death than reason and science. We all mold our own individual faiths on our own very particular fundamental needs, on our perception of the world, on what we think must exist but cannot be perceived.
I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth.
Clara's going to be singing this in next week's concert and she's been practicing intensely. The choreography is fantastic and she just looks so cute...
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun, and I say it's all right
Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here Here comes the sun, here comes the sun and I say it's all right
Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces Little darling, it seems like years since it's been here Here comes the sun, here comes the sun and I say it's all right
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes... Sun, sun, sun, here it comes... Sun, sun, sun, here it comes... Sun, sun, sun, here it comes... Sun, sun, sun, here it comes...
Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear Here comes the sun, here comes the sun, and I say it's all right It's all right
Não me apontem caminhos que me adocem os passos. Digam-me, apenas, que entenderão, se eu cair. Quero tropeçar e ver a pedra que ignorava, voltar atrás, removê-la ou contorná-la, registar a lição e prosseguir.
Não me dêem respostas que me anulem as perguntas. Digam-me, apenas, que as darão, se eu pedir. Quero enfrentar a dúvida, ver-me sem chão, sentir que a certeza é um estádio em mutação, que a dúvida alimenta e faz surgir.
Não quero viver, apenas, da vossa aprendizagem, mas, antes, que me acompanhem na viagem e me ajudem, se errar, mas sem perder o direito, mesmo errando, de VIVER.
I can finally make a proper cuppa coffee in style and with no mess. Great concept, great design, superb marketing! Only thing missing is George Clooney...
OK. The day started out with a flat tyre and having to call the AA to help out. One hour's wait. I then got a sermon on the state of my tyres, which apparently were completely worn out and very dangerous. ** Note to self: I guess I should really take better care of the little and mundane things in life instead of spending so much time trying to figure out The Big Picture... *** Went to service garage and got new front tyres and realignment job. Not how I had planned to spend the morning...
When I got home I noticed that two machine loads of almost-dry-washing had been drenched by an unexpected shower. Cursing my luck, I took down the washing in the garden and didn't hear the doorbell ring, therefore missing a postal delivery which I'll now have get from the post depot on the other side of town.
Sous le dôme épais, où le blanc jasmin À la rose s’assemble Sur la rive en fleurs, riant au matin Viens, descendons ensemble.
Doucement glissons de son flot charmant Suivons le courant fuyant Dans l’onde frémissante D’une main nonchalante Viens, gagnons le bord, Où la source dort Et l’oiseau, l’oiseau chante.
Sous le dôme épais Où le blanc jasmin, Ah! descendons Ensemble! Sous le dôme épais Où le blanc jasmin À la rose s’assemble Sur la rive en fleurs Riant au matin Viens, descendons ensemble.
Doucement glissons de son flot charmant, Suivons le courant fuyant Dans l’onde frémissante D’une main nonchalante Viens, gagnons le bord Où la source dort et L’oiseau, l’oiseau chante.
Sous le dôme épais Où le blanc jasmin, Ah! descendons Ensemble!
Ana sent in a poem she had written for one of her classes on Holocaust Day (contrary to the claims in that awful chain mail that has been going around the globe for months, the United Kingdom has not dropped the study of the Holocaust from its curriculum).
Till the last sleep, from the blind waking at birth, Bearing the weight of the years between the two, I shall find no better thing upon the earth Than the wilful, noble, faulty thing which is you.
You have not failed me; but if you too should fail me, Being human, bound on your inviolate quest, No matter now what the years do to assail me I shall go, in some sort, a victor, down to my rest.
In memory of Mauricio Levy, a good man and a very dear friend.
Adieu l'ami Mauricio Levy
Il est des hommes qui sans nul doute marquent leur époque et plus particulièrement les gens qu’ils ont rencontrés. C’est le cas de Mauricio Levy qui vient de disparaître, le 6 décembre dernier, dans des conditions tragiques, au Portugal. Plus qu’un correspondant de notre magazine et d’autres avant nous, plus qu’un fin connaisseur du monde ferroviaire portugais mais aussi international, il reste celui qui aura façonné, petit à petit, une conscience ferroviaire collective dans son pays. Amenant chacun à réfléchir au devenir de ce mode de transport dans des contrées où traditionnellement, le rail n’a pas toujours connu la bonne fortune rencontrée ailleurs en Europe. Son regard devenait gourmand à la seule évocation de tel ou tel train, brillait au seul nom des Wagons-Lits dont il collectionnait les objets et livres, sans tomber toutefois dans la nostalgie. Amateur éclairé de l’histoire et de l’actualité des réseaux ferrées internationaux, il avait gagné le respect des autorités portugaises qui l’avaient nommé au poste de Directeur de l’Institut National des Transports Ferroviaires, au début des années 2000. Travailleur infatigable, toujours à la recherche du consensus autour de quelques idées fortes, sans jamais perdre de vue la nécessité d’écouter les autres et d’étudier leurs propositions, leurs choix, il avait eu à intervenir sur la question du tracé des futures lignes à grande vitesse au Portugal. Un sujet délicat dont malheureusement il ne verra pas l’aboutissement mais dont il aura sans nul doute influencé les choix. Fatigué de devoir discuter avec la classe politique, de diriger une entreprise qu’il avait essayé de moderniser et de transformer, d’affronter les commissions et enquêtes en tout genre qui l’éloignaient toujours trop de l’opérationnel qu’il affectionnait, il avait quitté ses fonctions, sans regrets, en 2004 pour rejoindre sa maison mère, la Poste portugaise dont il était l’un des directeurs.
Issu d’une famille juive émigrée au Portugal après la Seconde Guerre mondiale, dont une grande partie fut exterminée par les Nazis, il aimait à raconter comment son amour des trains lui était venu de ses fréquents voyages, d’abord en famille puis seul, entre Lisbonne et Paris, sa ville d’adoption dont il connaissait les moindres rues, les moindres histoires.
Ses études au Lycée français de Lisbonne avaient renforcé en lui cet amour de la France qu’il entretenait, qu’il nourrissait avec une pointe de nostalgie, celle de ne pouvoir partager cette passion avec ses enfants, désormais plus acquis à la langue anglaise qu’à celle de Molière. Des enfants dont il avait retenu les prénoms pour signer ses dernières chroniques dans Le Rail par un Miguel S. Rita...
Lorsque dans les années 90, je lui proposai de rejoindre la toute nouvelle Association des Journalistes Ferroviaires Européens et de créer une section portugaise, il y adhéra, non sans avoir au préalable discuté les statuts jugés alors “napoléoniens” en vertu de cette méfiance ancrée dans l’histoire franco-portugaise qu’il me rappelait de temps à autre. Cette amitié survécut heureusement à cette Association et il resta entre nous un lien indéfectible, né certes d’une passion commune mais également d’une envie de dépasser les frontières de nos pays et de s’apparenter à une famille européenne plus conforme à nos idées.
Cet homme éclectique, capable de s’enflammer pour la chose politique française ou portugaise, ce passionné et passionnant ami nous manque déjà et laisse un vide difficile à combler. Ses nombreux amis ont été surpris par sa disparition inattendue, comme sa famille vers qui vont, bien entendu, toutes nos pensées et notre amitié.
Il vient de nous prouver une fois de plus qu’il faut savoir jouir du temps qui passe et des amitiés qui semblent devoir durer. Tout peut être remis en question, à tout moment.
Le vide créé par son départ en est la preuve. Il nous reste certes ses écrits, ses réflexions et ses propos qu’aujourd’hui ses amis aiment à se rappeler. Il n’empêche, nous aurions aimé prolonger encore quelques années ces échanges pour encore plus apprécier les qualités de cet homme, de cet ami exceptionnel.
Christian SCASSO
scasso.christian@lerail.com LE RAIL •N°142 • DÉCEMBRE 2007 Rédaction 3, avenue Hoche 75008 PARIS (FRANCE) Tél.: 33 (0)1 46 22 53 71 Fax: 33 (0)1 40 54 98 93
I'm an expat married mother of two with a myriad of ephemeral interests and occupations. I'm Portuguese by heart and blood, English by birth and Swiss by marriage. This blog is one of my many scrapbooks.
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