Prosa Caótica
5.5.24
1.5.24
30.4.24
27.4.24
14.4.24
10.4.24
14.3.24
18.2.24
4.2.24
19.1.24
14.1.24
11.1.24
Patamares
tão chique sofrer ao som de alcione né, impressionante, chega a elevar o patamar da tistreza pic.twitter.com/cAdBg4lwH4
— ácida bárbara (@maricotinha_mb) June 3, 2023
2.1.24
19.12.23
6.11.23
27.10.23
22.10.23
4.10.23
2.10.23
18.8.23
11.7.23
3.6.23
2.6.23
Bergman & Thulin
This is the climax of acting. Ingrid Thulin is a goddess.
— Niva (@frokenniva) March 3, 2021
Cries & Whispers (1972)
Dir. Ingmar Bergman pic.twitter.com/LlVLyuWjas
23.5.23
20.5.23
18.5.23
29.4.23
Edwin Muir
The Horses
Barely a twelvemonth after / The seven days´ war that put the world to sleep, / Late in the evening the strange horses came. / By then we had made our covenant with silence, / But in the first few days it was so still / We listened to our breathing and were afraid. / On the second day / The radios failed; we turned the knobs; no answer. / On the third day a warship passed us, heading north, / Dead bodies piled on the deck. / On the sixth day / A plane plunged over us into the sea. Thereafter / Nothing. The radios dumb; / And still they stand in corners of our kitchens, / And stand, perhaps, turned on, in a millon rooms / All over the world. But now if they should speak, / If on a sudden they should speak again, / If on the stroke of noon a voice should speak, / We would not listen, we would not let it bring / That old bad world that swallowed its children quick / At one great gulp. We would not have it again. / Sometimes we think of the nations lying asleep, / Curled blindly in impenetrable sorrow, / And then the thought confounds us with its strangeness. /The tractors lie about our fields; at evening / They look like dank sea-monsters couched and waiting. / We leave them were they are and let them rust: / “They ´ll moulder away and be like other loam”. / We make our oxen drag our rusty ploughs, / Long laid aside. We have gone back / Far past our fathers’land. / And then, that evening / Late in the summer the strange horses came. / We heard a distant tapping on the road,/ A deepening drumming; it stopped, went on again / And at the corner changed to hollow thunder. / We saw the heads / Like a wild wave charging and were afraid. / We had sold our horses in our fathers’ time / To buy new tractors. Now they were strange to us / As fabulous steeds set on an ancient shield / Or illustrations in a book of knights. / We did not dare go near them. Yet they waited, / Stubborn and shy, as if they have been sent / By and old command to find our whereabouts / And that long-lost archaic companionship. / In the first moment we had never a thought / That they were creatures to be owned and used. / Among them were some half-a-dozen colts / Dropped in some wilderness of the broken world, / Yet new as if they had come from their own Eden. / Since then they have pulled our ploughs and borne our loads, / But that free servitude still can pierce our hearts. / Our life is changed; their coming our beginning.
23.4.23
21.4.23
20.4.23
13.3.23
26.2.23
14.2.23
Maysa
Cena de Maysa no Caso Especial "A Caneta de Ouro", exibido em 1971. pic.twitter.com/on9M1kLelN
— Acervo Maysa (@AcervoMaysa) February 13, 2023
3.2.23
Alejandra Pizarnik
Anoche bebí demasiado porqué comí con unos idiotas, unos arquitectos -- con sus mujercitas -- que hablaban de aviones y del servicio militar en todos los países del mundo. Eran muchachos de veinticuatro a treinta años. Odio a la gente joven -- seria y estudiosa -- con su porvenir abierto y sus miserables deseos de automóviles y departamentos. Los únicos jóvenes que acepto son los bizcos, los cojos, los poetas, los homosexuales, los viudos inconsolables, los frustrados, los obsesionados, sean condes o mendigos, comunistas o monárquicos, mujeres, hombres, andróginos o castrados.
Diarios