30 junho, 2008

29 junho, 2008

Espantos #121

Fajãs, São Jorge, Açores

26 junho, 2008

Palavras lidas # 49

Aos 10 anos todos nos dizem que somos espertos, mas que nos faltam ideias próprias.
Aos 20 anos dizem que somos muito espertos, mas que não venhamos com ideias.
Aos 30 anos pensamos que ninguém mais tem ideias.
Aos 40 achamos que as ideias dos outros são todas nossas.
Aos 50 pensamos com suficiente sabedoria para já não ter ideias.
Aos 60 ainda temos ideias mas esquecemos do que estávamos a pensar.
Aos 70 só pensar já nos faz dormir.
Aos 80 só pensamos quando dormimos.

25 junho, 2008

Espantos #120

Amanhecer sobrevoando o Atlântico.

23 junho, 2008

Ditto #78

Since we cannot know all that there is to be known about anything, we ought to know a little about everything.

-- Blaise Pascal

22 junho, 2008

Foi neste dia #98 (1940)

Foi há 68 anos que a França caiu nas mãos de Hitler, quando forçada a assinar um tratado de armisticio oito dias depois de os Nazis entrarem em Paris. Acontecimentos reais descritos em Suite Française.

21 junho, 2008

Caprichos #49

Ditto #77

Japanese Bridge and water lilies, Claude Monet

I would like to paint the way a bird sings.

-- Claude Monet

Personally, I would say I would like to live the way a bird sings... in painless harmony.

20 junho, 2008

Palavras lidas #48

Still at some distance, great guns were firing; they drew nearer, and every window shuttered in reply. In hot rooms with blacked-out windows, children were born, and their cries made the women forget the sound of sirens and war. To the dying, the barrage of gunfire seemed far away, without any meaning whatsoever, just one more element in that vague, menacing whisper that washes over those on the brink of death. Children slept peacefully, held tight against their mothers’ sides, their lips making suckling noises, like little lambs. Street sellers’ carts lay abandoned, full of fresh flowers. (p. 4)

She was one of those middle-class women who generally trust the lower classes. “They’re not so bad if you know how to deal with them,” she would say in the same condescending and slightly sad tone she used to talk of a caged animal. She was proud that she kept her servants for a long time. She insisted on looking after them when they were ill. When Madeleine had a sore throat, Madame Péricand herself had prepared her gargle. Since she had no time to administer it during the day, she had waited until she got back from the theatre in the evening. Madeleine had woken up with a start and had only expressed her gratitude afterwards, and even then, rather coldly in Madame Pericand’s opinion. (p. 8)

They’d waited long enough to ask his opinion. They should have left last night, he thought. Isn’t it pathetic to see rich, famous people who have no more common sense than animals! And even animals can sense danger… As for him, well, he wasn’t afraid of the Germans. He’d seen them in ’14. He’d be left alone; he was too old to be called up. But he was outraged: the house, the furniture, the silver – they hadn’t thought about anything in time. He let out a barely audible sigh. He would have had everything wrapped up long ago, hidden away in packing cases, in a safe place. He felt a sort of affectionate scorn towards his employers, the same scorn he felt towards the white greyhounds: they were beautiful but stupid. (p. 20)

Thanks to this secretarial job, they just about managed. As she always said, “We mustn’t ask for the impossible, my dear.” They had been familiar with hardship ever since they left their families to get married against their parents’ will. That was a long time ago. Traces of beauty still remained on her thin face. Her hair was grey. He was a short man, with a weary, neglected appearance, but sometimes, when he turned towards her, looked at her, smiled at her, a loving teasing flame lit up his eyes – the same, he thought, yes, truly, almost the same as before. He helped her across the road and picked up the glove she’d dropped. She thanked him by gently pressing her fingers over his as he handed it to her. (p. 27)

She had insinuated that he wanted to flee France! What an imbecile! Did she think she would upset him, make him ashamed? Of course he would leave. If he could just get to Hendaye, he could make arrangements to cross the border. He would stay briefly in Lisbon and then get out of this hedious Europe, dripping with blood. He could picture it: a decomposing corpse, slashed with a thousand wounds. He shuddered. He wasn’t cut for this. (…) He looked at his beautiful hands, which had never done any day’s work, had only ever caressed statues, pieces of antique silver, leather books, or occasionally a piece of Elizabethan furniture. What would he, Charles Langelet, with his sophistication, his scruples, his nobility – which was the essence of his character – what would he do amid this demented mob? (…) He wasn’t like ordinary men. Their ambitions, their fears, their cowardice, and their complaints were foreign for him. He lived in a universe of light and peace. He was destined to be hated and betrayed by everyone. (pp. 38-9)

It wasn’t exactly what you’d call fear, rather a strange sadness – a sadness that had nothing human about it anymore, for it lacked both courage and hope. This was how animals waited to die. It was the way fish caught in a net watch the shadow of the fisherman moving back and forth above them. (p. 46)

“They look so tired, so hot!” everyone kept saying, but not one of them thought to open their doors, to invite these wretches inside, to welcome them into the shady bits of heaven that the refugees could glimpse behind the houses, where wooden benches nestled in arbours amid redcurrant bushes and roses. There were just too many of them. Too many weary, pale faces, dripping with sweat, too many wailing children, too many trembling lips asking, “Do you know where we could get a room? A bed?”… “Would you tell us where we could find a restaurant, please, Madame?” It prevented the townspeople from being charitable. (p. 50)

It was an inexpressible relief to see once again all his famous friends, even his enemies. Today any disagreements seemed unimportant. They were all on the same side, they were all together! They were living proof that nothing was changing. Contrary to belief, they weren’t witnessing some extraordinary cataclysm, the end of the world, but rather a series of purely human events, limited in time and space, which, all in all, affected only the lives of people they didn’t know. (pp. 164-5)

Pedaços de Vancouver #1

Vancouver tem:

marinas a toda a volta

o mercado de Granville

barquinhos coloridos (aquabus) a fazer a travessia para a cidade

Yaletown com lojas a fazer lembrar o Soho

prédios altos de vidro... muitos!

cruzeiros que partem para o Alaska

aviões que amaram na baía com as montanhas nevadas no horizonte

montanhas a toda a volta da água a (quase) toda a volta

muitos arranha-céus em ruas movimentadas e verdes

muitos parques com vista para a água e as montanhas...

19 junho, 2008

Ditto #76

Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.

-- Kurt Vonnegut

18 junho, 2008


A 20 km de Victoria (capital da província Canadiana de British Columbia) ficam os jardins de Butchart, que fazem muito lembrar os vários jardins da Madeira!

17 junho, 2008

Espantos #119

Na costa oeste, os prédios que servem de bibliotecas têm o seu quê de artístico.

Em Vancouver a biblioteca toma a forma de um coliseu romano.

Caprichos #48

@ L'entracte Opéra, à Paris

Pormenores #28

Reflexo no prédio do sheraton em Vancouver, British Columbia, Canadá

15 junho, 2008

Espantos #118

Olympic mountains

Vistas do barco de Seattle no estado Americano de Washington para a cidade de Victoria, capital da província Canadiana de Bristish Columbia. Na linha do horizonte as nuvens brancas confundem-se com a neve no topo das montanhas.

14 junho, 2008

Coisas que não mudam #46

Os extravagantes prédios de Frank Gehry... aqui a biblioteca de Seattle.

13 junho, 2008

Espantos #117

Seattelites proudly joke about it...

What a beautiful Seattle day!

Pormenores #27

Pike Place Market, Seattle, WA

08 junho, 2008

Numa sala perto de mim #61

Juno, numa tv de 56''... é algo deferente! Gostei dos exemplos de maturidade e de falta dela, sem que a idade seja tida nem achada. Ficaram-me na cabeça as músicas da banda sonora como que cantadas em sussuro, como esta:

I'm sticking with you
'Cos I'm made out of glue
Anything that you might do
I'm gonna do too

07 junho, 2008

Coisas que não mudam #44

You're a spectator of your own life.

1. people come in & out of your life at their own leisure: they want to come in, you let them; they want to go out, you let them. What can you do...

2. you apply for 100 jobs and then the market plays its random hand, you like what you end up with, but you did very little for it.

3. you're house hunting (on foot) for three days and end up with a tan... coooool ;-)

Coisas que não mudam #43

O fim da tarde dá ao céu tons rosa.
Também há hora de ponta de fim de tarde nos aeroportos.

Espantos #116

Por mais que voe, não deixam de me surpreender as formas das nuvens que se vêem lá de cima... fofos pedaços gigantes de algodão!

06 junho, 2008

Espantos #115

Chegar a Nashville, apanhar o shuttle e ouvir música brasileira...

E o motivo todo o mundo já conhece
É que o de cima sobe e o de baixo desce
Bom xibom xibom bombom