Frank in the middle of nenhures!

Dling dling dlinggggggggggggg

Talking about the meaning of life...

One of the fishes : [What's the point?]

Post-it :Ler Elliot

1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse

A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,

Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.

Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo

Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,

Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

LET us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherised upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question …

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—

[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—

[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]

It is perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

And should I then presume?

And how should I begin?

. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep … tired … or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it toward some overwhelming question,

To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—

If one, settling a pillow by her head,

Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.

That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—

And this, and so much more?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

“That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all.”

. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown

Ruin'Art

I tal o Calvino...

"Marco Polo descreve uma ponte, pedra a pedra.

- Mas qual é a pedra que sustém a ponte? - pergunta Kublai Kan.

- A ponte não é sustida por esta ou por aquela pedra - responde Marco, - mas sim pela linha do arco que elas formam.

Kublai Kan permanece silencioso, reflectindo. Depois acrescenta: - Porque me falas de pedras? É só o arco que me importa.

Polo responde: - Sem pedras não há arco"

Isto vem a propósito de algo que tenho ouvido por aí, a importância está na viagem e não no destino.

O meu tríptico do Jardim das Delícias

(To) All my friends

County fair

...

Primeira deambulação letárgica

"Nada prova que o Verdadeiro e o Bem sejam compatíveis. (Não existe harmonia preestablecida entre o avanço da verdadee o bem da humanidade-Nietzche). A verdadepode, com efeito, ser triste,como dizia renan, e o optimismo infame, como dizia Schopenhauer, porque o optimismo quer ignorar que a história, afinal de contas, é mais trágica que racional. Trágica não significa que se responsabilize a fatalidade pelas catástrofes, mas que a acção humana comporta uma dose irredutível de desprezo e violência. Que o homem se engana quanto ao seu prórpio bem e prossegue obstinadamente a sua própria destruição, que os Estados fazem o mesmo, que as paixões individuais e colectivas muitas vezes levam a melhor sobre o cálculo racional, que se fabrica, deste modo, "destinos" que impõe a sua lei fora de todas as regularidades, eis o que aprendemos com a experiência, por o não termos aprendido com a tragédia e o romance. Nada é mais ilusório que um cientismo que pretenda eliminar todas as ilusões. E nada é mais irracional que um racionalismo que pretenda reduzir à simplicidade das suas leis as profundezas complexas do indivíduo e da sociedade."

( in Abordagem à Modernidade por Jean- Marie Domenach)

ÉS ESTRANHO

É tudo uma questão de Sobrevivência? Importas-te que eu saia desta galáxia por um bocadinho? O que fazes com a tua química? Podemos misturar elementos? Agora vamos para onde? Mais olhos são mais janelas para mais almas? Se não estamos aqui, onde é que estamos? Aqui ou ali? A agressividade amistosa será mais eficaz do que a amizade agressiva? Posso orbitar-te? Essa protecção para os olhos vem com uma crista? Onde é que estacionei a minha nave? O que achas dos meus tentáculos? Não, a sério? Só tens dois olhos? Porquê? Porque é que os buracos negros não podem ser azuis? Este ecossistema vem noutros sabores? Alguém gosta de tripedalismo? Como é que os outros seres da galáxia lidam com o stress? Como é que podes estar tão tristonho com um planeta tão rico em borato de sódio hidratado? As viagens não são todas viagens espaciais? Se tivessemos sopa em pó suficiente, podiamos transformar os mares da Terra em sopa? Nós sabemos mesmo o que achamos que sabemos? Os extraterrestres pensam neles próprios como terrestres normais?