Fuji-san

Blog-autismo

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(Sunshine Falling on a Door, Peter Ilsted)

Registo

Ainda sobre as afirmações muito preconceituosas e pouco científicas de James Watson:
José Amarante, Lutz Brückelmann e Rui Tavares.

Jacarandás em flor em Pretória

(Xinhua Photo)

A minha vénia ao Público e a Teresa Firmino pela tomada de posição sobre as declarações de James Watson.

(Jean-François Millet)

Song of the Open Road

17

Allons! the road is before us!
It is safe—I have tried it—my own feet have tried it well.

Allons! be not detain’d!
Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen’d!
Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearn’d!
Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher!
Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the court, and the judge expound the law.

Mon enfant! I give you my hand!
I give you my love, more precious than money,
I give you myself, before preaching or law;
Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

(Walt Whitman)

Registo

É isto a Europa?
(via)

Song of the Open Road

16

Allons! through struggles and wars!
The goal that was named cannot be countermanded.

Have the past struggles succeeded?
What has succeeded? yourself? your nation? nature?
Now understand me well—It is provided in the essence of things, that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary.

My call is the call of battle—I nourish active rebellion;
He going with me must go well arm’d;
He going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty, angry enemies, desertions.

(Walt Whitman)

EPC: A erudição despida de pretensiosismo, as preocupações das pessoas comuns vertidas em português escorreito, de sentido cristalino. A curiosidade, o humor, a humildade. A participação cívica como uma forma de respirar. E, agora, também as saudades.

Song of the Open Road

15

Allons! whoever you are! come forth!
You must not stay sleeping and dallying there in the house, though you built it, or though it has been built for you.

Allons! out of the dark confinement!
It is useless to protest—I know all, and expose it.

Behold, through you as bad as the rest,
Through the laughter, dancing, dining, supping, of people,
Inside of dresses and ornaments, inside of those wash’d and trimm’d faces,
Behold a secret silent loathing and despair.

No husband, no wife, no friend, trusted to hear the confession;
Another self, a duplicate of every one, skulking and hiding it goes,
Formless and wordless through the streets of the cities, polite and bland in the parlors,
In the cars of rail-roads, in steamboats, in the public assembly,
Home to the houses of men and women, at the table, in the bed-room, everywhere,
Smartly attired, countenance smiling, form upright, death under the breast-bones, hell under the skull-bones,
Under the broadcloth and gloves, under the ribbons and artificial flowers,
Keeping fair with the customs, speaking not a syllable of itself,
Speaking of anything else, but never of itself.

(Walt Whitman)