30 de novembro de 2005

Mark Twain (1835-1910)


Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.

In this book a number of dialects are used, to wit: the Missouri negro dialect; the extremest form of the backwoods Southwestern dialect; the ordinary "Pike County" dialect; and four modified varieties of this last. The shadings have not been done in a haphazard fashion, or by guesswork; but painstakingly, and with the trustworthy guidance and support of personal familiarity with these several forms of speech.
I make this explanation for the reason that without it many readers would suppose that all these characters were trying to talk alike and not succeeding.


You don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain't no matter. That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. That is nothing. I never seen anybody but lied one time or another, without it was Aunt Polly, or the widow, or maybe Mary. Aunt Polly—Tom's Aunt Polly, she is—and Mary, and the Widow Douglas is all told about in that book, which is mostly a true book, with some stretchers, as I said before.

Now the way that the book winds up is this: Tom and me found the money that the robbers hid in the cave, and it made us rich. We got six thousand dollars apiece—all gold. It was an awful sight of money when it was piled up. Well, Judge Thatcher he took it and put it out at interest, and it fetched us a dollar a day apiece all the year round—more than a body could tell what to do with. The Widow Douglas she took me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize me; but it was rough living in the house all the time, considering how dismal regular and decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when I couldn't stand it no longer I lit out. I got into my old rags and my sugar-hogshead again, and was free and satisfied. But Tom Sawyer he hunted me up and said he was going to start a band of robbers, and I might join if I would go back to the widow and be respectable. So I went back.

The widow she cried over me, and called me a poor lost lamb, and she called me a lot of other names, too, but she never meant no harm by it. She put me in them new clothes again, and I couldn't do nothing but sweat and sweat, and feel all cramped up. Well, then, the old thing commenced again. The widow rung a bell for supper, and you had to come to time. When you got to the table you couldn't go right to eating, but you had to wait for the widow to tuck down her head and grumble a little over the victuals, though there warn't really anything the matter with them,—that is, nothing only everything was cooked by itself. In a barrel of odds and ends it is different; things get mixed up, and the juice kind of swaps around, and the things go better.

After supper she got out her book and learned me about Moses and the Bulrushers, and I was in a sweat to find out all about him; but by and by she let it out that Moses had been dead a considerable long time; so then I didn't care no more about him, because I don't take no stock in dead people.

Pretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me. But she wouldn't. She said it was a mean practice and wasn't clean, and I must try to not do it any more. That is just the way with some people. They get down on a thing when they don't know nothing about it. Here she was a-bothering about Moses, which was no kin to her, and no use to anybody, being gone, you see, yet finding a power of fault with me for doing a thing that had some good in it. And she took snuff, too; of course that was all right, because she done it herself.

. . . . . . . . . . .

24 de novembro de 2005

António Gedeão (1906-1997)

Poema do poste com flores amarelas

Vieram os operários, puseram o poste de ferro na berma do passeio
e foram-se para voltar noutro dia.
O poste tinha sido pintado há pouco de verde
e quando lhe batia o sol rutilava como as escamas dos dragões.
Mesmo junto do poste, no passeio, havia uma árvore que dava flores amarelas,
e o vento fez cair algumas flores amarelas sobre o poste verde.
As pessoas que por ali passavam diziam "que chatice de poste",
mas o poeta sorria para as flores amarelas.

António Gedeão


21 de novembro de 2005

Magritte, «Clairvoyance»

René Magritte (1898-1967)

20 de novembro de 2005

Nazim Hikmet (1901-1963)

Falling Leaves

I've read about falling leaves in fifty thousand poems novels and so on
watched leaves falling in fifty thousand movies
seen leaves fall fifty thousand times
fall drift and rot
felt their dead shush shush fifty thousand times
underfoot in my hands on my fingertips
but I'm still touched by falling leaves
especially those falling on boulevards
especially chestnut leaves
and if kids are around
if it's sunny
and I've got good news for friendship
especially if my heart doesn't ache
and I believe my love loves me
especially if it's a day I feel good about people
I'm touched by falling leaves
especially those falling on boulevards
especially chestnut leaves

Nazim Hikmet


18 de novembro de 2005

Manuel António Pina (1943)

Amor como em casa

Regresso devagar ao teu
sorriso como quem volta a casa. Faço de conta que
não é nada comigo. Distraído percorro
o caminho familiar da saudade,
pequeninas coisas me prendem,
uma tarde num café, um livro. Devagar
te amo e às vezes depressa,
meu amor, e às vezes faço coisas que não devo,
regresso devagar a tua casa,
compro um livro, entro no
amor como em casa.

Manuel António Pina

14 de novembro de 2005

Claude Monet, Impression, Soleil Levant

Claude Monet (1840-1926)