Thursday, 27 August 2015

JOSÉ LUIS GUERÍN, Tren de Sombras

Sept. 18th - Cold and rainy all day. This A.M. I cooked some watermelon preserves with lemons. Dr. Wasson is still here. 

Feb. 11th - Ellen is 19 today. Pa gave her a gold necklace. Miss Mary Haley gave cuffs and collar and wheelbarrow needlebook and silver thimble. Sis and Squire took Ma with them to Rodes (?) to spend today. Very rainy. Pa and Miss Mary went to Lex., Mr and Mrs. Walton to Stanford. This P.M. M(?) Oliver Redd, Geo. Burch, S.R. Smith Jr. and Mrs. Smith and Marie called. Mrs. Frank Houghton died at noon. I finished Mr. Pettie's letter this P.M. All but Pa, Ma and Henry went to the Literary Society tonight, I had to read, was awfully embarrassed. Ben Crenshaw brought me home. The night is lovely. Got home at 11. Last bed time 12.

Wednesday, 26 August 2015

a escrita que nos leva

"a ver em cada corpo uma espessura própria"

Saturday, 15 August 2015

the art of presence

pequenas filmagens minhas

I am lying on a hammock, on the terrace of my room at the Hotel Mirador, the diary open on my knees, the sun shining on the diary, and I have no desire to write. The sun, the leaves, the shade, the warmth, are so alive that they lull the senses, calm the imagination. This is perfection. There is no need to portray, to preserve. It is eternal, it overwhelms you, it is complete.

Sunday, 2 August 2015

a minute

where i am is here

Where I am is here is social without story. It shows people, unknown to them, living and working and doing things with a kind of quotidian care and love, above all it shows a kind of calm survival, a getting-on-with-it, whether in the cleaning of or traversing of a street or the putting up of a new city. It does all this by forcing nothing, by allowing images their own voice. It is meditative and calm; its seeming structurelessness is a deception; its images are reverberative, as in all working poetic structure. 

Its final section is entitled The Bravest Boat. Images of a small boat on a calm pond, then images of a roaring fall of water. Images of all kinds of fire, then images of the cityís insurance buildings and banks. Images of the waterfall, then images of lions, caged. Where I am is here is a focus on the tenousness of the journey to wherever it is we are, and the giving over of the self, first to the seeming shapelessness and meaninglessness then the unexpected shapeliness and beauty of where it is we are, and last, a suggestion that we simply give ourselves over to the astonishing and everyday richness of the experience of being here.

Saturday, 9 May 2015

"...o sentimento de que há que viver a vida, que não vai durar muito. 
Fazemo-lo cantando, bebendo e pensando, que é dizer, sendo artisticamente tristes, sendo nostálgicos."
recebi um e-mail:
"it's time to wear flowers in your hair"

“Encontro e separação, sedução, e adeus para sempre 
– estas são as coisas mais importantes que existem nas nossas vidas.”
“em alternativa a tudo o resto, o prazer – um pouco de tempo, um pouco de vinho.”
Luís Miguel Oliveira sobre o cinema de 

Sunday, 26 April 2015

alguma coisa de infantil mas muito natural


Henry ajoelhou-se ao pé dela e tirou-lhe do cesto primaveras com que fez um enorme colar para lhe pôr à roda do pescoço.
- Era capaz de adormecer - disse Edna. 
Chegou-se aos seus joelhos e ficou muito junta a ele, escondida pela longa cabeleira. - É como se estivéssemos dentro do mar, não é querido? Está tudo tão calmo, tão doce!

Saturday, 25 April 2015

Murry was an influential editor and critic, and Mansfield’s husband. He was also responsible for publishing and promoting her work after her death; however, his selective editing – some would call it censoring – of her letters and journals falsely cast her as a saint. 

The new papers offer very personal insights into Mansfield, Murry, and their relationships – both with each other and with their circle of friends and literary contemporaries. 
They show Mansfield not as a saint, but as painfully sensitive, witty, at times fierce, ribald and playful. 
There are little-known and unpublished letters, sketches, fragments of stories and poems, and notes in Mansfield’s hand. Other gems include photographs, pressed flowers from a holiday in France, a hand-painted box, and her passport.

Sunday, 19 April 2015



On the calm black water where the stars are sleeping
White Ophelia floats like a great lily ;
Floats very slowly, lying in her long veils…
- In the far-off woods you can hear them sound the mort.

For more than a thousand years sad Ophelia
Has passed, a white phantom, down the long black river.
For more than a thousand years her sweet madness
Has murmured its ballad to the evening breeze.

The wind kisses her breasts and unfolds in a wreath
Her great veils rising and falling with the waters ;
The shivering willows weep on her shoulder,
The rushes lean over her wide, dreaming brow.

The ruffled water-lilies are sighing around her ;
At times she rouses, in a slumbering alder,
Some nest from which escapes a small rustle of wings ;
- A mysterious anthem falls from the golden stars.


O pale Ophelia ! beautiful as snow !
Yes child, you died, carried off by a river !
- It was the winds descending from the great mountains of Norway
That spoke to you in low voices of better freedom.

It was a breath of wind, that, twisting your great hair,
Brought strange rumors to your dreaming mind ;
It was your heart listening to the song of Nature
In the groans of the tree and the sighs of the nights ;

It was the voice of mad seas, the great roar,
That shattered your child's heart, too human and too soft ;
It was a handsome pale knight, a poor madman
Who one April morning sate mute at your knees !

Heaven ! Love ! Freedom ! What a dream, oh poor crazed Girl !
You melted to him as snow does to a fire ;
Your great visions strangled your words
- And fearful Infinity terrified your blue eye !


- And the poet says that by starlight
You come seeking, in the night, the flowers that you picked
And that he has seen on the water, lying in her long veils
White Ophelia floating, like a great lily.