E mais uma vez ela tinha que juntar forças para recomeçar. A filosofia ela fazia em meio às coisas do dia, mas agora tinha que dar à ela um teor menos infantil. A única coisa que a amedrontava era a visão da rotina como uma abstração bem contruída. Porque ela acreditava que a realidade sempre estaria no limite de seus próprios olhos, pronta para ser delicadamente descoberta.
Se conhecer era saber tirar as ilusões do caminho, o que ela faria com toda sua arte? Numa luta entre a lógica e a viceral irracionalidade ela empurrava seu corpo cada dia mais um pouco, sabendo que a cada passo ela se tornara mais forte.
Uma questão a perturbava: o que faria com tantas palavras? onde colocaria todas suas intelecções? é bem certo que esse era só o início de uma série infinita de perguntas que na verdade não eram apenas uma questão. Era preciso decidir o que fazer com o pensamento, porque ela já não acreditava mais que pensar era involuntário. Isso porque todo o dia colocava toda sua alma no que fazia, e o esforço era tanto que quando alguma coisa saía, não podia ter sido involuntariamente. Era, sim, muito trabalhoso. Uma outra dificuldade que a intrigava estava presente num caráter levemente inconsciente de tudo o que fazia. Por mais que refletisse com cada parte de seu conjunto neuronal, muita coisa passava desapercebida e ela sabia que esquecia detalhes dos mais importantes. Detestava quando se lembrava que as barreiras entre as pessoas também são causadas por diferenças socias, e que uma conversa poderia gerar uma ponte valiosíssima. Ela se via calada na maior parte do tempo, imersa em percepções agudas e também em cegueiras deveras obtusas.
Ela ainda não sabia o que falar, nem o que passar para as pessoas. As pessoas ainda eram um mistério para ela, e o mundo quase impossível de ser conhecido. Ainda assim, tentava.
quinta-feira, 9 de outubro de 2008
quarta-feira, 8 de outubro de 2008
What the Tortoise said to Achilles (1895)
Mind, Vol. 4, No. 14 (Apr. 1895), 278-280.
by Lewis Carroll
XII.—Notes
Achilles had overtaken the Tortoise, and had seated himself comfortably on its back. (¶ 1)
"So you've got to the end of our race-course?" said the Tortoise. "Even though it does consist of an infinite series of distances? I thought some wiseacre or another had proved that the thing couldn't be done?" (¶ 2)
"It can be done," said Achilles; "It has been done! Solvitur ambulando. You see, the distances were constantly diminishing; and so—" (¶ 3)
"But if they had been constantly increasing?" the Tortoise interrupted. "How then?" (¶ 4)
"Then I shouldn't be here," Achilles modestly replied; "and you would have got several times round the world, by this time!" (¶ 5)
"You flatter me—flatten, I mean," said the Tortoise; "for you are a heavy weight, and no mistake! Well now, would you like to hear of a race-course, that most people fancy they can get to the end of in two or three steps, while it really consists of an infinite number of distances, each one longer than the previous one?" (¶ 6)
"Very much indeed!" said the Grecian warrior, as he drew from his helmet (few Grecian warriors prossessed pockets in those days) an enormous note-book and a pencil. "Proceed! And speak slowly, please. Short-hand isn't invented yet!" (¶ 7)
"That beautiful First Proposition of Euclid!" the Tortoise murmured dreamily. "You admire Euclid?" (¶ 8)
"Passionately! So far, at least, as one can admire a treatise that wo'n't be published for some centuries to come!" (¶ 9)
"Well, now, let's take a little bit of the argument in that First Proposition—just two steps, and the conclusion drawn from them. Kindly enter them in your note-book. And in order to refer to them conveniently, let's call them A, B, and Z:—
(A) Things that are equal to the same are equal to each other.
(B) The two sides of this Triangle are things that are equal to the same.
(Z) The two sides of this Triangle are equal to each other.
Readers of Euclid will grant, I suppose, that Z follows logically from A and B, so that any one who accepts A and B as true, must accept Z as true?" (¶ 10)
"Undoubtedly! The youngest child in High School—as soon as High Schools are invented, which wlil not be till some two thousand years later—will grant that." (¶ 11)
"And if some reader had not yet accepted A and B as true, he might still accept the sequence as a valid one, I suppose?" (¶ 12)
"No doubt such a reader might exist. He might say, "I accept as true the Hypothetical Proposition that, if A and B be true, Z must be true; but, I don't accept A and B as true." Such a reader would do wisely in abandoning Euclid, and taking to football." (¶ 13)
"And might there not also be some reader who would say, "I accept A and B as true, but I don't accept the Hypothetical"?"(¶14)
"Certainly there might. He, also, had better take to football." (¶ 15)
"And neither of these readers," the Tortoise continued, "is as yet under any logical necessity to accept Z as true?" (¶ 16)
"Quite so," Achilles assented. (¶ 17)
"Well, now, I want you to consider me as a reader of the second kind, and to force me, logically, to accept Z as true." (¶ 18)
"A tortoise playing football would be—" Achilles was beginning (¶ 19)
"—an anomaly, of course," the Tortoise hastily interrupted. "Don't wander from the point. Let's have Z first, and football afterwards!" (¶ 20)
"I'm to force you to accept Z, am I?" Achilles said musingly. "And your present position is that you accept A and B, but you don't accept the Hypothetical—" (¶ 21)
"Let's call it C," said the Tortoise. (¶22)
"—but you don't accept
(C) If A and B are true, Z must be true." (¶ 23)
"That is my present position," said the Tortoise. (¶ 24)
"Then I must ask you to accept C." (¶ 25)
"I'll do so," said the Tortoise, "as soon as you've entered it in that note-book of yours. What else have you got in it?" (¶ 26)
"Only a few memoranda," said Achilles, nervously fluttering the leaves: "a few memoranda of—of the battles in which I have distinguished myself!" (¶ 27)
"Plenty of blank leaves, I see!" the Tortoise cheerily remarked. "We shall need them all!" (Achilles shuddered.) "Now write as I dictate:—
(A) Things that are equal to the same are equal to each other.
(B) The two sides of this Triangle are things that are equal to the same.
(C) If A and B are true, Z must be true.
(Z) The two sides of this Triangle are equal to each other." (¶ 28)
"You should call it D, not Z," said Achilles. "It comes next to the other three. If you accept A and B and C, you must accept Z." (¶ 29)
"And why must I?" (¶ 30)
"Because it follows logically from them. If A and B and C are true, Z must be true. You don't dispute that, I imagine?" (¶ 31)
"If A and B and C are true, Z must be true," the Tortoise thoughtfully repeated. "That's another Hypothetical, isn't it? And, if I failed to see its truth, I might accept A and B and C, and still not accept Z, mightn't I?" (¶ 32)
"You might," the candid hero admitted; "though such obtuseness would certainly be phenomenal. Still, the event is possible. So I must ask you to grant one more Hypothetical." (¶ 33)
"Very good. I'm quite willing to grant it, as soon as you've written it down. We will call it
(D) If A and B and C are true, Z must be true.
Have you entered that in your notebook?" (¶ 34)
"I have!" Achilles joyfully exclaimed, as he ran the pencil into its sheath. "And at last we've got to the end of this ideal race-course! Now that you accept A and B and C and D, of course you accept Z." (¶ 35)
"Do I?" said the Tortoise innocently. "Let's make that quite clear. I accept A and B and C and D. Suppose I still refused to accept Z?" (¶ 36)
"Then Logic would take you by the throat, and force you to do it!" Achilles triumphantly replied. "Logic would tell you, "You ca'n't help yourself. Now that you've accepted A and B and C and D, you must accept Z!" So you've no choice, you see. "(¶ 37)
"Whatever Logic is good enough to tell me is worth writing down," said the Tortoise. "So enter it in your note-book, please. We will call it
(E) If A and B and C and D are true, Z must be true. Until I've granted that, of course I needn't grant Z. So it's quite a necessary step, you see?" (¶ 38)
"I see," said Achilles; and there was a touch of sadness in his tone. (¶ 39)
Here the narrator, having pressing business at the Bank, was obliged to leave the happy pair, and did not again pass the spot until some months afterwards. When he did so, Achilles was still seated on the back of the much-enduring Tortoise, and was writing in his note-book, which appeared to be nearly full. The Tortoise was saying, "Have you got that last step written down? Unless I've lost count, that makes a thousand and one. There are several millions more to come. And would you mind, as a personal favour, considering what a lot of instruction this colloquy of ours will provide for the Logicians of the Nineteenth Century—would you mind adopting a pun that my cousin the Mock-Turtle will then make, and allowing yourself to be re-named Taught-Us?" (¶ 40)
"As you please!" replied the weary warrior, in the hollow tones of despair, as he buried his face in his hands. "Provided that you, for your part, will adopt a pun the Mock-Turtle never made, and allow yourself to be re-named A Kill-Ease!" (¶ 41)
Walking Around by Pablo Neruda
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse
sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the
night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist
houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
cords.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic
shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.
Translated by Robert Bly
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse
sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the
night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist
houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
cords.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic
shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.
Translated by Robert Bly
quarta-feira, 17 de setembro de 2008
FAREWELL - Pablo Neruda
Desde el fondo de ti, y arrodillado,
un niño triste como yo, nos mira.
Por esa vida que arderá en sus venas
tendrían que amarrarse nuestras vidas.
Por esas manos, hijas de tus manos,
tendrían que matar las manos mías.
Por sus ojos abiertos en la tierra
veré en los tuyos lágrimas un día.
Yo no lo quiero, Amada.
Para que nada nos amarre
que no nos una nada.
Ni la palabra que aromó tu boca,
ni lo que no dijeron tus palabras.
Ni la fiesta de amor que no tuvimos,
ni tus sollozos junto a la ventana.
Amo el amor de los marineros
que besan y se van.
Dejan una promesa.
No vuelven nunca más.
En cada puerto una mujer espera:
los marineros besan y se van.
(Una noche se acuestan con la muerte
en el lecho del mar.)
Amo el amor que se reparte
en besos, lecho y pan.
Amor que puede ser eterno
y puede ser fugaz.
Amor que quiere libertarse
para volver a amar.
Amor divinizado que se acerca
Amor divinizado que se va.
Ya no se encantarán mis ojos en tus ojos,
ya no se endulzará junto a ti mi dolor.
Pero hacia donde vaya llevaré tu mirada
y hacia donde camines llevarás mi dolor.
Fui tuyo, fuiste mía. ¿Qué más? Juntos hicimos
un recodo en la ruta donde el amor pasó.
Fui tuyo, fuiste mía. Tú serás del que te ame,
del que corte en tu huerto lo que he sembrado yo.
Yo me voy. Estoy triste: pero siempre estoy triste.
Vengo desde tus brazos. No sé hacia dónde voy.
...Desde tu corazón me dice adiós un niño.
Y yo le digo adiós.
un niño triste como yo, nos mira.
Por esa vida que arderá en sus venas
tendrían que amarrarse nuestras vidas.
Por esas manos, hijas de tus manos,
tendrían que matar las manos mías.
Por sus ojos abiertos en la tierra
veré en los tuyos lágrimas un día.
Yo no lo quiero, Amada.
Para que nada nos amarre
que no nos una nada.
Ni la palabra que aromó tu boca,
ni lo que no dijeron tus palabras.
Ni la fiesta de amor que no tuvimos,
ni tus sollozos junto a la ventana.
Amo el amor de los marineros
que besan y se van.
Dejan una promesa.
No vuelven nunca más.
En cada puerto una mujer espera:
los marineros besan y se van.
(Una noche se acuestan con la muerte
en el lecho del mar.)
Amo el amor que se reparte
en besos, lecho y pan.
Amor que puede ser eterno
y puede ser fugaz.
Amor que quiere libertarse
para volver a amar.
Amor divinizado que se acerca
Amor divinizado que se va.
Ya no se encantarán mis ojos en tus ojos,
ya no se endulzará junto a ti mi dolor.
Pero hacia donde vaya llevaré tu mirada
y hacia donde camines llevarás mi dolor.
Fui tuyo, fuiste mía. ¿Qué más? Juntos hicimos
un recodo en la ruta donde el amor pasó.
Fui tuyo, fuiste mía. Tú serás del que te ame,
del que corte en tu huerto lo que he sembrado yo.
Yo me voy. Estoy triste: pero siempre estoy triste.
Vengo desde tus brazos. No sé hacia dónde voy.
...Desde tu corazón me dice adiós un niño.
Y yo le digo adiós.
sábado, 26 de julho de 2008
percepção: eu que sou dois pontos:
entrar, penetrar, aprofundar, ir cada vez mais em direção ao núcleo, ao estado de vida pura.
eu te existo e me sou.
eu te existo e me sou.
o desejo do contato puro...
A busca pela escrita doce, pela palavra translúcida e o pensamento correto. Correção: palavra tabu que entrou para a história por ter sido usada como sinônimo de repressão, de perda das liberdades. A correção de pensamento a que refiro é uma capacidade fina, sutil, daqueles que conseguem dizer o que tem para ser dito, que conseguem estar imersos em idéias e ao mesmo tempo ter força, clareza e coragem para falá-las. Pensamento correto é um direcionamento e uma força. Nada mais.
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