Terça-feira, 17 de Abril de 2007

The End - To The Lighthouse

 

 

 

E tempo de levantar o veu e mostrar o rosto das paginas feitas das palavras que escolhi para ilustrar a leitura deste livro.

Nao foi tao facil de ler como eu julgava.

Nao e daqueles livros que conduz.

E daqueles livros que obriga que seja o leitor a guiar-se a si mesmo.

A guiar-se pelos mil caminhos que parecem ser sugeridos ou insinuados.

Um livro que nos foge das maos quando mais o queremos agarrar.

Um livro que ensina licoes grandes atraves de palavras banais e pequeninas.

Um livro teimoso e ate rebelde pela forma como inverte aquilo que temos como certo.

Uma historia feita de momentos possiveis no mundo de qualquer um.

Uma historia feita de dias.

De instantes dentro dos dias.

De pensamentos que povoam esses instantes.

Uma historia que mostra.

Que mostra mais do que se quer ver, por vezes.

Que enaltece o que e trivial.

Que banaliza o que e grande e pesado.

Uma historia com um tempo que ensina licoes as personagens que vivem nele.

Que querem mandar nele apesar de nao poderem.

Que descobrem [quase] tarde demais a luz que realmente importa.

E, para mais descobrir, basta ler!

To the Lighthouse

by Mrs Woolf


publicado por Firefly às 21:44
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Quarta-feira, 11 de Abril de 2007

Time Passes (II)

while reading, one feels that several things are taking place. but the truth is that everything which is silently said (and thought) is referring to a single moment - Mrs Ramsay and her beloved son James by her side. it is her motherhood and her care that is contemplated by those who are living in her house.and the singularity of that moment would end. suddenly. silently.

quotations:

[Mr. Ramsay stumbling along a passage stretched his arms out one dark morning, but, Mrs Ramsay, having died rather suddenly the night before, he stretched his arms out. They remained empty]

Mrs Ramsay's things. Poor lady! She would never want them again. She was dead, they said; years ago, in London.

The house was left; the house was deserted. It was left like a shell on a sandhill to fill with dry salt grains now that life had left it. (...) keys were turned all over the house; the front door was banged; it was finished.

much should have been said but was kept in silence. Mrs Ramsay was dead.

 

well, we must wait for the future to show.


publicado por Firefly às 14:27
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Terça-feira, 10 de Abril de 2007

The Window (I)

She had done the usual trick - been nice. She would never know him. He would never know her. Human relations were all like that, she thought, and the worst were between men and women. Inevitably they were extremely insincere.     page 101

(...) for she guessed what he was thinking - he would have written better books if he had not married. He was not complaining, he said. She knew that he had nothing whatever to complain of. (...) and he seized her hand and raised it to his lips and kissed it with an intensity that brought the tears to her eyes, and quickly he dropped it.     page 77

for now, she need not think about anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of - to think. well, not even to think. To be silent; to be alone.         page 69

a window. a house. an ordinary family. the daily and detailed life of the people that lived there and of the ones who were looking through the window.

their most deep thoughts and responses. the sweet will of James little heart. he wants to go to the lighthouse. according to his mother's will and love, this should not be denied to a child. if one (his father) refuses it, he will never forget about that non accomplished desire.

the silent and invisible tears of a marriage that is no longer as such. made of empty words. made of empty gestures. sometimes, even made of darkness.


publicado por Firefly às 22:11
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