| Retratos, Machado.- |
Mi infancia son recuerdos de un patio
de Sevilla,
y un huerto claro donde madura
el limonero;
mi juventud, veinte años en tierras
de Castilla;
mi historia, algunos casos que recordar
no quiero.
Ni un seductor Mañara, ni un
Bradomin he sido
-- ya conocéis mi torpe aliño
indumentario --,
mas recibí la flecha que me asignó
Cupido,
y amé cuanto ellas puedan tener de
hospitalario.
Hay en mis venas gotas de sangre
jacobina,
pero mi verso brota de manantial sereno;
y más que un hombre al uso que sabe
su doctrina
soy, en el buen sentido de la palabra,
bueno.
Desdeño las romanzas de los tenores
huecos
y el coro de los grillos que cantan
a la luna.
A distinguir me paro las voces
de los ecos,
y escucho solamente, entre
las voces, una.
Converso con el hombre que siempre
va conmigo
-- quien habla solo espera hablar
a Dios un día --;
mi soliloquio es plática con este buen amigo
que me enseñó el secreto de la filantropía.
Y al cabo, nada os debo; me debéis
cuanto escribo
a mi trabajo acudo, con mi dinero pago
el traje que me cubre y la mansión que habito,
el pan que me alimenta y el lecho
donde yago.
Y cuando llegue el día del último viaje,
y está al partir la nave que nunca ha de tornar
me encontraréis a bordo ligero de equipaje,
casi desnudo, como los hijos de la mar.-Etiquetas: Literatura |
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| Nostalgia del presente, JL Borges.- |
En aquel preciso momento
el hombre se dijo:
qué no daría por la dicha
de estar a tu lado en Islandia
bajo el gran día inmóvil
y de compartir el ahora
como se comparte la música
o el sabor de una fruta.
En aquel momento
el hombre estaba junto a ella en Islandia.Etiquetas: Literatura |
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| A Xmas Carol, Charles Dickens. |
"Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge’s name was good upon ’Change for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a doornail.
Mind! I don’t mean to say that I know of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a doornail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the country’s done for. You will, therefore, permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a doornail.
Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don’t know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain.
The mention of Marley’s funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate..." Etiquetas: Literatura |
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| Intellectual Prostitutes.- |
| "There is no such thing, at this date of the world's history, as an independent press. You know it and I know it. [...] If I allowed my honest opinions to appear in one issue of my paper, before twenty-four hours my occupation would be gone. The business of the journalist is to destroy the truth; to lie outright; to pervert; to vilify; to fawn at the feet of mammon, and to sell the country for his daily bread. You know it and I know it and what folly is this toasting an independent press. We are the tools and vassals of the rich men behind the scenes. We are the jumping jacks, they pull the strings and we dance. Our talents, our possibilities and our lives are all the property of other men. We are intellectual prostitutes". John Swinton, Chief of Staff at the New York Times (toast at the New York Press Club, 1953) Etiquetas: quotes. |
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| Ya se (?) |
Ya sé: envejecer, posiblemente, es sólo este ir acumulando libros leídos dentro,
preciosas latas estampadas en colores y oro donde se guardan, más o menos ordenados,
los aromas de todos los veranos y esos pequeños tesoros que se traen de los viajes: un
trocito de mármol de la Acrópolis, caramelos ingleses de regaliz, bordados húngaros,
pastilleros de Murano, sienita rosa de las canteras de Assuan, o aquel lunar de vidrio
romano de Cesarea Marítima, engastado en una mano de plata,
esas cosas inútiles que no consuelan nunca de todo lo perdido (sol de Atenas, lechosa y
verde luz del agua veneciana, té con scones en el claustro de una catedral gótica, a las
tres de la tarde, o dunas estrelladas vistas por un momento desde el aire). En todo caso,
envejecer, posiblemente, es eso: adentrarse en el miedo bien armado de recuerdos de
músicas, pinturas sabores, sombras móviles de árboles, roces de ciertas telas en el
cuerpo, vestidos que tuvimos, caricias, precisas y hermosísimas secuencias de palabras
de Calderón o Shakespeare, de Neruda o Celan,
Aparejar con tan dispares cosas un barco antiguo de madera, un barco para curzar el
norte brumoso de uno mismo, ese mar gélido y final donde no hay islas y los peces
apenas sobreviven,
ese mar de tinieblas de amarguras de rencores olvidos manos piernas artríticas, ese mar
de conciencia que se disuelve, sordera progresiva, vista turbia, parientes cada vez más
lejamos, indiferencia sobre todo, indiferencia, indiferencia hacia la suerte de uno y hacia
el desván de reliquias salvadas de la quema y cubiertas de polvo, donde no volveremos a aventurarnos, nunca, nunca, ni a echar siquiera una mirada, nunca, nunca, jamás.-
Nunca supe bien quien escribió esto pero en 2005 lo recorté de una revista literaria sin prestarle mucha atención al nombre de la autora (si me quedó claro que era una mujer) y ahora me arrepiento. No esta en internet. Queria regalarsela a mi padre- el eterno coleccionista incurable- para Navidad y sin la autora me parece un regalo medio choto. Si alguien la conoce, comenten en That's All I'm Saying y seán recompensados. Etiquetas: Literatura |
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| Stick Boy and Match Girl in love |
Stick Boy liked Match Girl,
He liked her a lot.
He liked her cute figure,
he thought she was hot.
But could a flame ever burn
for a match and a stick?
It did quite literally;
he burned up quick.
Stick Boy and Match Girl in love
Tim Burton (EEUU, 1958 - )Etiquetas: Literatura |
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| Nana- o porque derepente me gusta el Anime. |
Okay, Dimitri me presentó un anime muy copado y la verdad que Nana se acaba de convertir en mi nueva obsesión, mi nuevo fetiche, mi nuevo juguete con el que puedo molestar mientras vuelven mis series preferidas. Pero no se confundan: Nana no es un reemplazo; Nana es TODO. Y esta canción de Trapnest (¿no entienden? Vean el anime acá!) es realmente tan copada que se convirtió en mi nuevo ringtone. That's how I roll.
Etiquetas: musica |
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| Poem |
And if it snowed and snow covered the drive
he took a spade and tossed it to one side.
And always tucked his daughter up at night.
And slippered her the one time that she lied.
And every week he tipped up half his wage.
And what he didn’t spend each week he saved.
And praised his wife for every meal she made.
And once, for laughing, punched her in the face.
And for his mum he hired a private nurse.
And every Sunday taxied her to church.
And he bubbled when she went from bad to worse.
And twice he lifted ten quid from her purse.
Here’s how they rated him when they looked back:
sometimes he did this, sometimes he did that.
Simon Armitage
Otro personal favourite. Mal.
Etiquetas: Literatura |
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| A spoonful of Sugar! |
"In every job that must be done, there's an element of fun! You find the fun and...snap! The job's a game! And every task you undertake, becomes a piece of cake! A lark! A spree! It's very clear to see that...
Etiquetas: musica |
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| Robot Boy, Tim Burton.- |
Mr. an Mrs. Smith had a wonderful life.
They were a normal, happy husband and wife.
One day they got news that made Mr. Smith glad.
Mrs. Smith would would be a mom
which would make him the dad!
But something was wrong with their bundle of joy.
It wasn't human at all,
it was a robot boy!
He wasn't warm and cuddly
and he didn't have skin.
Instead there was a cold, thin layer of tin.
There were wires and tubes sticking out of his head.
He just lay there and stared,
not living or dead.
The only time he seemed alive at all
was with a long extension cord
plugged into the wall.
Mr. Smith yelled at the doctor,
"What have you done to my boy?
He's not flesh and blood,
he's aluminum alloy!"
The doctor said gently,
"What I'm going to say
will sound pretty wild.
But you're not the father
of this strange looking child.
You see, there still is some question
about the child's gender,
but we think that its father
is a microwave blender.
"The Smith's lives were now filled
with misery and strife.
Mrs. Smith hated her husband,
and he hated his wife.
He never forgave her unholy alliance:
a sexual encounter
with a kitchen appliance.
And Robot Boy
grew to be a young man.
Though he was often mistaken
for a garbage can.Etiquetas: Literatura |
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| May I feel, said he.- |
EE Cummings otra vez, a Florence favourite, en uno de los poemas más copados jamás escritos.-
May I feel said he
(I’ll squeal said she
Just once said he)
It’s fun said she
(May i touch said he
How much said she
A lot said he)
Why not said she
(Let’s go said he
Not too far said she
What’s too far said he
Where you are said she)
May i stay said he
(Which way said she
Like this said he
If you kiss said she
May i move said he
Is it love said she)
If you’re willing said he
(But you’re killing said she
But it’s life said he
But your wife said she
Now said he)
Ow said she
(Tiptop said he
Don’t stop said she
Oh no said he)
Go slow said she
(Cccome?said he
Ummm said she)
You’re divine!said he
(You are Mine said she)Etiquetas: Literatura |
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- discrimiNATION
- MILK, Van Sant, 2008.
- The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, D. Fincher, 2...
- One Art, Elizabeth Bishop
- Tom Clancy, Ordenes Ejecutivas.-
- Cinema Paradiso, Tornatore, 1989, (II).-
- Cinema Paradiso, Tornatore, 1989, (I).-
- ¿Y a mi?
- Neruda
- Reality Bites (Final)
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Brushes by Gvalkyrie
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posted by Florence at 