THE MAN WHO WASN'T THERE (EAP)... novo mundo 41

O POÇO E O PÊNDULO


... e então continuando a caminhar cautelosamente, vieram-me à memória mil rumores vagos acerca dos horrores de Toledo. (...)

UM HOMEM SEM QUALIDADES (WP)... novo mundo 40

Wang Ping Morning Cloud, Evening Rain

A dream is not a dream

A butterfly not a butterfly

In the cloud, a pining spirit

A myth in the dream’s red chamber

(...) in wordswithoutborders - http://www.wordswithoutborders.org/?lab=WangMorning

"Progress is the realization of Utopias" (OW) ... novo mundo 39

"A map of the world that does not include Utopia is
not worth even glancing at, for it leaves out the country at which humanity is always landing. And when humanity lands there, it looks out, and, seeing a better country, sets sail. Progress is the realization of Utopias" (Oscar Wilde, The Soul of Man Under Socialism, 27)

"Sarkozy, lecteur de Gramsci" ??? (JS)... novo mundo 38

Jérôme Sgard

Nicolas Sarkozy, lecteur de Gramsci
La tentation hégémonique du nouveau pouvoir

Au fond, j'ai fait mienne l'analyse de Gramsci : le pouvoir se gagne par les idées. C'est la première fois qu'un homme de droite assume cette bataille-là.Nicolas Sarkozy, Le Figaro, 17 avril 2007

On A beaucoup commenté le " retour du politique " suscité par la campagne présidentielle de cette année. Curieusement, on n'a pas rapproché ce constat de celui, très comparable, formé à l'issue de la campagne référendaire de 2005 sur la constitution européenne. Pourtant elle avait déjà vu une mobilisation très forte de l'opinion publique et des électeurs, une activité éditoriale intense, et l'on avait souligné également combien l'enjeu avait partagé les familles, les amis, les affinités politiques acquises. Quitte à regretter parfois le résultat du vote, la presse étrangère avait elle aussi jugé positivement cette nouvelle expression de la passion politique des Français : un débat public majeur avait été mené jusqu'à son terme avec, disons, une forme de sérieux collectif plutôt honorable. Des commentaires comparables ont pu être relevés cette année, soulignant la participation électorale massive, le public nombreux mobilisé par les meetings, ou le taux d'écoute lors du débat télévisé entre Royal et Sarkozy.

(....) On ne peut donc qu'être inquiets de la proximité affichée du nouveau pouvoir avec les autres puissances de ce monde -les grandes entreprises et les médias. Cette concentration qui se dessine aujourd'hui n'est pas seulement illibérale politiquement, mais elle est aussi dangereuse au regard des règles du jeu qui émergeront, dans l'économie et les institutions, en réponse aux réformes. Il ne s'agit pas d'une menace directe sur les libertés publiques et la règle démocratique, mais de cette variante d'économie de marché, en principe plus dynamique, qui se formera progressivement si les réformes annoncées aboutissent.

(read the whole text in

http://www.eurozine.com/articles/2007-07-25-sgard-fr.html)

Les Back
Beaches and graveyards
Europe's haunted borders

"It is more arduous to honour the memory of the nameless than the renowned." The epigram on Walter Benjamin's memorial in Portbou, Catalonia, leads Les Back to reflect on the fate of the African migrants found dead on the coasts of Spain today.

There is a sign at the foot of the hill that leads to Portbou's cliff side cemetery, it reads: "Memorial W. Benjamin" and an arrow directs visitors to the philosopher's grave. Next to this public notice is a "no entry" sign. Benjamin took his own life here in this coastal town on 26 September 1940, after the Spanish border police had ruled that he did not have the appropriate papers to exit Vichy France. His aim was to escape via Lisbon and join other intellectual émigrés like his friend Theodor Adorno in America. In the Hotel de Francia he wrote on a scrap of paper his final message:
In a situation with no escape, I have no other choice but to finish it all. It is in a tiny village in the Pyrenees, where no one knows me, that my life must come to its end.I would ask you to pass on my thoughts to my friend Adorno and to explain to him the situation in which I have now found myself. I no longer have enough time to write all those letters I would dearly have written.[1]Refused entry to Spain and unable to break free of the magnetic field of Nazi Europe Benjamin made what Marshall Berman called a "pre-emptive strike on himself".[2] Like many exiles he carried vials of morphine in case he arrived at just such a moment of hopelessness. The "no entry" sign that sits innocently here is a profane illumination like one of Benjamin's "dialectical images". As it basks in the afterglow of a Catalonian summer, the sign is a reminder of the deadly exit and entry points that were policed in this small innocuous resort town. (...).

(read the whole text in:

http://www.eurozine.com/articles/2008-05-30-back-en.html)

"Why cry?" (CH) ... in novo mundo 37

Chenjerai Hove Tyrant

Why cry

for the wingless spirit bird?

Why cry

for the honeybird?

The king attends a funeral

and dances with his eyebrows,

his naked words

smelling of sandand gunpowder.

The polluted windonly

smells of lost dreams,

some kinds of amorphous declarations

about blood mixed with dance songs.

Our royal king

smokes a tired cigarette

and eats biscuits with a fork.

He lives in volcanic tempers,

sniffing the wind

for armed insurgency

in all locked places.

The king, he wears necklaces of bullets

his lips stiff with pronouncements.
Tomorrow's funeralis banned,

the corpse detained for further questioning.

(in wordswithoutborders http://www.wordswithoutborders.org/?lab=HoveTyrant)

"God does not even go to church" by The The in 1986 ... in novo mundo 36

PLEASE TURN IT ON...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DZhAAgjNM6Q&feature=related

in " as cores da infâmia" (AC) ... novo mundo 35

..."não era por gosto de estelas funerárias, nem para perfazer conhecimentos metafísicos no decurso de subtis conversações com os mortos, que o letrado Karamallah tinha escolhido domicílio neste cemitério de renome mundial desde que milhares de sem-abrigo aqui se haviam instalado sem pedir autorização a ninguém. (....) para karamallah, a escolha de tão austera residência tinha por origem o despotismo de um governo impermeável ao humor e ferozmente hostil a toda a informação de algum modo relacionada com a verdade (....)

"But for how much longer? (PW)... novo mundo 34

Per Wirtén

Unacknowledged, unseen, unmentioned
Poverty in Europe

Impoverished German children dream of the USA; one Greek person in four is behind with their most basic bills; sixty per cent of the poor in Romania have outdoor toilets. Cracks are appearing in Europe's beloved image of itself as the egalitarian alternative to the United States, writes Per Wirtén.

What do we really know about poverty in Europe? Not a lot. The constant flow of facts, images and stories from the other side of the Atlantic means I know more about American poverty than its European counterpart. There is a steady stream of books and articles about "the working poor" at Wal-Mart, Latinos in Los Angeles and Afro-Americans in run-down slum districts. How many of us have read books like Nickel and Dimed, Barbara Ehrenreich's account of struggling to get by in low-wage hell? Or avidly immersed ourselves in the slums of Baltimore in the TV series The Wire? (read the original text in: http://www.eurozine.com/articles/2008-01-25-wirten-en.html)

"A blind intelligence, true" (JH) ... novo mundo 33

Jane Hirshfield
Optimism

Optimism
More and more I have come to admire resilience.

Not the simple resistance of a pillow,

whose foam returns over and over to the same shape,

but the sinuous tenacity of a tree:

finding the light newly blocked on one side,

it turns in another.

A blind intelligence, true.

But out of such persistence arose turtles, rivers, mitochondria, figs--all this resinous, unretractable earth.

(in http://www.poetseers.org/contemporary_poets/jane_hirshfield/janep/optimism/)

"Two roads diverged in a wood" (RF)... novo mundo 32

Robert Frost
The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

(in http://www.poetseers.org/contemporary_poets/robert_frost_poems/the_road_not_taken)

"L'estude de Gargantua, selon la discipline de ses precepteurs (...) FR ...novo mundo 31

"LA VIE TRES HORRIFICQUE DU GRAND GARGANTUA PERE DE PANTAGRUEL.

Jadis composée par M. Alcofribas, abstracteur de Quinte Essence. Livre plein de Pantagruelisme.

AUX LECTEURS

Amis lecteurs, qui ce livre lisez,

Despouillez vous de toute affection;

Et, le lisant, ne vous scandalisez:

Il ne contient mal ne infection.

Vray est qu'icy peu de perfection

Vous apprendrez, si non en cas de rire;

Aultre argument ne peut mon cueur elire,

Voyant le dueil qui vous mine et consomme :

Mieulx est de ris que de larmes escripre,

Pour ce que rire est le propre de l'homme. (...) "

in (http://abu.cnam.fr/cgi-bin/donner_html?gargantua2, Rabelais, François - Edition Garnier (sans date, fin XIX)

Texte basé sur l'édition de François Juste, Lyon, 1542, dernier texte revu par Rabelais)

"I told her that I had no hamula" ... novo mundo 30

Elia Zureik
As a Palestinian Canadian sociologist living in Canada, it sometimes feels that the experience of passing though Ben Gurion airport and across Allenby bridge during regular journeys to Israel/Palestine over the past decade has taught me more about borders, identities and statehood than my scholarly work has. (read more :http://newhumanist.org.uk/796)

"get a feeling of independence and individuality on the web" ... novo mundo 29

Springerin 4/2007
Georg Schöllhammer, editor in chief of the Austrian art journal Springerin, was the brains behind the documenta 12 magazines project. Springerin now takes stock of this communicative networking project which set out to link up art journals from all over the world. Keiko Sei, one of the editors of the project, discusses the situation of online media in Southeast Asia. In cities such as Kuala Lumpur, Bangkok, or Jakarta, she writes, people make use of the possibilities of the Internet. This also goes for Rangoon in one of the most repressive countries in the region. They "get a feeling of independence and individuality on the web which stands in contrast to what is presented in the mass media." This virtual public space is approaching Habermas's idea of the public space, she finds. However, just as democracy in these regions is very young, so is this sphere of independent information and debate, with everyday dangers lurking, such as personal attacks and repression of those who think differently. (read more in:http://www.eurozine.com/journals/springerin/issue/2007-10-30.html)

"Gorgias is dying" (VH)... novo mundo 28

Vicente Herrasti from The Death of the Philosopher
Translated from the Spanish by Sylvia Sasson Shorris

TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: In 1996, a group of young Mexican writers published a manifesto about a new wave of Mexican writing in reaction to the Latin American Boom. They called themselves the Crack Generation. The name was a complex pun. The Mexican Nobelist Octavio Paz had described a new school of Mexican painting in reaction to the muralist tradition as La Ruptura (the Break). The Crack Generation used English, not Spanish, and made a pun on crack cocaine. No one among them was either a crack cocaine user or a traditional Mexican novelist. Several of them wrote about Central Europe. Vicente Herrasti set a novel, Diorama, in Scotland. Along with his novel Taxidermia (Taxidermy), it marked the beginning of an important career. Herrasti (b. 1967) recently published La Muerte del Filosofo (The Death of the Philosopher) to what can only be called rave reviews from Mexico's important critics. The novel covers the last days of the rhetorician and philosopher Gorgias, best known perhaps for the Platonic dialogue by that name. Relatively little is known about Gorgias and only a small amount of his work survives. The opening chapter, translated below, sets the scene in ancient Greece for the story of intrigue, treasure, philosophy, and murder that follows. In Spanish, Herrasti's style is complex, using a vast vocabulary. As is the custom set by Gregory Rabassa's translation of One Hundred Years of Solitude, the English used here is Anglo-Saxon rather than Latinate, although great effort has been made to hew closely to Herrasti's language rather than trying to "give the sense of the story in English." The Spanish for "banging their jaws" becomes "laughing their heads off" in English, but it is only such idioms that have been converted. Herrasti, who lives in Mexico City, is a translator as well as a novelist and the editor of one of the Mexican imprints of the Spanish firm Santillana. He is at work on another novel. (read more in: http://www.wordswithoutborders.org/?lab=DeathOfThePhilosophe)

"Archipelago Europe" (K.S.)...novo mundo 27

Karl Schlögel
Archipelago Europe
Instead of two homogeneous European regions -- "the East" and "the West" -- there are now fragments, enclaves, and islands. From Baden-Baden to Bucharest, Majorca to Moscow, Karl Schlögel experiences Europe as a series of distinct yet connected spaces.

[more http://www.eurozine.com/authors/schloegel.html]
12.10.2007

"Conservatives Are Such Jokers" (P. K.)... novo mundo 26

OP-ED COLUMNIST; Conservatives Are Such Jokers
By PAUL KRUGMAN
Published: October 5, 2007

In 1960, John F. Kennedy, who had been shocked by the hunger he saw in West Virginia, made the fight against hunger a theme of his presidential campaign. After his election he created the modern food stamp program, which today helps millions of Americans get enough to eat.
But Ronald Reagan thought the issue of hunger in the world's richest nation was nothing but a big joke. Here's what Reagan said in his famous 1964 speech ''A Time for Choosing,'' which made him a national political figure: ''We were told four years ago that 17 million people went to bed hungry each night. Well, that was probably true. They were all on a diet.''
Today's leading conservatives are Reagan's heirs. If you're poor, if you don't have health insurance, if you're sick -- well, they don't think it's a serious issue. In fact, they think it's funny.
On Wednesday, President Bush vetoed legislation that would have expanded S-chip, the State Children's Health Insurance Program, providing health insurance to an estimated 3.8 million children who would otherwise lack coverage.
In anticipation of the veto, William Kristol, the editor of The Weekly Standard, had this to say: ''First of all, whenever I hear anything described as a heartless assault on our children, I tend to think it's a good idea. I'm happy that the president's willing to do something bad for the kids.'' Heh-heh-heh.
Most conservatives are more careful than Mr. Kristol. They try to preserve the appearance that they really do care about those less fortunate than themselves. But the truth is that they aren't bothered by the fact that almost nine million children in America lack health insurance. They don't think it's a problem.
''I mean, people have access to health care in America,'' said Mr. Bush in July. ''After all, you just go to an emergency room.''
And on the day of the veto, Mr. Bush dismissed the whole issue of uninsured children as a media myth. Referring to Medicaid spending -- which fails to reach many children -- he declared that ''when they say, well, poor children aren't being covered in America, if that's what you're hearing on your TV screens, I'm telling you there's $35.5 billion worth of reasons not to believe that.''
It's not just the poor who find their travails belittled and mocked. The sick receive the same treatment.
Before the last election, the actor Michael J. Fox, who suffers from Parkinson's and has become an advocate for stem cell research that might lead to a cure, made an ad in support of Claire McCaskill, the Democratic candidate for Senator in Missouri. It was an effective ad, in part because Mr. Fox's affliction was obvious.
And Rush Limbaugh -- displaying the same style he exhibited in his recent claim that members of the military who oppose the Iraq war are ''phony soldiers'' and his later comparison of a wounded vet who criticized him for that remark to a suicide bomber -- immediately accused Mr. Fox of faking it. ''In this commercial, he is exaggerating the effects of the disease. He is moving all around and shaking. And it's purely an act.'' Heh-heh-heh.
Of course, minimizing and mocking the suffering of others is a natural strategy for political figures who advocate lower taxes on the rich and less help for the poor and unlucky. But I believe that the lack of empathy shown by Mr. Limbaugh, Mr. Kristol, and, yes, Mr. Bush is genuine, not feigned.
Mark Crispin Miller, the author of ''The Bush Dyslexicon,'' once made a striking observation: all of the famous Bush malapropisms -- ''I know how hard it is for you to put food on your family,'' and so on -- have involved occasions when Mr. Bush was trying to sound caring and compassionate.
(ver texto total http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9D04E6D71E30F936A35753C1A9619C8B63&n=Top/Opinion/Editorials%20and%20Op-Ed/Op-Ed/Columnists/Paul%20Krugman)

"what a free press really means: I would argue that it requires a certain absence of top-down corporate control and an easy access to the major news"

News 05.18.2007
Fears for Democracy in India Martha C. NussbaumThe Chronicle of Higher Education May 18, 2007

"On February 27, 2002, the Sabarmati express train arrived in the station of Godhra, in the state of Gujarat, bearing a large group of Hindu pilgrims who were returning from a trip to the purported birthplace of the god Rama at Ayodhya (where, some years earlier, angry Hindu mobs had destroyed the Babri mosque, which they claimed was on top of the remains of Rama's birthplace). The pilgrimage, like many others in recent times, aimed at forcibly constructing a temple over the disputed site, and the mood of the returning passengers, frustrated in their aims by the government and the courts, was angrily emotional. When the train stopped at the station, the Hindu passengers got into arguments with Muslim passengers and vendors. At least one Muslim vendor was beaten up when he refused to say Jai Sri Ram ("Hail Rama"). As the train left the station, stones were thrown at it, apparently by Muslims.
Fifteen minutes later, one car of the train erupted in flames. Fifty-eight men, women, and children died in the fire. Most of the dead were Hindus. Because the area adjacent to the tracks was made up of Muslim dwellings, and because a Muslim mob had gathered in the region to protest the treatment of Muslims on the train platform, blame was immediately put on Muslims. Many people were arrested, and some of those are still in detention without charge -- despite the fact that two independent inquiries have established through careful sifting of the forensic evidence that the fire was most probably a tragic accident, caused by combustion from cookstoves carried on by the passengers and stored under the seats of the train.
In the days that followed the incident, wave upon wave of violence swept through the state. The attackers were Hindus, many of them highly politicized, shouting slogans of the Hindu right, along with "Kill! Destroy!" and "Slaughter!" There is copious evidence that the violent retaliation was planned before the precipitating event by Hindu extremist organizations that had been waiting for an occasion. No one was spared: Young children were thrown into fires along with their families, fetuses ripped from the bellies of pregnant women. Particularly striking was the number of women who were raped, mutilated, in some cases tortured with large metal objects, and then set on fire. Over the course of several weeks, about 2,000 Muslims were killed.
Most alarming was the total breakdown in the rule of law -- not only at the local level but also at that of the state and national governments. Police were ordered not to stop the violence. Some egged it on. Gujarat's chief minister, Narendra Modi, rationalized and even encouraged the murders. He was later re-elected on a platform that focused on religious hatred. Meanwhile the national government showed a culpable indifference. Prime Minister Atal Behari Vajpayee suggested that religious riots were inevitable wherever Muslims lived alongside Hindus, and that troublemaking Muslims were to blame.
While Americans have focused on President Bush's "war on terror," Iraq, and the Middle East, democracy has been under siege in another part of the world. India -- the most populous of all democracies, and a country whose Constitution protects human rights even more comprehensively than our own -- has been in crisis. Until the spring of 2004, its parliamentary government was increasingly controlled by right-wing Hindu extremists who condoned and in some cases actively supported violence against minority groups, especially Muslims.
What has been happening in India is a serious threat to the future of democracy in the world. The fact that it has yet to make it onto the radar screen of most Americans is evidence of the way in which terrorism and the war on Iraq have distracted us from events and issues of fundamental significance. If we really want to understand the impact of religious nationalism on democratic values, India currently provides a deeply troubling example, and one without which any understanding of the more general phenomenon is dangerously incomplete. It also provides an example of how democracy can survive the assault of religious extremism.
In May 2004, the voters of India went to the polls in large numbers. Contrary to all predictions, they gave the Hindu right a resounding defeat. Many right-wing political groups and the social organizations allied with them remain extremely powerful, however. The rule of law and democracy has shown impressive strength and resilience, but the future is unclear.
The case of Gujarat is a lens through which to conduct a critical examination of the influential thesis of the "clash of civilizations," made famous by the political scientist Samuel P. Huntington. His picture of the world as riven between democratic Western values and an aggressive Muslim monolith does nothing to help us understand today's India, where, I shall argue, the violent values of the Hindu right are imports from European fascism of the 1930s, and where the third-largest Muslim population in the world lives as peaceful democratic citizens, despite severe poverty and other inequalities.
The real "clash of civilizations" is not between "Islam" and "the West," but instead within virtually all modern nations -- between people who are prepared to live on terms of equal respect with others who are different, and those who seek the protection of homogeneity and the domination of a single "pure" religious and ethnic tradition. At a deeper level, as Gandhi claimed, it is a clash within the individual self, between the urge to dominate and defile the other and a willingness to live respectfully on terms of compassion and equality, with all the vulnerability that such a life entails. (...)"
(ver final do texto: http://www.law.uchicago.edu/news/nussbaum-democracy-india/index.html)

Josephine tinha conhecido mal o tio... novo mundo 24

MALUART DE SOMESBY

Numa tarde de Abril, julga-se que passaram entretanto uns trinta e dois anos, o senhor Somersby deixara de fazer parte da memória dos vivos para se aninhar sob uma pequena lápide, apagada, muito comida pelo tempo. Josephine, a sua sobrinha predilecta, tentava, em vão, sublinhar os caracteres que singelamente Jonas, o seu irmão mais velho, e por isso também um sobrinho do senhor Somesby, tinha encomendado ao lapidador que cravara o pesado bocado de basalto embaciado pelo ar gelado daquela colina de Maluart. Quase imperceptível, do curto epitáfio constavam algumas palavras elogiosas “… Somersby, ilustre benemérito….”. Josephine dava voltas às suas memórias de criança. Nada. Não conseguia perceber o significado do discurso. As boas acções de Somersby teriam ficado guardadas como um bom segredo de família, não fosse, outrora, o tão distinto cavalheiro, ter entrado nas conversas rotineiras dos habitantes de Maluart.
Era um indivíduo afectado mas discreto, com os enormes olhos negros cor de azeitona, que tinha por hábito abanar vigorosamente a cabeça, da qual ainda pendiam alguns tufos acinzentados, cobrindo uma calvíce pouco desejada.
Josehine conhecera muito mal o tio. Mas sabia, todos tinham aliás ficado a saber, que Somersby cometera uma excelente proeza em nome do monarca de Benit, quando, cinco décadas antes, dirigira, por acaso, a defesa de Maluart, a capital do reino, contra a maior manifestação de insurrectos, promovida por uma centena dos prisioneiros mais violentos da cidade. Pediam luz, latrinas e pão. Somersby, perante a inactividade dos seus co-cidadãos, inclusive do rei de Benit, apresentava-se como a potencial chave para o problema. De antemão, não tinha como satisfazer os pedidos dos condenados Havia já dois anos que a capital estava submersa por uma estranha escuridão. Nem os mais reputados cientistas do país, ou todos aqueles que tinham sido enviados pelos monarcas estrangeiros, conseguiam encontrar explicação para o fenómeno. Os cidadãos livres, mas sobretudo os mais abastados, recorriam, conforme a fortuna, a sistemas alternativos de iluminação… combustíveis, velas, sentindo, porém, todos os dias, uma crescente apreensão. O stock atingia praticamente o seu limite. Ainda assim, habitavam em Maluart quinhentas pessoas, sem contar com todos os criminosos, que, talvez até superassem a população em liberdade, o que implicava um gigantesco consumo de energia, para um pequeno reino, que dependia integralmente do exterior. Benit comprava praticamente tudo aos seus vizinhos, excepto as suas requintadas mantas de lã de ovelha. Por outro lado, havia alguns meses que o moderno sistema de condutas de água e de saneamento ruíra, infestado por uma praga de armadilos, vindos ninguém conseguia saber de onde. Maluart era uma cidade moderna, longe de qualquer lixeira, suficientemente distante de tantas aldeias putrefactas do reino, para onde tinham sido atirados os homens e mulheres de moral duvidosa. Este era um rótulo algo ambíguo. Mas também uma afirmação que traduzia a vontade real.
Por último, mal não menor, o fabrico de pão constituía um enorme dilema. Somersby não dispunha de meios para aumentar a produção daquele alimento básico, não só dada a escassez de combustível, da água potável, mas também devido à fraca produção de cereais, cujas colheitas, devido à falta de luz natural e de água, definhavam de dia para dia.
O senhor Somersby via-se na contingência de lançar um plano muito pouco popular. Propor o envio dos condenados mais violentos para as mencionadas aldeias de moral duvidosa, ou ser ainda menos magnânimo, e sugerir medidas mais drásticas como o extermínio de, pelo menos, metade daqueles proscritos para assegurar a sobrevivência da restante população. Nenhuma das soluções se lhe apresentava interessante. Além de mais, era apenas provisória.
Uma tarde, Somersby resolveu falar com o monarca. Encontrou-o deitado numa chaise longue de damasco escarlate, que lhe fora oferecida pelo rei mais próximo, o seu primo Viziar. Parecia-lhe demasiado parado, quem sabe dormitando sobre os seus dissabores ou apenas entorpecido pelo calor do meio-dia. Somersby transpirava no seu fraque negro, muito alinhado, apesar da tremenda temperatura que, quer no caminho até à casa real, quer no interior do palácio, se fazia sentir. Naquele ano, a primavera mostrava-se particularmente quente para o habitual.
Meu Senhor, creio que foste informado que tínhamos audiência marcada para esta hora. Pelo menos assim o comuniquei ao Vosso primeiro-oficial.
Anuindo com a cabeça, o rei acenou-lhe, displicente, mostrando-lhe um confortável cadeirão, estrategicamente colocado ao lado da chaise longue onde se encontrava reclinado. Deveria sentar-se. E, de forma, que ele, o rei, não tivesse de denunciar qualquer movimento pouco satisfatório para o seu tão fatigado corpo. Todos aqueles problemas causavam-lhe uma terrível tensão mental e física, que o seu médico pessoal não se cansava de tentar resolver. Sem êxito. O rei deixara de puder praticar exercício, praticamente não bebia os seus habituais refrescos de framboesa batida em cubos de gelo de água do rio de Maluart – outrora conhecido pelos seus rápidos efeitos sobre os mais diversos achaques, graças às suas águas medicinais. Já nem sequer podia mordiscar os seus muffins preferidos, feitos de farinha de trigo e de avelãs, ao pequeno-almoço, porque o pasteleiro real reclamava sistematicamente contra a qualidade de toda a matéria-prima armazenada na dispensa do palácio.
Sua majestade estava de humor muito sombrio naquele início de tarde. Somersby receava não trazer boas notícias. No palácio apenas as moscas se deleitavam em mordiscar as mãos dos vassalos que abanavam em vão o monarca, com uns gigantescos leques oriundos do sudeste asiático, tentando diminuir os efeitos do calor.
Somersby afastava os insectos com um gesto rápido da testa, mas principalmente dos lábios. Teimosas, não desistiam de interromper a todo o custo o muito estudado discurso, que preparara para o rei. Na realidade, era mesmo muito breve o que tinha para lhe expor, demasiado inconclusivo para se tornar a solução para os mais prementes problemas do reino.
Que notícias me trazes Somersby? Espero que boas!
Senhor, não sei por onde hei-de começar. Nenhum dos vossos mais aptos cientistas, filósofos, teólogos, artesãos ou cidadãos honrados, consegue decifrar os males que nos atingem. Tenho debatido, com muitos deles, incansável, todas as questões, mas julgo que estamos a esgotar o tempo. Há já quem já afirme que um ou alguns de nós provocámos a ira de Deus.

"When was love ever so lucky" (RA)... novo mundo 23

Rafael Alberti The Return of Love up on the Roof
Translated from the Spanish by Carolyn L. Tipton

I am a man of many rooftops.

The whitest ones are set above the sea,

ready to cast off for the sun,

bearinglike sails their sheets hung out to dry.

Others open onto fields, but one,

though it looks out to mountains, opens only onto love.

It's this roof that returns to me the most.

There love tied back the tendrils of geraniums,

trailed the jasmine and the rose along the rail,

and in the burning night might come undone

in a sudden pouring shower of cooling rain.

Far off, the peaks that bore the weight

of the great stars watched over it.

When was love ever so lucky,

and when, amidst just-sprinkled

petals, possessed

with such force by the blood?

Train whistles floated up. Tremblings

of Chinese lanterns from the fairs, live

music, and the glow of lighted trees; these all

rose up, while comets came cascading down,

filling love's eyes in a flash

of fleeting splendour.

It was the sweetest epoch of my heart.

It all returns to me today, so distant

from where I am now, dreaming on this stump

beside a road that opens onto nothing.

Categories: Spanish, Poetry, Cities, Europe, From 1950 to 2000, Spain, Article, Rafael Alberti, Carolyn L. Tipton (read in: words without borders)

Herdeira de Marco Polo... novo mundo 22

Se tivesse nascido no tempo do célebre genovês, aquele que foi Mestre do comércio, seria homem, de preferência, e um dos potenciais descendentes masculinos, do célebre chefe das caravanas mais romanescas da História.

Pensando bem, dizia para si própria, um homem deambula por todos os caminhos sem o mínimo dos constrangimentos. Confraterniza com todos os seres do planeta com o à vontade de um Deus. A mulher, fragilizada ou não pela maternidade, não se pode dar ao prazer do nomadismo. Mantém raízes profundas com os seus progenitores, irmãos, filhos, netos, como uma erva daninha encravada nas profundezas da Terra.

Qual dos dois é o maldito e o abençoado, interrogava-se Gilda, olhando a noite cair, através da janela do seu quarto. O céu estrelado em nada contribuía, naquele preciso momento para decifrar o enigma, nem sequer o abandono ou a magnificência, despertadas pela escuridão. Não era dor, não sentia alegria. O ar inodoro inflamava-lhe duramente as narinas como as brasas de uma lareira em chamas. O corpo poderia ser de pedra, mas o coração crescia-lhe como uma bola em permanente expansão.

Tiksey bateu levemente à porta, por duas vezes, chamando-a para descer para o jantar. Pela porta entreaberta conseguia ouvir o fervilhar dos convidados dispersos pelo salão, reunidos para ali celebrar o aniversário do avô paterno, o senhor Moren. Um homem rígido, educado na maior disciplina, de cuja magnanimidade dependia o futuro da sua neta Gilda.

Antes de descer, ainda deu uma nova olhada pela janela, observando ao longe o desfilar dos faróis dos veículos, que, ferozes, circulavam pela via rápida. A longa estrada distava cerca de cinco quilómetros da casa grande, mas a limpidez da noite permitia ainda assim imaginar algumas das aventuras nocturnas dos condutores.

Norton e Gema cantarolavam “Sna juja, Sna juja”… excertos de uma exótica música, de tonalidades asiáticas, passava na rádio, enquanto no seu convertível vermelho cor de cereja, os dois percorriam o caminho em direcção à casa do senhor Moren. Gilda, a irmã mais nova, e o avô eram os únicos indivíduos da festa que conheciam, mas anuíram ao convite para estar presentes na festa.

Talvez conseguissem diminuir a ansiedade de Gilda, que, dentro de dois dias partiria numa viagem sem regresso….Não sabemos onde iria desembocar no final do trajecto.

O senhor Moren, o patriarca da casa, deixara bem claro, que, como qualquer mulher sozinha, e de meia-idade, já não dispunha de muitas alternativas. Ela não era rainha, nem secretária, nem médica, nem casada, nem coisa nenhuma, argumentara o avô. Quando ouvira estas palavras, Gilda fechara os olhos muito.

Sentada num banco do jardim, imaginando-se um jovem, e não a tal mulher de meia-idade, por momentos, ainda acreditou ter o privilégio de ser mais um dos membros da prole, não do senhor Moren

mas de Marco Pólo.

"There is another world parallel to this blunt reality" (CX)...novo mundo 21

Can Xue

Can Xue was born in 1953 and brought up by her somewhat squeamish grandma who also had some strange habits. The unusual life experiences left Can Xue with special characteristics.

Formerly a tailor by trade, Can Xue (whose real name is Deng Xiao-hua) only began writing fiction seriously in 1983. Can Xue (translated as "the dirty snow that refuses to melt") prolifically writes avant-garde short stories, novellas, novels, and critical commentaries on writers who have influenced her Gothic magic, such as Jorge Luis Borges, Franz Kafka, and Dante.

Her first Chinese work was published in 1985 while the English translation of Dialogues in Paradise, Can Xue's first collection of lyrical stories, appeared in 1989, followed by two novellas, Old Floating Cloud in 1991 and The Embroidered Shoes Collection of stories in 1997.



Can Xue's Soul Literature

Can Xue says her literature is soul literature that focuses on the human soul, not the outside superficial world. She has readily admitted to not being very concerned with national or even superficial political problems. Rather, she is interested in the psyche, which has revolutionary implications given China's previous artistic climate of socialist realism. She strongly aligns herself with Kafka and Borges, both of whom are part of the magical realist tradition.

She says she writes with the most feeling in contemporary Chinese literature, as she releases her reason and senses into unconscious writing. "When I write, I always imagine a person behind me, editing my words. This person controls my writing, so I think all of my work is from this conscience. There is always one very abstract person in my head. I battle with myself and the characters in my works."

She emphatically subscribes to the belief that "there is another world parallel to this blunt reality, and this dream world is much bigger and deeper. The soul world is much more important than this realistic world. Chinese people connect to the spirit of the self. Self-realization has been an important concept from ancient times until today."

Rejecting the real world, she expels all outside forces to write of the internal soul world. "I believe if you want to change the world, you have to change your soul first," Can Xue added enthusiastically. Expressing distaste for contemporary American literature, she added, "What I write dances from my heart. The writer fights with the self, but you can't control yourself to write." (read in: words without borders http://www.china.org.cn/english/NM-e/150961.htm)

"I try to imagine what to see" (MW-O)... novo mundo 20

Magnus William-Olsson (Analogia)
Translated from the Swedish by Rika Lesser

This poem could be a face

Not the right one, but the true one. Analogies deal with relationships that hold. It

Speaks. The poem's similarity to the face consists, among other things, in the poet's capacity to see it from inside and struggle to regard it as an outsider. Without

ever entirely succeeding. A mirror might be helpful.

In Pindar's seventh Nemean Ode he compares song to a mirror. Memory's. The face A sounding mirror. The poem. A mirror of sound. Can we call this an analogy?

I try to imagine what you see. How I look when I think of this topos of from inside or outside. To revealis to conceal. To oscillate between things which cannot be made one

As a metaphor for theoretical knowledge transparency is comically opaque, at least with respect to poetry. High clear space. Gaze deeply into the well of the poem, where the moon glitters in the black

water. I saw a long line of antique mirrors in the museum. Archeological goods, a dime a dozen. Burnished metal. Dark inside. But isn't song always transparent? Words never. Yes maybe

it is only when the poem longs for simplicity

that it can actually become like

like a face

From Ögonblicket är för Pindaros ett litet rum i tiden [The Moment for Pindar Is a Small Space in Time] (Stockholm: Wahlström & Widstrand, 2006). Copyright Magnus William-Olsson. Translation copyright 2007 by Rika Lesser. All rights reserved.
Read Magnus William-Olsson’s (Parousía) Categories: Poetry, Europe, From 2000 to Present, Sweden, Swedish, Literature, Memory, Language (read in: words without borders)

'la palabra florida' (NT)... novo mundo 19

Natalia Toledo Paz The Lemon Seller

Translated from the Spanish by Earl Shorris and Sylvia Sasson Shorris
Note: This poem was originally written in Zapoteco.

To travel the seas of silence

becoming nothing in the foam

as if the body could have no meaning.

The eyes attached to a ship,

and the fate in the balance

meets itself like a pendulum at the extremes.

To lose one’s self in a painting by Matisse

that the blind man showed us by the shape of the paper.

To make this journey

like one who remains in a drawing and never returns.

Originally published in La Palabra Florida, Year l, No.2, p. 16, México, Spring l997.Categories: Mexico,

Spanish, Poetry, Villages, Americas

(from: http://wordswithoutborders.org/?lab=TheLemonSeller)

'critical thinking ... elevating the public discourse' (MN)... novo mundo 18

This interview is part of the Institute's "Conversations with History" series, and uses Internet technology to share with the public Berkeley's distinction as a global forum for ideas.

Welcome to a Conversation with History. I'm Harry Kreisler of the Institute of International Studies. Our guest today is Martha C. Nussbaum, who is a philosopher, and the Ernst Freund Distinguished Service Professor of Law and Ethics at the University of Chicago. She is on the Berkeley campus to deliver the 2006-2007 Forester Lectures. Professor Nussbaum has made significant contributions to an array of disciplines, working within the fields of philosophy, law, classics, and political science. She has advanced the interdisciplinary study of ongoing problems in such areas as cognition and emotions, feminism, democracy, religion, and education, among others. Some of her publications include Upheavals of Thought: The Intelligence of Emotions, Cultivating Humanity: A Classical Defense of Reform of Liberal Education, The Fragility of Goodness: Luck and Ethics in Greek Tragedy and Philosophy, and Women and Human Development: The Capabilities Approach.
Background ... growing up in Bryn Mawr ... influence of parents ... feminist education ... professional actress ... studying classics and philosophy ... G.E.L. Owen and Bernard Williams ... feminist trailblazing at Harvard
Being a Philosopher ... Socrates ... feminism maturing into philosophy ... international social justice ... choosing philosophical questions ... emotions and politics ... Amartya Sen and the World Institute for Development Economics Research
The Rights and Capabilities of Women ... differences in feminist issues in different cultures ... issues in India ... thriving democracy ... obsolete economic measurements ... ten indicators of life quality ... the capabilities approach ... empirical research
The Role of Religion ... second-class status of women ... legitimacy of religious claims ... religious claims vs. ten indicators of human dignity ... the right of choice ... nonreligious authoritarian groups ... reforming law withing a religious culture ... male clerics ... diversity within tradition ... allowing the powerful to dominate the reform debate ... contestation
The Role of Law ... early U.S. focus on rape and sexual harassment ... successful changes in law ... law culture and norms in India ... Madisonian idea of equal liberty ... the case of Abbington v. Schempp ... emphasizing "equality" over "separation"
Conclusions ... advice for students ... liberal education ... reasoned debate ... world citizens ... imagination ... overemphasis on technological training ... critical thinking ... elevating the public discourse ... corporate-run media. (read more: http://globetrotter.berkeley.edu/people6/Nussbaum/nussbaum-con0.html)

'The conflict is tragic; not for nothing is Antigone a tragedy' (CM)... novo mundo 17

Claudio Magris
The Fair of Tolerance
Essay for the Erasmus Prize 2001
Tolerance and its contradictions constitute a universal problem, which today confronts both conscience and legislation with an urgency hitherto unparalleled in history, writes Claudio Magris. A united Europe will find its universal principles - the core of a tolerance that is more than nobly rhetorical - put to a severe test. Only if the objective difficulties are not underrated can one hope to overcome them.

(read more: http://www.eurozine.com/articles/2001-12-27-magris-en.html)

'How much more grievous are the consequences of anger than the causes of it...novo mundo 16

'How are people supposed to pursue long-term goals if they constantly have to re-organise their lives and re-orient themselves?'

Klaus Ronneberger
The art of not becoming accustomed to anything
Precarious employment in flexible capitalism
Interns, temporary agency workers, people on job creation schemes, and pseudo-freelances make up the vast reserve army of workers in precarious employment. For the majority, standards such as productivity or flexibility have become second nature. In this respect, they are the avant-garde of post-Fordism, constantly opening up new avenues of self-exploitation.

(read more:http://translate.eipcp.net/transversal/0107/melitopoulos/en)

One lives several worlds at the same time....novo mundo 15

01 2007
Timescapes. The Logic of the Sentence
Translated by Aileen Derieg
Angela Melitopoulos

There is more logic in a sentence than in a speech.[1]

Instead of explaining everything with the purportedly imperative law of evolutionthat demands the reproduction of phenomena as a whole and their identical repetitionin a certain order, and instead of explaining the small with the large,the detail with the bulk, I explain the similarities of the entirety with the joining of small,elementary actions, the large with the small, the bulk with the detail. [2](Gabriel Tarde)
Timescapes[3] investigates non-linear editing as a constituent force of what is held in common against the power politics of segmenting memory, communication and the spaces of imagining; video production is understood here as memory work, which develops the potential of mnemonic narrative and assesses geography not through the representation of a filmed object, but rather through narrative structures and editing strategies arising through the emotions of the image streams.
Vectors of time in the image (its becoming, its history, its associative potential) can be formed in the editing: what is to resonate between the current image, its mnemonic potential and its future appearance, and what is present as the possibility of an artistic and ethical decision, is the work of editing. What is contained in this as subjectivity cannot simply be reduced to an individual comparison of current and virtual experiences of time, because our intellectual work is bound to the capacity of our action and “subjectivity is never only ours”, for “it is time”[4]. The mode of access in editing affords us the possibility of drawing conclusions about the relationship between the spaces of imagining, geography and image spaces. The essential capital of video technology lies in the possibility of shaping movement that is found in thought and making it accessible to us as a topology of times.
(read more: http://translate.eipcp.net/transversal/0107/melitopoulos/fr)

And such was the nature of the cursers’ final evocations ... novo mundo 14

Ismail Kadare The Abolition of the Profession of Curser
Translated from the Albanian by John K. Cox

Other rumors might have circulated widely in earlier periods, but without a doubt these new ones should have produced the greatest effect. The current reports concerned the abolition of the office of curser. Their effect should have been as great on those whom this eventuality could not fail to vex as on those who were ready to delight in it. The former group included, first and foremost, the individuals directly concerned, as well as their friends and relations. Among the latter were die-hard liberals, punctilious critics, and that host of irresponsible men who rejoiced at every shock to the established order, and every suppression of a guild, be it even of bakers. (read more: http://wordswithoutborders.org/?lab=KadareCurser)

my father wanted to teach me... novo mundo 13

Nachoem M. Wijnberg Song
Translated from the Dutch by David Colmer

I saw a shop

went in and bought something

I had forgotten I already had.

I stood in the shop

and there was nothing else

I could remember that I needed.

But what do

I do with two of them

except wait

for one to break?
My father wanted

to teach me about money,

that’s why

he refusedto give me something.
He gave me money

and pointed to a shop,

go in and ask for what you want.

To read Nachoem M. Wijnberg’s “Quiet,” please click here.

was this going to be ...? novo mundo 12

Robert Gray Should Americans Read More Literature in Translation?
Should Americans read more world literature to rip away the blinders we so often wear when it comes to those who are “not like us”? “Yes” is the quick answer, the answer that salves our collective conscience, but it is that word should that has begun to bother me. Should has not gathered as many dedicated readers of works in translation as, well, as it should have. The proof is in the numbers. (read more in: http://wordswithoutborders.org/?lab=ShouldAmericans)

watch too: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aEQfNc205x0

3 mini-romeo... novo mundo 9

Jogos de mulheres

Palmas das mãos, negras, gretadas, viradas para cima. Cartas de jogar enrugadas, amarelecidas e praticamente ilegíveis. Tabuleiros de gamão descascados, empoeirados, deixando prever ainda muito uso. No bazar perpendicular à muralha, misturam-se prognósticos de grandes amores e de elevadas fortunas, de sangrentas vendettas e de casamentos firmados sobre gordos maços de rupias. Uma mulher, de estatura mediana, envergando uma blusa branca, calças de caqui e com a cabeça coberta com um longo lenço castanho cor de mel, ajeita no nariz os óculos de armações grossas e escuras. Os turbantes multicolores dos anciãos movem-se ao mesmo ritmo dos seus gestos graves mas alegres. Aqueles anciãos, que ali se acomodam há já uma vida, sorriem-lhe deixando espreitar para profundas cavidades escuras e dentes de uma brancura reluzente. Sente-se Senhora, partilhe uma chávena de chá e um joguinho. O seu guia, desesperado, tenta dissuadi-la. Uma gota daquele líquido infecto pode provocar-lhe uma longa e dolorosa disenteria. Rute aceita. Senta-se, cruzando as pernas delicadas sobre o solo duro, caindo por momentos sobre um dos homens mais novos. Desfigurado pela cegueira, e pelo corpo mal nutrido, ele ri, ri, descaradamente. Faz muito tempo que não experimenta sequer um mínimo contacto com um indivíduo do outro sexo. Com a face enrubescida pelo toque do corpo feminino, desvia sorrateiramente o que lhe resta do olhar, procurando algo através da blusa da mulher, tecida num algodão impenetrável ao calor, aos insectos e aos esgares mais ousados dos homens do país.
Malik senta-se ao lado de Rute, esperando que esta, após ter bebido a última gota, dê início à inevitável procura de uma latrina no meio daquele descampado de porcaria. Impávida, ela declina brandamente o convite seguinte, um jogo de gamão. Faz-se tarde. Tenho de me pôr ao caminho. Deixe-me ler a sua mão, pede-lhe um palmista. Só lhe custa uma rupia. Não vale a pena. Só a Deus cabe dar as cartas do futuro, diz muito séria, perante grande desânimo do mago, conformado, porém a contra gosto, com as convicções disputadas pelos seus companheiros.
Vamos Malik. Regressam pelo caminho inverso, perdendo-se desta vez pela avenida dos vendedores de perfumes contrafeitos e das pipocas azuis, violetas e carmins. A mistura de odores é estonteante, mais ainda quando se aproximam das fossas abertas.
Um rickshaw passa tão rápido como se fosse conduzido por um anjo maltrapilho. Stop, diz Rute, que salta feliz para a parte traseira do veículo, enquanto Malik lhe lança muitas reprimendas “Mulher, uma estrangeira, não faz figuras dessas”.
Impassível, uma anciã, de cabelos grisalhos apanhados no topo da cabeça, envergando uma schalwar kamiz florida, cruza-se com eles, num passo sereno. Olha Rute sem pestanejar, atirando-lhe um sorriso estranho. “Finalmente, descobriste a tua liberdade”.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8GxrXKnJeG4

Or was it for another reason...novo mundo 8

A PRIMEIRA QUEDA
Ariel montava um certo cavalo de dorso macio, um puro-sangue, castanho-escuro. Inicialmente muito devagar. Meia hora depois, atreveu-se, dando-lhe com as esporas e pô-lo a trotar ao ritmo britânico. O andamento não era suficiente. Experimentou o galope. Por pouco tempo. Caiu sobre o seu lado esquerdo, rolando por breves segundos ao longo de uma duna. Ficou com o nariz enterrando na espuma de uma onda que se desfez na areia. O ventre doía-lhe. A tarde caiu, o sol desceu no horizonte, mas o calor arrebatador de uma qualquer tarde do mês de Agosto, no meio do areal, provocava-lhe uma profunda angústia. Ariel tenta levantar-se. Em vão. Sente as pernas, os braços, as mãos adormecidas. Cai num torpor profundo. Reabre os olhos na noite escura e por momentos não recorda nenhum dos acontecimentos daquela tarde. Não imagina como chegou ali. Não há sinais do cavalo castanho. Apenas se ouvem os sons das ondas, agora mais longe, e mais espaçadas. A maré desceu, o movimento das águas abrandou. Não sabe sequer o nome da praia, da cidade mais próxima. Não sabe que se chama Ariel. Muito menos que é o primeiro homem a pisar o planeta Terra.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qNR4ER9tC6A

Is dna cool?... novo mundo 7

AFOGAMENTO

Mantém-se os laços. Cumprem-se os acordos entre o velho Senhor e o Jovem que, todas as manhãs, o observa da outra margem do rio.
Um Jovem pálido, escanzelado, mas vigoroso. Talvez com um metro e setenta de altura e cinquenta e cinco quilos de peso. O corpo começa a dar passos lentos, fazendo justiça a uma diáfana beleza mediada pela luz solar, que lhe imprime uma luminosidade pouco vulgar naquela aldeia, desprezada, pobre, maldita. Ou até, amaldiçoada pelos Deuses.
O velho, mais antigo do que velho, olha-o, procurando alcançar com as mãos o que não pode tocar. A pele suave, levemente marcada pelo azul das múltiplas veias, engana, por momentos, a magreza do Jovem.
Senhor Oliver, Senhor Oliver, veja onde põe os pés. Desse lado, as areias são frágeis, misturam-se facilmente com as poeiras daquela usina, diz Joubert, apontando para o fundo, para longe, tentando alcançar o sítio de onde se observa o horizonte, e onde se ergue uma construção de chaminés que mal se vislumbra, tão enegrecida pelo fumo que transpira do interior do gigantesco imóvel.
O Senhor Oliver dá um passo, dois, ao terceiro hesita, mas continua. A firmeza da terra não difere muito da do seu próprio esqueleto. Por isso, nem dá conta que ao quarto passo se afunda no matagal líquido.
Joubert atira-se à água, dando violentas braçadas para tentar resgatar o velho, não, o antigo Oliver. Uma, duas, três, e começa a perder o fôlego. A sua falta de treino ainda é mais forte do que a sua compleição física. O Senhor Oliver, submerso, estende uma mão trémula. Joubert tenta agarrá-la. O peso do velho Oliver empurra-o para o fundo do rio. Joubert junta-se-lhe num abraço aflito, sem saber se deve dar o seu melhor para tentar novamente erguê-lo ou livrar-se dele. Acabam os dois sem ar… mas, antes de fechar definitivamente os olhos, Joubert encara o outro homem sem admiração…”Eu sou o senhor Oliver com menos cinquenta anos”.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mxIxuvUyw14

La eternidad y un dia ... novo mundo 6

Lee Seong-Bok that dark cold blue
(Translated from the Korean by Eun-Gwi Chung and Myung Mi Kim)

Winter day, under a short tree

The quick hurried steps

That dark cold blue light
Drawn out by a fleeting glimpse

The light entered me

Stayed and lived in me
There are certain lights, so short

One can see them only sometimes

Crouching low, tilting the head up

Categories: Poetry, Asia, Korean, South Korea, Seasons

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8VF48LWXCjU

the prisoner dreamed that he was in prison... novo mundo 5

sound track of a new world...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vY1itfRFcO0

That prisoner dreamed that he was in prison. Naturally, the dreams had details and patterns. For example, on the wall of the dream there was a poster from Paris; on the real wall there was only a dark water stain. Running along the floor of the dream was a wall lizard; looking at him from the real floor was a rat.
The prisoner dreamed that he was in prison. Someone was massaging his back and he was starting to feel better. He couldn’t see who it was, but he was sure it was his mother, who was an expert at that. The morning sun entered through the wide window and he welcomed it like a sign of liberty. When he opened his eyes, there was no sun. The small barred window (sixteen by twenty-four inches) led to an air shaft, to another wall of shadow.
The prisoner dreamed that he was in prison, that he was thirsty and was drinking an abundant amount of ice water. And the water was immediately streaming from his eyes in the form of tears. He knew why he was crying, but he wouldn’t confess this even to himself. He looked at his idle hands, the ones that before had constructed torsos, chalk faces, legs, bound bodies, marble women. When he awoke, his eyes were dry, his hands were dirty, the door hinges were rusty, his pulse was racing, his lungs had no air, and the ceiling was leaking.
At that point, the prisoner decided that it was better to dream that he was in prison. He closed his eyes and saw himself with a photograph of Milagros in his hands. But he wasn’t satisfied with just the photograph. He wanted Milagros in person, and she appeared with a big smile and a sky-blue nightgown. She approached so that he could remove it, and of course, he did so. Naturally, Milagros’ nakedness was miraculous and he was observing her with total recall and complete joy. He didn’t want to wake up, but he did, a few seconds before the dreamlike, virtual orgasm. And no one was there; no photograph, no Milagros, no sky-blue nightgown. He accepted that solitude could be unbearable.
The prisoner dreamed that he was in prison. His mother had stopped the massages, among other activities, because she had died years before. He was overcome by nostalgia for her look, her singing, her lap, her caresses, her reproaches, her forgiveness. He hugged himself, but it wasn’t the same. Milagros was waving good-bye from very far away. To him it looked like it was from a cemetery. But that couldn’t be. It was from a park. But there wasn’t any park in the cell, so that even though he was inside the dream, he was aware that’s what it was: a dream. He raised his arm to wave good-bye also. But his hand was only a fist, and, as is well known, fists haven’t learned to wave good-bye.
When he opened his eyes, the familiar old cot gave off a stark chill. Trembling and numb, he tried to warm his hands with his breath. But he couldn’t breathe. There, in the corner, the rat continued to look at him; it was just as cold as he was. He moved a hand and the rat moved a leg forward. They were old acquaintances. Sometimes, he would hurl a piece of his horrible, despicable food toward it.
Despite that, the prisoner missed the green and very agile lizard of his dreams and fell asleep to retrieve it. He discovered that the lizard had lost its tail. A dream like that was no longer worth dreaming. Nevertheless, he started to use his fingers to count the number of years he had left: One, two, three, four, and woke up. It was six total, and he had completed three. He counted again, but now with his fingers awake.
He didn’t have a radio, nor a watch, nor books, nor a pencil, nor a notebook. Sometimes, he would sing softly to precariously fill the void. But he was remembering fewer and fewer songs. As a child he had also learned a few prayers that his grandmother had taught him. But now, who was he going to pray to? He felt deceived by God, but he also didn’t want to deceive God.
The prisoner dreamed that he was in prison and that God would arrive and he would confess to Him that he felt tired, that he suffered from insomnia and that that exhausted him, and that sometimes, when he was finally able to fall asleep, he would have nightmares in which Jesus would ask God for help from the cross, but God was preoccupied and wouldn’t render it.
“Worst of all,” God would tell him, “is that I don’t have a God to entrust myself to. I’m like an Orphan with a capital O.” The prisoner felt pity for that very lonely and abandoned God. In any case, he understood that God’s illness was solitude, because His unwithering and perpetual fame as the Supreme frightened the saints, the regulars as well as the substitutes. When he woke up and remembered that he was an atheist, he stopped feeling pity for God, and instead felt pity for himself, confined, lonely, and immersed in filth and tedium.
After countless dreams and vigils, there came an afternoon when he was shaken awake without the customary abruptness and told by a guard to get up because he had been granted his freedom. The prisoner convinced himself that he wasn’t dreaming only when he felt the coldness of the cot and verified the eternal presence of the rat. He greeted it with pity and then went with the guard so that he could be given his clothes, some money, his watch, a pen, a leather wallet, the little that had been confiscated from him when he was jailed.
No one was waiting for him upon his exit from the prison. He started walking. He walked for about two days, sleeping on the side of the road or among the trees. In a bar on the outskirts, he ate two sandwiches and drank a beer which had an old, recognizable taste. When he finally arrived at his sister’s house, she almost fainted from the surprise. They remained in an embrace for about ten minutes. After she cried for a while, she asked him what he planned to do. “For now, a shower and sleep, I’m very exhausted,” he replied. After he showered, she led him up to the attic, where there was a bed, not a filthy cot, but a clean bed, soft and decent. He slept for more than twelve hours straight. Strangely, during that long rest, the ex-prisoner dreamed that he was in prison, with a wall lizard and everything.
First published in Buzón de Tiempo: Cuentos (Buenos Aires: Seix Barral, 1999). Copyright 1999 by Mario Benedetti. By arrangement with the author. Translation copyright 2007 by Harry Morales. All rights reserved. Categories: Spanish, Fiction, Americas, From 1950 to 2000, Uruguay, Torture, Politics, Dreams, Turmoil, Love, Truth, Irony, Freedom, Memory, Captivity, Prison

Rachida Madani Tales of a Severed Head, I...novo mundo 4

What city and what night
since it's night in the city
when a woman and a train-station argue over
the same half of a man who is leaving.
He is young, handsome
he is leaving for a piece of white bread.
She is young, beautiful as a springtime
cluster
trying to flower for the last time
for her man who is leaving.
But the train arrives
but the branch breaks
but suddenly it's raining in the station
in the midst of spring.
And the train emerges from all directions
It whistles and goes right through the woman
the whole length of her.
Where the woman bleeds, there will never be spring
Again.
in the night, in her head, under the pillow
trains pass filled with men
filled with mud
and they all go through her
the whole length of them.
How many winters will pass, how many snowfalls
before the first bleeding letter
before the first mouthful of white bread?
For the next poem in this sequence, click here. Categories: Poetry, Cities, Africa, Morocco, French, From 2000 to Present

in time to come... novo mundo 3

"When Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from troubled dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a monstrous insect. He was lying on his hard shell-lie back and by lifting his head a little he could see his curved brown belly, divided by stiff arching ribs, on top of which the bed-quilt was precariously poised and seemed about to slide off completely (...)". Franz Kafka