Parece automático agora para maioria das pessoas ir ao aeroporto e ser acometido pela preocupação patriótico-cidadã de nãovaidartempo, imaginanacopa, etc. Já eu acho que se desse tudo certo na copa (hahahahahaha) e o país desse uma boa impressão para estrangeiros seria como ir visitar uma família em que o pai espanca todos os dias os filhos e a esposa exceto no dia de visita e tá lá todo mundo bonitinho e sorrindo pros convidados.
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"Sou contra este governo que está aí. Quero a volta do governo que perseguia e torturava as pessoas que eram contra o governo!". E esse povo, todos os seis, doze, trinta infelizes que conseguem reunir nas capitais do país, ainda vira notícia.
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Dica: não escolham para mestrado um assunto que está quase fazendo aniversário. Depois da defesa, você tendo ânsia só de ouvir palavras-chaves aparentadas do assunto, noticiários e papos zeitgeistianos ficam ainda mais chatos de aturar.
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Uns meses atrás queriam tirar a palavra "crazy" para falar negativamente de mulheres. Desmerece sentimentos, etc. Hoje querem tirar a palavra "bossy" (mandona). Vamos fundar um movimento de vanguarda e banir todas as palavras possivelmente negativas quando nos referirmos às mulheres?
(O que mais me espanta é o nível computador-usando-searchwords de entendimento de comunicação humana)
(O que mais me espanta é o nível computador-usando-searchwords de entendimento de comunicação humana)
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Trechos do Blood Meridian, relido por mim nesses dias:
"Eram terras remotas para novidades os lugares em que ele passava e naqueles tempos incertos homens brindavam a ascenção de regentes já depostos e saudavam a coroação de reis assassinados e em suas sepulturas"
"Em uma parte elevada da beira ocidental do lago seco eles passaram por uma cruz de madeira grosseira onde Maricopas haviam crucificado um Apache. O corpo mumificado dependurado na arvorecruz com sua boca escancarada em um buraco cru, uma coisa de couro e osso desengordurada pelos ventos pedra-pomes que saem do lago e a árvore pálida de suas costelas aparecendo pelos farrapos que se dependuravam de seu peito."
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Pedacinho do Revolutionary Road, do Yates
"And how could he ever tell April that these abysmally sentimental words had sent an instantaneous rush of blood to the walls of his throat? How could he ever explain, without bringing down her everlasting scorn, that for a minute he was afraid that he might weep into his melting chocolate ice cream?"
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A man in his life - Yehuda Amichai (tr. Chana Bloch & Stephen Mitchell)
A man doesn't have time in his life
to have time for everything.
He doesn't have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.
A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.
A man doesn't have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.
And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.
He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there's time for everything.
to have time for everything.
He doesn't have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.
A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.
A man doesn't have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.
And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.
He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there's time for everything.
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