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By Shakespeare

Sonnet #13

XIII.



O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are

No longer yours than you yourself here live:

Against this coming end you should prepare,

And your sweet semblance to some other give.

So should that beauty which you hold in lease

Find no determination: then you were

Yourself again after yourself's decease,

When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.

Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,

Which husbandry in honour might uphold

Against the stormy gusts of winter's day

And barren rage of death's eternal cold?

O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know

You had a father: let your son say so.

Miss Brill

Miss Brill- ENG 210  

Katherine Mansfield

Miss Brill

Although it was so brilliantly fine - the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques - Miss Brill was glad that she had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and again a leaf came drifting - from nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill put up her hand and touched her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to feel it again. She had taken it out of its box that afternoon, shaken out the moth-powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life back into the dim little eyes. "What has been happening to me?" said the sad little eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap at her again from the red eiderdown! ... But the nose, which was of some black composition, wasn't at all firm. It must have had a knock, somehow. Never mind - a little dab of black sealing-wax when the time came - when it was absolutely necessary ... Little rogue! Yes, she really felt like that about it. Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could have taken it off and laid it on her lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking, she supposed. And when she breathed, something light and sad - no, not sad, exactly - something gentle seemed to move in her bosom.
     There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday. And the band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the Season had begun. For although the band played all the year round on Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It was like some one playing with only the family to listen; it didn't care how it played if there weren't any strangers present. Wasn't the conductor wearing a new coat, too? She was sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster about to crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at the music. Now there came a little "flutey" bit - very pretty! - a little chain of bright drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head and smiled.

<  2  >

     Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his hands clasped over a huge carved walking-stick, and a big old woman, sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on her embroidered apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss Brill always looked forward to the conversation. She had become really quite expert, she thought, at listening as though she didn't listen, at sitting in other people's lives just for a minute while they talked round her.
     She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too, hadn't been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and his wife, he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and she button boots. And she'd gone on the whole time about how she ought to wear spectacles; she knew she needed them; but that it was no good getting any; they'd be sure to break and they'd never keep on. And he'd been so patient. He'd suggested everything - gold rims, the kind that curved round your ears, little pads inside the bridge. No, nothing would please her. "They'll always be sliding down my nose!" Miss Brill had wanted to shake her.
     The old people sat on the bench, still as statues. Never mind, there was always the crowd to watch. To and fro, in front of the flower-beds and the band rotunda, the couples and groups paraded, stopped to talk, to greet, to buy a handful of flowers from the old beggar who had his tray fixed to the railings. Little children ran among them, swooping and laughing; little boys with big white silk bows under their chins, little girls, little French dolls, dressed up in velvet and lace. And sometimes a tiny staggerer came suddenly rocking into the open from under the trees, stopped, stared, as suddenly sat down "flop," until its small high-stepping mother, like a young hen, rushed scolding to its rescue. Other people sat on the benches and green chairs, but they were nearly always the same, Sunday after Sunday, and - Miss Brill had often noticed - there was something funny about nearly all of them. They were odd, silent, nearly all old, and from the way they stared they looked as though they'd just come from dark little rooms or even - even cupboards!

<  3  >

     Behind the rotunda the slender trees with yellow leaves down drooping, and through them just a line of sea, and beyond the blue sky with gold-veined clouds.
     Tum-tum-tum tiddle-um! tiddle-um! tum tiddley-um tum ta! blew the band.
     Two young girls in red came by and two young soldiers in blue met them, and they laughed and paired and went off arm-in-arm. Two peasant women with funny straw hats passed, gravely, leading beautiful smoke-coloured donkeys. A cold, pale nun hurried by. A beautiful woman came along and dropped her bunch of violets, and a little boy ran after to hand them to her, and she took them and threw them away as if they'd been poisoned. Dear me! Miss Brill didn't know whether to admire that or not! And now an ermine toque and a gentleman in grey met just in front of her. He was tall, stiff, dignified, and she was wearing the ermine toque she'd bought when her hair was yellow. Now everything, her hair, her face, even her eyes, was the same colour as the shabby ermine, and her hand, in its cleaned glove, lifted to dab her lips, was a tiny yellowish paw. Oh, she was so pleased to see him - delighted! She rather thought they were going to meet that afternoon. She described where she'd been - everywhere, here, there, along by the sea. The day was so charming - didn't he agree? And wouldn't he, perhaps? ... But he shook his head, lighted a cigarette, slowly breathed a great deep puff into her face, and even while she was still talking and laughing, flicked the match away and walked on. The ermine toque was alone; she smiled more brightly than ever. But even the band seemed to know what she was feeling and played more softly, played tenderly, and the drum beat, "The Brute! The Brute!" over and over. What would she do? What was going to happen now? But as Miss Brill wondered, the ermine toque turned, raised her hand as though she'd seen some one else, much nicer, just over there, and pattered away. And the band changed again and played more quickly, more gayly than ever, and the old couple on Miss Brill's seat got up and marched away, and such a funny old man with long whiskers hobbled along in time to the music and was nearly knocked over by four girls walking abreast.

<  4  >

     Oh, how fascinating it was! How she enjoyed it! How she loved sitting here, watching it all! It was like a play. It was exactly like a play. Who could believe the sky at the back wasn't painted? But it wasn't till a little brown dog trotted on solemn and then slowly trotted off, like a little "theatre" dog, a little dog that had been drugged, that Miss Brill discovered what it was that made it so exciting. They were all on the stage. They weren't only the audience, not only looking on; they were acting. Even she had a part and came every Sunday. No doubt somebody would have noticed if she hadn't been there; she was part of the performance after all. How strange she'd never thought of it like that before! And yet it explained why she made such a point of starting from home at just the same time each week - so as not to be late for the performance - and it also explained why she had quite a queer, shy feeling at telling her English pupils how she spent her Sunday afternoons. No wonder! Miss Brill nearly laughed out loud. She was on the stage. She thought of the old invalid gentleman to whom she read the newspaper four afternoons a week while he slept in the garden. She had got quite used to the frail head on the cotton pillow, the hollowed eyes, the open mouth and the high pinched nose. If he'd been dead she mightn't have noticed for weeks; she wouldn't have minded. But suddenly he knew he was having the paper read to him by an actress! "An actress!" The old head lifted; two points of light quivered in the old eyes. "An actress - are ye?" And Miss Brill smoothed the newspaper as though it were the manuscript of her part and said gently; "Yes, I have been an actress for a long time."
     The band had been having a rest. Now they started again. And what they played was warm, sunny, yet there was just a faint chill - a something, what was it? - not sadness - no, not sadness - a something that made you want to sing. The tune lifted, lifted, the light shone; and it seemed to Miss Brill that in another moment all of them, all the whole company, would begin singing. The young ones, the laughing ones who were moving together, they would begin, and the men's voices, very resolute and brave, would join them. And then she too, she too, and the others on the benches - they would come in with a kind of accompaniment - something low, that scarcely rose or fell, something so beautiful - moving ... And Miss Brill's eyes filled with tears and she looked smiling at all the other members of the company. Yes, we understand, we understand, she thought - though what they understood she didn't know.

<  5  >

     Just at that moment a boy and girl came and sat down where the old couple had been. They were beautifully dressed; they were in love. The hero and heroine, of course, just arrived from his father's yacht. And still soundlessly singing, still with that trembling smile, Miss Brill prepared to listen.

     "No, not now," said the girl. "Not here, I can't."

     "But why? Because of that stupid old thing at the end there?" asked the boy. "Why does she come here at all - who wants her? Why doesn't she keep her silly old mug at home?"

     "It's her fu-ur which is so funny," giggled the girl. "It's exactly like a fried whiting."

     "Ah, be off with you!" said the boy in an angry whisper. Then: "Tell me, ma petite chere--"

     "No, not here," said the girl. "Not yet."

 

On her way home she usually bought a slice of honey-cake at the baker's. It was her Sunday treat. Sometimes there was an almond in her slice, sometimes not. It made a great difference. If there was an almond it was like carrying home a tiny present - a surprise - something that might very well not have been there. She hurried on the almond Sundays and struck the match for the kettle in quite a dashing way.

     But to-day she passed the baker's by, climbed the stairs, went into the little dark room - her room like a cupboard - and sat down on the red eiderdown. She sat there for a long time. The box that the fur came out of was on the bed. She unclasped the necklet quickly; quickly, without looking, laid it inside. But when she put the lid on she thought she heard something crying. 

A verdadeira biografia de Parmenides!

           O seguinte texto foi produzido por Henrique: Após fazer a última prova da disicplina teoria do conhecimento, resolví escrever uma homenagem a um dos grandes filósofos que estudamos juntos com o professor Yuri. Confiram a verdadeira biografia de Parmenides.

Parmenides ( 530 a.C - 460 a.C¹)

Vida


Filósofo, musico, poeta, vendedor de din din, matemático, gari, atendente de loja de roupa e motorista de lotação, José Gonzaga Leite Coutinho Pereira Mota (Parmênides) nasceu em Longnus pat caralium, atual Quixeramobim. No começo teve uma infância difícil marcada pelo preconceito por gostar de grupos musicais considerados afeminados na época, como: Sir. Justin Biba, e a banda pagã Fresno, que mais tarde, deu origem a primeira revolução de queima roscas da historia os Emo’s ( Sigla que significa Eu masturbo outros).


Aos 18 anos se dedicou a filosofia e a pintura em tecido. Ganhou fama pela suas idéias ( e panos de pratos decorados), sendo que dois anos depois, a mando do pai ingressou na FESCREG – Faculdade escrota da Grécia, no entanto abandonou a carreira acadêmica alegando falta de pergaminhos didáticos e presença constantes de ratos e animais peçonhentos no local de estudo.


Casou a força com um velho esquema aos 29 anos após ter engravidado a menina depois de uma transa usando um pacote de macarrão como camisinha (alegava ter um pênis que media cinco caixas de fósforos).







Na Musica

Além de vários outros bicos, Parmênides também atuou no mundo da musica. Com fortes influencias de cantores da época como: Bartreou Gallennu, Ammado Baptista, Kazusa, Sândiy Junius e Jó Helma dê Calypso.


Criou letras e versos famosos, que tiveram grande repercussão entre os seus contemporâneos e são cantados e recitados até hoje.

ΣΤΟ ΣΤΟΜΑ ΣΟΥ εγώ με τη σειρά ΦΡΟΥΤΑ

“Na sua boa eu viro fruta, chupa que é de uva...”



Αγάπη σας παρακαλώ να μην κολλάει επάνω, είμαι γυναίκα σου και είσαι ο άνθρωπός μου

“Amor, por favor, não desligue o telefone, eu sou sua mulher e você é o meu homem...”



E o seu famoso verso: Dig Dig Joy, Dig Joy, boy, boy. (Até hoje com tradução desconhecia)







Teoria

Foi discípulo de Platão e anteriormente de Chuck Norris, cansado de assistir o canal do boi em um domingo quente na cidade de Cu est mundi, hoje conhecida como Quixadá, Parmênides resolveu parar de coçar o saco e começou a pensar em uma maneira de encontrar um jeito de explicar a essência do ser, não para causar revolução nas idéias da época, mas simplesmente para complicar a vida de universitários como eu e você.

A idéia de Parmênides era basicamente a de que o ser está em constante movimento, o ser nunca é o mesmo, está sempre mudando, ou seja, o ser é e não é ao mesmo tempo e pronto. Em uma palestra, pediram para que explicasse melhor suas idéias, Parmênides, muito calmo, mandou todo mundo se lascar e ainda ameaçou chamar Chuck Norris. A partir daí nenhum homem em sã consciência questionou seus ensinamentos.






Morte

Após ingerir uma porção de baião com ovo, um copo de farinha de pipoca e ainda chupar manga e depois beber leite, Parmênides sofreu de um terrível ataque de “fininha” e faleceu aos 75 anos atolado no banheiro de sua casa enquanto defecava.

Foi enterrado no cemitério de sua terra natal, perto de seus ídolos, ícones da poesia internacional, Xandy do Avião, e Taty Girl.







Curiosidades

René Descartes baseou seus estudos em Parmênides para lançar a célebre frase: "Penso, logo existo”, na qual partindo desse pressuposto, Latino, Carla Perez e Gugu são apenas seres da imaginação fértil da sociedade.




O msn de Parmênides é: Parmen_100%forró@hotmail.com



Parmênides e Aristóteles criaram uma banda de swingueira na adolescência chamada “Sex Philosofos” na qual ele era o vocalista e Aristóteles tocava birinbau. A banda repercutiu por três anos entre os gregos, criando sucessos como “ΣΟΥ εγώ” ( Rebolation), entre outros.



¹ a.C - Antes de Chuck









Henrique Gomes da Silva Júnior.

Lovecraft

"A emoção mais forte e mais antiga do homem é o medo, e a espécie mais forte e mais antiga de medo é o medo do desconhecido. Poucos psicólogos contestarão esses fatos e a sua verdade admitida deve firmar para sempre a autenticidade e dignidade das narrações fantásticas de horror como forma literária" - Howard Phillips Lovecraft, "O Horror Sobrenatural na Literatura".

Samuel Beckett

Samuel Beckett foi um dos fundadores do teatro do absurdo e é considerado um dos principais autores do século 20. Sua obra foi traduzida para mais de trinta idiomas. Beckett nasceu numa família burguesa e protestante, e em 1927 graduou-se em literatura no Trinity College de Dublin, onde estudou também italiano e francês.Em 1928, foi lecionar em Paris, onde conheceu James Joyce, de quem se tornou amigo. Durante o ano de 1930 Beckett lecionou na Irlanda. Nessa época escreveu o estudo crítico "Proust", comentando a obra do grande escritor francês.No ano seguinte Samuel Beckett fixou residência em Paris e escreveu a sua primeira novela, "Dream of Fair to Middling Women", que seria publicada somente depois de sua morte. Em 1933, voltou a Dublin, por motivos familiares, mas retornou a Paris em 1938. Nessa época, levou, de um estranho, uma facada no peito e ficou gravemente ferido. No início da Segunda Guerra Mundial, Beckett vinculou-se à Resistência Francesa, juntamente com sua esposa, Suzanne Deschevaux-Dusmenoil. Em 1942 foi obrigado a fugir para Vichy, onde escreveu parte da novela "Watt".A partir de 1945, o seu idioma literário passou a ser o francês. Entre 1951 e 1953 escreveu uma trilogia ("Molloy", "Malone Morre" e "L'Innommable"), cujo tema é a solidão do homem. Com "Esperando Godot", Beckett iniciou, ao mesmo tempo que Ionesco, o teatro do absurdo.Posteriormente ainda escreveu, além de algumas obras narrativas, diversas peças teatrais, como "Fim de Festa", "Ato sem Palavras" e "Os Dias Felizes".Em 1969, Beckett ganhou o Prêmio Nobel de Literatura. Durante a vida escreveu poemas e textos em prosa, como romances, novelas, contos e ensaios, além de textos para o teatro, o cinema, o rádio e a televisão.Samuel Beckett morreu em 1989, cinco meses depois de sua esposa. Foi enterrado no cemitério de Montparnasse.

Fonte:http://educacao.uol.com.br/biografias/ult1789u804.jhtm

FELICIDADE REALISTA

FELICIDADE REALISTA
(Mário Quintana)

A princípio bastaria ter saúde, dinheiro e amor, o que já é um pacote
louvável, mas nossos desejos são ainda mais complexos.
Não basta que a gente esteja sem febre: queremos, além de saúde, ser
magérrimos, sarados, irresistíveis.
Dinheiro? Não basta termos para pagar o aluguel, a comida e o cinema:
queremos a piscina olímpica e uma temporada num spa cinco estrelas.
E quanto ao amor? Ah, o amor... não basta termos alguém com quem
podemos conversar, dividir uma pizza e fazer sexo de vez em quando.
Isso é pensar pequeno: queremos AMOR, todinho maiúsculo.
Queremos estar visceralmente apaixonados, queremos ser surpreendidos por
declarações e presentes inesperados, queremos jantar a luz de velas de segunda a
domingo, queremos sexo selvagem e diário, queremos ser felizes assim e não de
outro jeito.
É o que dá ver tanta televisão. Simplesmente esquecemos de tentar ser
felizes de uma forma mais realista.
Ter um parceiro constante pode ou não, ser sinônimo de felicidade.
Você pode ser feliz solteiro, feliz com uns romances ocasionais, feliz com
um parceiro, feliz sem nenhum.
Não existe amor minúsculo, principalmente quando se trata de amor-próprio.
Dinheiro é uma benção.
Quem tem, precisa aproveitá-lo, gastá-lo, usufruí-lo.
Não perder tempo juntando, juntando, juntando.
Apenas o suficiente para se sentir seguro, mas não aprisionado.
E se a gente tem pouco, é com este pouco que vai tentar segurar a onda,
buscando coisas que saiam de graça, como um pouco de humor, um pouco de fé e um
pouco de criatividade.
Ser feliz de uma forma realista é fazer o possível e aceitar o improvável.
Fazer exercícios sem almejar passarelas, trabalhar sem almejar o estrelato,
amar sem almejar o eterno.
Olhe para o relógio: hora de acordar É importante pensar-se ao extremo,
buscar lá d entro o que nos mobiliza, instiga e conduz, mas sem exigir-se
desumanamente.
A vida não é um jogo onde só quem testa seus limites é que leva o
prêmio.
Não sejamos vítimas ingênuas desta tal competitividade.
Se a meta está alta demais, reduza-a.
Se você não está de acordo com as regras, demita-se.
Invente seu próprio jogo.
Faça o que for necessário para ser feliz.
Mas não se esqueça que a felicidade é um sentimento simples, você pode
encontrá-la e deixá-la ir embora por não perceber sua simplicidade.
Ela transmite paz e não sentimentos fortes, que nos atormenta e
provoca inquietude no nosso coração.
Isso pode ser alegria, paixão, entusiasmo, mas não felicidade

HI!

Neste fim de semana fiz uma viagem para a casa de alguns de meus familiares e lá chegando encontrei um livro ao qual eu não estava muito interessada em lê-lo, mas após muita insistência de meu primo li o "bendito" livro.

Este livro é intitulado de A CABANA apesar de receber muitas criticas por provocar ofensas a certas instituições religiosas eu o considero muito interessante, não um melhores livros que li na minha vida, mas quem não quiser ler por motivos religiosos que leia então só por entretimento ,pois este é um daqueles livros que depois que você começa a ler só quer parar quando enfim termina.

Bem esta é minha dica de leitura da semana!!!!

Boas leituras!!