sexta-feira, 26 de setembro de 2008

¿Qué es el arte?, reflexiones de Tolstoi

¿Qué es el arte?, reflexiones de Tolstoi*

"Sobre esta aptitud del hombre para experimentar los sentimientos que experimenta otro, está fundada la forma de actividad que se llama arte. Pero el arte propiamente dicho no empieza hasta que aquel experimenta una emoción y, queriendo comunicarla a otros, recurre para ello a signos exteriores. Tomemos un ejemplo bien sencillo. Un niño ha tenido miedo de encontrarse con un lobo y explica su encuentro; y para evocar en sus oyentes la emoción que ha experimentado, les describe los objetos que le rodeaban, la selva, el estado de descuido en que se hallaba su espíritu, luego la aparición del lobo, sus movimientos, la distancia que les separaba, etcétera. Todo esto es arte, si el niño, contando su aventura, pasa de nuevo por los sentimientos que experimentó, y si sus oyentes, subyugados por el sonido de su voz, sus ademanes y sus imágenes, experimentan sensación análoga. Incluso si el niño no ha visto jamás un lobo, pero tiene miedo de encontrarlo, y deseando comunicar a otros el miedo que ha sentido, inventa el encuentro con un lobo, y lo cuenta de modo que comunique a sus oyentes el miedo que siente, todo esto será también arte. Arte hay en que un hombre, habiendo experimentado miedo o deseo, en realidad o imaginativamente, exponga sus sentimientos en la tela o en el mármol, de modo que los haga experimentar por otros. Hay arte si un hombre siente o cree sentir emociones de alegría, de tristeza, desesperación, valor o abatimiento, así como la transmisión de una de esas emociones a otros, si expresa todo esto por medio de sonidos que permitan a otros sentir lo que sintió.

Los sentimientos que el artista comunica a otros pueden ser de distinta especie, fuertes o débiles, importantes o insignificantes, buenos o malos; pueden ser de patriotismo, de resignación, de piedad; pueden expresarse por medio de un drama, de una novela, de una pintura, de un baile, de un paisaje, de una fábula. Toda obra que los expresa así es obra de arte.

Desde que los espectadores o los oyentes experimentan los sentimientos que el autor expresa, hay obra de arte.

Evocar en sí mismo un sentimiento ya experimentado y comunicarlo a otros por medio de líneas, colores, imágenes verbales, tal es el objeto propio del arte. Esta es una forma de la actividad humana, que consiste en transmitir a otro los sentimientos de un hombre, conciente y voluntariamente por medio de ciertos signos exteriores. Los metafísicos se engañan viendo en el arte la manifestación de una idea misteriosa de la Belleza o de Dios; el arte tampoco es, como pretenden los tratadistas de estética fisiólogos, un juego en el que el hombre gasta su exceso de energía; tampoco es la expresión de las emociones humanas por signos exteriores; no es tampoco una producción de objetos agradables; menos aún es un placer: es un medio de fraternidad entre los hombres que les une en un mismo sentimiento, y por lo tanto, es indispensable para la vida de la humanidad y para su progreso en el camino de la dicha."

*León Tolstoi (1828-1910) fue destacado escritor ruso, autor de obras extraordinarias como Ana Karenina y La guerra y la paz.

FOR YOU, by Francisco Vaz Brasil


Francisco Vaz Brasil

Who has a passion, loss the reason. In a beautiful day I met you. We were happy for some moments. I and live each one of these moments for all my life.

For you I traverse the Amazon River

in a canoe of Jatobá,

to catch with fish hook,

the Pirarucu for dinner.

For you I engraves unsay words

And poematize the poem

As did it Cabral

To tell you about tenderness

And emotions more intimates

from my soul

For you,

I traverse the Andes, ocean, grammars

Storms and blood’s springs

In searching of tiara that best decorate

Your hair, my princess

For you,

I prospect the emerald most pure

I dance the Tango on the Buenos Aires’ sidewalks

I dress na Armani dark-blue

And will be your Don Juan conquering you

For you

I invade the Dante Hells

I die at the Sena waters, like Celan,

I catch bulls in the Madrid arenas

I’ll go to the sacrifice by French guillotine

For you

I buy a palace in Damasco

And a theater in Paris.

I pick up the Saint-Exupèry stars

And I make a bracelet to put it in your left pulse

(I know you love bracelets)

For you I sing the songs of canaries and acauãs

And the songs more tenderly beautiful and sensual

To complete your moments

I’m your composer to involve you in verses

I’m your painter, I’ll eternalize you in my eyes

I’ll be your preferred actor and rockman

‘Cause since I kissed you at first time

My world thus changed, and I stayed crazy, crazy for you

And all I need is you!

segunda-feira, 22 de setembro de 2008

Elizabeth Barrett Browning - Some Poems

She was the most romantic poet from Victorian Era. I hope you enjoy these works. They're so beautiful.

XLIII. "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..."

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

Como te amo? A translation of. XLIII. "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..."

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Como te amo? Deixa-me contar de quantas maneiras.
Amo-te até ao mais fundo, ao mais amplo
e ao mais alto que a minha alma pode alcançar
buscando, para além do visível dos limites
do Ser e da Graça ideal.
Amo-te até às mais ínfimas necessidades de todos
os dias à luz do sol e à luz das velas.
Amo-te com liberdade, enquanto os homens lutam
pela Justiça;
Amo-te com pureza, enquanto se afastam da lisonja.
Amo-te com a paixão das minhas velhas mágoas
e com a fé da minha infância.
Amo-te com um amor que me parecia perdido - quando
perdi os meus santos - amo-te com o fôlego, os
sorrisos, as lágrimas de toda a minha vida!
E, se Deus quiser, amar-te-ei melhor depois da morte.

XLIV. "Belovèd, thou hast brought me many flowers..."
Belovèd, thou hast brought me many flowers
Plucked in the garden, all the summer through
And winter, and it seemed as if they grew
In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers.
So, in the like name of that love of ours,
Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too,
And which on warm and cold days I withdrew
From my heart's ground. Indeed, those beds and bowers
Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue,
And wait thy weeding; yet here's eglantine,
Here's ivy!---take them, as I used to do
Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine.
Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true,
And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine.

XLII. "'My future will not copy fair my past'..."

'My future will not copy fair my past'---
I wrote that once; and thinking at my side
My ministering life-angel justified
The word by his appealing look upcast
To the white throne of God, I turned at last,
And there, instead, saw thee, not unallied
To angels in thy soul! Then I, long tried
By natural ills, received the comfort fast,
While budding, at thy sight, my pilgrim's staff
Gave out green leaves with morning dews impearled.
I seek no copy now of life's first half:
Leave here the pages with long musing curled,
And write me new my future's epigraph,
New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!

XLI. "I thank all who have loved me in their hearts..."

I thank all who have loved me in their hearts,
With thanks and love from mine. Deep thanks to all
Who paused a little near the prison-wall
To hear my music in its louder parts
Ere they went onward, each one to the mart's
Or temple's occupation, beyond call.
But thou, who, in my voice's sink and fall
When the sob took it, thy divinest Art's
Own instrument didst drop down at thy foot
To hearken what I said between my tears, . . .
Instruct me how to thank thee! Oh, to shoot
My soul's full meaning into future years,
That they should lend it utterance, and salute
Love that endures, from Life that disappears!

XL. "Oh, yes! they love through all this world of ours..."

Oh, yes! they love through all this world of ours!
I will not gainsay love, called love forsooth.
I have heard love talked in my early youth,
And since, not so long back but that the flowers
Then gathered, smell still. Mussulmans and Giaours
Throw kerchiefs at a smile, and have no ruth
For any weeping. Polypheme's white tooth
Slips on the nut if, after frequent showers,
The shell is over-smooth,---and not so much
Will turn the thing called love, aside to hate
Or else to oblivion. But thou art not such
A lover, my Belovèd! thou canst wait
Through sorrow and sickness, to bring souls to touch,
And think it soon when others cry 'Too late.'

XXXIX. "Because thou hast the power and own'st the grace..."

Because thou hast the power and own'st the grace
To look through and behind this mask of me
(Against which years have beat thus blanchingly
With their rains), and behold my soul's true face,
The dim and weary witness of life's race,---
Because thou hast the faith and love to see,
Through that same soul's distracting lethargy,
The patient angel waiting for a place
In the new Heavens,---because nor sin nor woe,
Nor God's infliction, nor death's neighbourhood,
Nor all which others viewing, turn to go,
Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed,---
Nothing repels thee, . . . Dearest, teach me so
To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, good!

XXXVIII. "First time he kissed me, he but only kissed..."

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed
The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;
And ever since, it grew more clean and white,
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its 'Oh, list,'
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,
Than that first kiss. The second passed in height
The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,
Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed!
That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown,
With sanctifying sweetness, did precede.
The third upon my lips was folded down
In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,
I have been proud and said, 'My love, my own.'

XXXVII. "Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make..."

Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make
Of all that strong divineness which I know
For thine and thee, an image only so
Formed of the sand, and fit to shift and break.
It is that distant years which did not take
Thy sovranty, recoiling with a blow,
Have forced my swimming brain to undergo
Their doubt and dread, and blindly to forsake
Thy purity of likeness and distort
Thy worthiest love to a worthless counterfeit:
As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe in port,
His guardian sea-god to commemorate,
Should set a sculptured porpoise, gills a-snort
And vibrant tail, within the temple gate.

XXXVI. "When we met first and loved, I did not build..."

When we met first and loved, I did not build
Upon the event with marble. Could it mean
To last, a love set pendulous between
Sorrow and sorrow? Nay, I rather thrilled,
Distrusting every light that seemed to gild
The onward path, and feared to overlean
A finger even. And, though I have grown serene
And strong since then, I think that God has willed
A still renewable fear . . . O love, O troth . . .
Lest these enclaspèd hands should never hold,
This mutual kiss drop down between us both
As an unowned thing, once the lips being cold,
And Love be false! if he, to keep one oath,
Must lose one joy, by his life's star foretold.

XXXV. "If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange..."

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
And be all to me? Shall I never miss
Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss
That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange,
When I look up, to drop on a new range
Of walls and floors, another home than this?
Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is
Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change?
That's hardest. If to conquer love, has tried,
To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove;
For grief indeed is love and grief beside.
Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love.
Yet love me---wilt thou? Open thine heart wide,
And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove.

XXXIV. "With the same heart, I said, I'll answer thee..."

With the same heart, I said, I'll answer thee
As those, when thou shalt call me by my name---
Lo, the vain promise! is the same, the same,
Perplexed and ruffled by life's strategy?
When called before, I told how hastily
I dropped my flowers or brake off from a a game,
To run and answer with the smile that came
At play last moment, and went on with me
Through my obedience. When I answer now,
I drop a grave thought, break from solitude;
Yet still my heart goes to thee---ponder how---
Not as to a single good, but all my good!
Lay thy hand on it, best one, and allow
That no child's foot could run fast as this blood.

XXXIII. "Yes, call me by my pet-name! let me hear..."

Yes, call me by my pet-name! let me hear
The name I used to run at, when a child,
From innocent play, and leave the cowslips piled,
To glance up in some face that proved me dear
With the look of its eyes. I miss the clear
Fond voices which, being drawn and reconciled
Into the music of Heaven's undefiled,
Call me no longer. Silence on the bier,
While I call God---call God!---So let thy mouth
Be heir to those who are now exanimate.
Gather the north flowers to complete the south,
And catch the early love up in the late.
Yes, call me by that name,---and I, in truth,
With the same heart, will answer and not wait.

XXXII. "The first time that the sun rose on thine oath..."

The first time that the sun rose on thine oath
To love me, I looked forward to the moon
To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon
And quickly tied to make a lasting troth.
Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe;
And, looking on myself, I seemed not one
For such man's love!---more like an out-of-tune
Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth
To spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste,
Is laid down at the first ill-sounding note.
I did not wrong myself so, but I placed
A wrong on thee. For perfect strains may float
'Neath master-hands, from instruments defaced,---
And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat.

XXXI. "Thou comest! all is said without a word..."

Thou comest! all is said without a word.
I sit beneath thy looks, as children do
In the noon-sun, with souls that tremble through
Their happy eyelids from an unaverred
Yet prodigal inward joy. Behold, I erred
In that last doubt! and yet I cannot rue
The sin most, but the occasion---that we two
Should for a moment stand unministered
By a mutual presence. Ah, keep near and close,
Thou dovelike help! and, when my fears would rise,
With thy broad heart serenely interpose:
Brood down with thy divine sufficiencies
These thoughts which tremble when bereft of those,
Like callow birds left desert to the skies.

XXX. "I see thine image through my tears to-night..."

I see thine image through my tears to-night,
And yet to-day I saw thee smiling. How
Refer the cause?---Belovèd, is it thou
Or I, who makes me sad? The acolyte
Amid the chanted joy and thankful rite
May so fall flat, with pale insensate brow,
On the altar-stair. I hear thy voice and vow,
Perplexed, uncertain, since thou art out of sight,
As he, in his swooning ears, the choir's amen.
Belovèd, dost thou love? or did I see all
The glory as I dreamed, and fainted when
Too vehement light dilated my ideal,
For my soul's eyes? Will that light come again
As now these tears come---falling hot and real?


John Cheever - (1912-1982)

John Cheever
Born May 27, 1912, in Quincy, Massachusetts
Died June 18, 1982 (aged 70), of cancer in Ossining, New York.
Occupation short story writer, novelist
Influences: Anton Chekhov, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway
Influenced: Michael Chabon
I. Biography
On May 27, 1912 in Quincy, Massachusetts, John Cheever was born to Frederick and Mary Cheever. John Cheever was very close to older brother Frederick when they were young. John Cheever attended Thayer Academy in Milton, Massachusetts as a teenager until he was expelled at age seventeen for smoking and bad grades.
After his expulsion, John Cheever moved in with his brother, Frederick, who was seven years his senior. In the 1930's, the two brothers moved to Boston, Massachusetts. While in Boston, John Cheever met Hazel Hawthorne, the wife of a famous biographer. She helped him with his writing and provided him with jobs, even after he moved to New York.
In New York, John Cheever met Malcolm Cowley, the editor of the New Republic. Cowley encouraged Cheever to attend Yaddo Writers' Colony in Saratoga Springs, which was run by Elizabeth Ames. Cheever left Yaddo after a month because Ames thought he was spending too much time at the local racetrack. He did return many times after that, though, to work as a handyman.
On March 22, 1941, John Cheever married Mary Winternitz, an instructor of literature at Briarcliff College. From 1941 until 1945, Cheever served in the military, fighting in World War II. He moved to Scarborough, New York in 1950 and taught advanced literary composition at Barnard College in 1955. He and his family spent a year in Italy before permanently moving to Ossining, New York. Cheever, his wife, and his three children, Susan, Ben, and Frederico spent most of their summers at Newfound Lake, New Hampshire.
When John Cheever was sixty, he suffered a massive heart attack and spent many weeks of recovery in the Memorial Hospital in Tarrytown, NY. In 1975, Cheever checked himself into Smithers, an alcoholic rehabilitation center in New York City, for one month. John Cheever died on June 18, 1982 in Ossining, New York.

II. Professional Life
John Cheever's first story to be published was entitled "Expelled," which was about his experience of being expelled from Thayer Academy. It was published in the New Republic October 1, 1930. He signed the story "Jon Cheever".
When Cheever was living in Boston, he was working for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. He would read books and then write synopses of those that were possible Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer screenplays. At the age of twenty-two, Cheever had a story published for the first time in The New Yorker, "Brooklyn Rooming House." The New Yorker then went on to publish one hundred and twenty of Cheever's stories.
In 1951, John Cheever began to receive numerous awards. He was made a Guggenheim fellow. "The Five-Forty-Eight ," won the Benjamin Franklin magazine award in 1955 and "The Country Husband" won the O. Henry Award in 1956. He was elected to the National Institute of Arts and Letters in 1957 and then elevated to American Academy of Arts and Letters in 1973. "The Wapshot Chronicle" won the National Book Award in 1957 and "The Wapshot Scandal" received the American Academy of Arts and Letters Howells Medal in 1965. In 1964, Time magazine put forth a cover story on Cheever's life and writings.
The Wapshot Chronicle is a 1957 novel by John Cheever about an eccentric family who live in a Massachusetts fishing village. It won a National Book Award in 1958 and was followed by a sequel during 1964, The Wapshot Scandal.
The Wapshot Chronicle is the sometimes-humorous story of Leander Wapshot and his sons, Moses and Coverly, as they deal with life. The story is somewhat autobiographical, particularly regarding the character of Coverly, who, like Cheever, experiences feelings of bisexuality.
The novel was Cheever's first, though he had previously written short stories. It was also the first novel selected for the Book of the Month Club to include the obscene word "fuck."
His book Falconer was classified by The New York Times list one of 100 Best Book of all times.
John Cheever was an American writer known for his keen, often critical, view of the American middle class. Known primarily for his short stories, his attention to detail and careful writing found the extraordinary in the ordinary. “I have been a storyteller since the beginning of my life, rearranging facts in order to make them more significant. I have improvised a background for myself - genteel, traditional - and it is generally accepted." - John Cheever, in his journal, 1961.

From the TIME Archive:
Cheever's great strength has always been his ability to charge both the ordinary and the fanciful with emotion
<> (NYTimes)
III. Works by John Cheever

"O City of Broken Dreams." The New Yorker (January 24, 1948)
"Goodbye, My Brother." The New Yorker ( August 25, 1951)
"Artemis, the Honest Well Digger." Playboy (1973)
"The Chimera." The New Yorker (1973)
"The Fourth Alarm." Esquire (1973)
"The Geometry of Love." The Saturday Evening Post (1973)
"The Jewels of the Cabots." Playboy (1973)
"Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin." The New Yorker (1973)
"Montraldo." The New Yorker (1973)
"Percy." The New Yorker (1973)
"Three Stories." Playboy (1973)
"The World of Apples." Esquire (1973)
"Another Story." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Angel of the Bridge." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Brigadier and the Gold Widow." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Bella Lingua." The New Yorker (1978)
"Brimmer." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Bus to St. James's." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Chaste Clarissa." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Children." The New Yorker (1978)
"Christmas Is a Sad Season for the Poor." The New Yorker (1978)
"Clancy in the Tower of Babel." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Common Day." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Country Husband." The New Yorker (1978)
"Boy in Rome." The New Yorker (1978)
"Clementina." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Cure." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Day the Pig Fell into the Well." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Death of Justina." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Duchess." The New Yorker (1978)
"An Educated American Woman." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Enormous Radio." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Five-Forty-Eight." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Golden Age." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Hartleys." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Housebreaker of Shady Hill." The New Yorker (1978)
"Just One More Time." The New Yorker (1978).
"Just Tell Me Who It Was." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Lowboy." The New Yorker (1978)
"Marito in Città." The New Yorker (1978)
"Metamorphoses." The New Yorker (1978)
"A Miscellany of Characters That Will Not Appear." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Music Teacher." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Ocean." The New Yorker (1978)
"O Youth and Beauty!" The New Yorker (1978)
"The Pot of Gold." The New Yorker (1978)
"Reunion." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Scarlet Moving Van." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Seaside Houses." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Season of Divorce." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Sorrows of Gin." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Summer Farmer." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Sutton Place Story." The New Yorker ( 1978)
"The Superintendent." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Swimmer." The New Yorker (1978)
"Torch Song." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Trouble of Marcie Flint." The New Yorker (1978)
"A Vision of the World." The New Yorker (1978)
"A Woman Without a Country." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Worm in the Apple." The New Yorker (1978)
"The Wrysons." The New Yorker (1978)