segunda-feira, 28 de setembro de 2015

sexta-feira, 25 de setembro de 2015

Grace Kelly Wins Best Actress: 1955 Oscars

Grace Kelly Wins Best Actress: 1955 Oscars

Audrey Hepburn Wins Best Actress: 1954 Oscars

Lily Allen - Somewhere Only We Know Lyrics (Le Petit Prince )

Aprenderas -Carta a un amigo- William Shakespeare (Maravilloso texto)

Pablo Neruda : Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche .

Me gustas cuando callas - Neruda

Te Amo - Pablo Neruda

Te Amo - Pablo Neruda

quinta-feira, 24 de setembro de 2015

terça-feira, 22 de setembro de 2015

sábado, 19 de setembro de 2015

Trovas & Quase trovas, francisco vaz brasil

Trovas & Quase trovas
francisco vaz brasil

fui visitar um shopping
e agora eu sei o que lá tem
tem muita gente bonita
e no bolso nenhum vintém...

tu pensas que me enganas
és alma sem coração
não sejas pia de igreja
onde todos lavam a mão

muié feia e burro velho
são fontes de desenganos
eu gosto é de galopar
e de velhas de vinte anos...

quando voltamos do banho
na praia de marudá,
eu parecia faminto
e tu me deste uma banana
- te convidei pra casar

um dia te vi na praia
tão linda, de pernas pra fora
naquele momento pensei
- meus pais ganharam uma nora

Quem quiser ter vida longa
Não faça compras em feira
Fuja de jogo do bicho,
De gente feia e fofoqueira...

Eu pensei em nunca mais
dar adeus pra ninguém
Quem vai saudades leva,
    Quem fica, saudade tem...

The Lost Landscape,’ by Joyce Carol Oates - By EMILY FOX GORDON

‘The Lost Landscape,’ by Joyce Carol Oates

“Ringed by forbidden territories she nevertheless set out to explore.” Credit Corbis

Joyce Carol Oates is an ambivalent memoirist. In “The Lost Landscape: A Writer’s Coming of Age,” she repeatedly ex­presses her doubts about first-person autobio­graphical writing. For one thing, she’s deeply wary of the confessional voice. For another, she has little faith in the reliability of memory. While she can vouch for the accuracy of “A Widow’s Story,” her 2011 account of the aftermath of her first husband’s death, which she based on contemporaneous journals, she can hardly back up this latest memoir with documentation. No small child, not even a Joyce Carol Oates, could be expected to take notes all day. Yet another problem: The memoirist is obliged to leave things out. “To charges of distortion,” she writes, “I can only say — mea culpa.”

This apology is tongue-in-cheek — Oates is not so much admitting fault as complaining that memoir is a compromised and compromising genre — but her tone grows more serious when she speaks of memoiristic betrayals. “Nothing,” she writes, “is more offensive than an adult child exposing his or her elderly parents to the appalled fascination of strangers.” This is a little high-minded for most memoirists, but Oates shows her true alienation from the genre when she observes that “not individuals but rather events and occasions — prevailing ‘themes’ — are what engage me most as a writer, for nothing merely particular and private can be of more than passing interest.” Here is a true fiction writer’s credo. For the memoirist, nearly the opposite is true. Especially in a memoir of childhood, the mission is to preserve the private and the particular, to make the transitory eternal.

In spite of these anti-memoiristic rumblings, “The Lost Landscape” remains indisputably a memoir. Like many these days, it’s not continuous, and is composed almost entirely of previously published essays. In this case, some reach back to the 1990s and even the 1980s. The greater part of the book is arranged chronologically. Small, tightly focused pieces alternate with substantial narratives to make a satisfying whole, giving the reader a coherent account of Oates’s childhood and adolescence. The last quarter is a pastiche of pieces and fragments without a through-line.

For all of Oates’s doubts about the primacy of the particular and the private, “The Lost Landscape” is full of specifically memoiristic pleasures. She offers pungent details about the small New York State farm where she was raised: Roosters chase away barn cats, hens attack one another, Bartlett pears begin to soften and bruise the moment they ripen. Her characterizations of her parents are blurred by filial reverence, but she gives the reader a good hard look at her Hungarian grandparents. A short piece called “The Brush” neatly captures Oates’s rough, dirty, handsome, teasing grandfather, who loved her and whom she dreaded.

Hers was truly a writer’s childhood, safe and happy at the center but ringed by forbidden territories she nevertheless set out to explore, sometimes physically and sometimes in imagination. In “Happy Chicken 1942-1944,” which is narrated by Oates’s favorite Rhode Island Red (an arch conceit, but it works), Oates is shown as a little girl, carting around this adored fowl, so much brighter and more alert than the other hens. Oates in turn was prized by her parents, who kept things from her. One day the favored chicken was gone, we all know where. Oates searched for her in vain.

The imperative to investigate what her parents concealed became, eventually, the impetus for Oates’s writing. This is the theme of the essay “They All Just Went Away,” which begins with a spectacular, sustained evocation of the dangerous joy of trespassing. In her childhood wanderings, Oates was repeatedly drawn to ­explore the burnt-out house in the woods where the Judd family (an invented name) had once lived squalidly, where the children — Oates knew them — were beaten and sexually abused by their drunken father. One night, in a rage, he set fire to the place. Oates watched the conflagration from a window in her own safe, well-kept house. (“Like all great events of long ago,” she writes, “it was an adult occasion.”) After this, the father went to jail and the family scattered. The older daughter, ­Helen, with whom Oates had once shared a wary, intermittent friendship, eventually turned up in the special-ed classroom at Oates’s junior high school. Oates tried to reach out to her, but was gently rebuffed. By now, shame had taught Helen Judd to accept her place as an outcast.

Perhaps because she prefers to deflect the narrative spotlight rather than occupy it, doppelgängers begin to show up in Oates’s accounts of adolescence. The first of these appears in “An Unsolved Mystery: The Lost Friend.” This is ­Cynthia Heike (another alias), a high school friend. Like Oates, she was bright, ambitious and driven, but, unlike Oates, deeply troubled. Undermined by a critical father, she committed suicide at 18. The rapport and rivalry between these two promising girls is marvelously dramatized, as is Oates’s persistent guilt at having survived her.

Another mirror-self appears in “The Lost Sister: An Elegy.” Lynn Ann Oates was born on Joyce Carol’s 18th birthday, a replica of her older sister physically, but profoundly autistic. Oates’s parents, who have been happily devoted to their gifted older daughter, are sadly devoted to this tragically defective younger one. Her care devours their lives. But Lynn Ann is not only mute and unreachable, she also reveals a tendency to violence, and eventually must be institutionalized. In an excruciating irony, she destroys the books her sister brings home on a visit, leaving tooth marks on what remains of a treasured edition of “The Golden Bowl,” with an “all but impenetrable introduction by R.P. ­Blackmur.”

In “Nighthawk: Recollections of a Lost Time,” Oates goes on to tell the story of her years as a graduate student at the University of Wisconsin, where loneliness and academic pressure so overwhelmed her that she developed insomnia and tachycardia. Ultimately, an unsympathetic (male) professor sabotaged her oral exams. As a result, she was awarded a terminal M.A., the worst possible affront to a graduate student. But it could have been worse; the doppelgänger in this piece is Oates’s beloved friend Marianna Mason Churchland (an alias), who broke down completely and withdrew from the program. 

Even as Oates suffered under the weight of the graduate curriculum, she found happiness in her engagement and marriage to Raymond Smith. But, oddly enough, no sooner does Oates introduce him to the reader than she abruptly pulls down the narrative curtain. “I am sorry,” she writes, “but I am not able to write about Ray here.” “Oh,” thinks the startled reader, who had been following along sympathetically, “I hadn’t meant to pry.”

But another thought immediately follows: Why, the reader wonders, is Oates telling us what she isn’t going to tell us? Why doesn’t she just — not tell us? The memoirist, after all, is free to work around material she finds too painful to discuss, to set the boundaries of her narrative wherever she chooses. But, all along, Oates has rejected the terms of the memoir. Now, having nearly completed the chronologically connected body of the book, she seems to turn away from the reader as well. It’s an odd, alienating way to leave things. The hodgepodge of biographical scraps she offers in the last two brief sections — a loosely woven reminiscence about her father, a list of favorite foods from the 1950s, journal entries, philosophical ruminations, a poem in tribute to her mother, an excerpt from a phone call with her father — does little to make up for the reader’s disappointment.

A Writer’s Coming of Age
By Joyce Carol Oates
Illustrated. 353 pp. Ecco/HarperCollins Publishers. $27.99.

Emily Fox Gordon is the author of “Book of Days: Personal Essays.

Contos inéditos de Truman Capote escritos antes da fama sairão em livro em 2016, Maria Fernanda Rodrigues

Contos inéditos de Truman Capote escritos antes da fama sairão em livro em 2016
Maria Fernanda Rodrigues

18 setembro 2015 

Contos escritos por Capote antes da fama sairão em livro

(Foto: Lisa Larsen/Time & Life Pictures/Getty Images)

Dois editores alemães procuravam, na Biblioteca Pública de Nova York, capítulos de um romance inacabado de Truman Capote (1924-1984), quando descobriram algo mais inusitado: contos e poemas que o autor de A Sangue Frio escreveu entre os 11 e 19 anos. Alguns desses textos descobertos em meados de 2014 haviam sido publicados na revista da escola de Capote. Outros seguiam inéditos, preservados em manuscritos. E, claro, está previsto um livro com esse material – na verdade, com os contos. The Early Stories de Truman Capote, com mais de uma dúzia de textos em que já se percebe, garantem os editores, o estilo do autor, sairá pela Random House em 27/10. Clóvis Marques já começou a tradução para a José Olympio, que promete o livro para abril de 2016.

sexta-feira, 18 de setembro de 2015

CHRONICLE ANDO, francisco vaz brasil

francisco vaz brasil

naquela quinta, na kamara kó, danielle disse: “contraia os olhos subitamente o ar parece estar mais salgado”. lembrei-me então ah... é agosto! minhas trezentas rosas morenas retornam dos balneários tostadinhas pelo sol, mês em que getúlio deu-se um tiro e entrou para a história, Jânio renunciou e kubitschek sofreu o inexplicado acidente. O acendedor de lampião do solitário planeta esqueceu justo naquela noite, de trabalhar, quando o princepezinho de saint-exupèry ouviu da raposa que “tu és responsável por aquilo que cativas”. corri aos sertões euclidianos e, as vidas secas daquela terra em prosa de graciliano em suas memórias do cárcere. seguida vi o sal sobre os corpos dos cangaceiros de lampião, os mortos de canudos e dos 111 corpos de carandiru, sem contar as mortes a sangue frio da família clutter, em holcomb, pelas palavras de capote. os dias passam correndo e, então, aprendo que copiar de um é plágio, mas copiar de muitos é pesquisa. ora vamos, sim senhor: ctrlc+ctrlv e eis que às proximidades do louvre, wilde mostra retrato de dorian gray e na riviera escocesa aparece Joyce e seu retrato do artista quando jovem sendo mostrado aos dublinenses. bate-me uma saudade enorme de o quinze de Raquel e vejo que ninguém escreve ao coronel Gabriel. A angústia aumenta. volto à minha infância na busca dos três mosqueteiros de dumas, nas aventuras de huckleberry finn, dou umas voltinhas com moby dick, do Twain e passo direto a uma visita a truman capote à breakfast at tiffany’s junto com audrey hepburn e finalmente deleito-me em memórias de um natal de capote, nos contos de grimm, espanto o corvo de poe, nos poemas walt whitman, vuelvo a los diecisiete e ouço violeta parra, tropeço na pedra de Drummond e caio nos versos de soneto da fidelidade, com vinícius. a noite vai chegando. Ah, como suave é a noite de fitzgerald quando me deparo com o grande gatsby. o tempo passa, passa depressa, então percebo o hemingway – ele, o velho e o mar. então ligo a vitrola e ouço edith piaf, sinatra, beatles oh, yesterday, imagine, hey jude... armo a rede de intrigas e finalmente durmo o sono dos inocentes...
Mas, antes, para satisfazer uma vontade antiga, como em oração, vem-me à mente...
para quem amou
nele está o segredo, ou no umbigo,
o silêncio antigo, o ruído das palavras
o atrito e a entrada da lâmina
no subterrâneo do prazer!
e o museu com o que se disse
e o que não se disse
e o passado em retângulos de mármore
vê a vida como paralelos
cravados sobre o chão...