Donal Og

 It is late last night the dog was speaking of you;
 the snipe was speaking of you in her deep marsh.
 It is you are the lonely bird through the woods;
 and that you may be without a mate until you find me.

 You promised me, and you said a lie to me,
 that you would be before me where the sheep are flocked;
 I gave a whistle and three hundred cries to you,
 and I found nothing there but a bleating lamb.

 You promised me a thing that was hard for you,
 a ship of gold under a silver mast;
 twelve towns with a market in all of them,
 and a fine white court by the side of the sea.

 You promised me a thing that is not possible,
 that you would give me gloves of the skin of a fish;
 that you would give me shoes of the skin of a bird;
 and a suit of the dearest silk in Ireland.

 When I go by myself to the Well of Loneliness,
 I sit down and I go through my trouble;
 when I see the world and do not see my boy,
 he that has an amber shade in his hair.

 It was on that Sunday I gave my love to you;
 the Sunday that is last before Easter Sunday.
 And myself on my knees reading the Passion;
 and my two eyes giving love to you for ever.

 My mother said to me not to be talking with you today,
 or tomorrow, or on the Sunday;
 it was a bad time she took for telling me that;
 it was shutting the door after the house was robbed.

 My heart is as black as the blackness of the sloe,
 or as the black coal that is on the smith's forge;
 or as the sole of a shoe left in white halls;
 it was you that put that darkness over my life.

 You have taken the east from me; you have taken the west from me;
 you have taken what is before me and what is behind me;
 you have taken the moon, you have taken the sun from me;
 and my fear is great that you have taken God from me!

(anonymous; 8th Century Irish ballad, translated Lady Augusta Gregory)

The Dead, John Huston

era uma vez uma dor sem centro

era uma vez uma mão que queria trabalhar, uma cabeça que queria pensar em coisas mais concretas e um corpo entorpecido por uma dor sem centro. não se podia dizer que doía um dedo, o nariz, o peito ou o pé esquerdo. aliás, não havia esquerda nem direita nesse corpo. a política era externa. doía, pronto. um dia a mão que queria trabalhar disse para a outra mão: - dá-me aí esse caderno e uma caneta. a outra mão deu-lhe então, sem perguntar para quê, ambos os objetos. a mão que pediu, com a ajuda da cabeça (que divagava, como já era hábito, em pensamentos pouco concretos), começou a escrever esta autobiografia do momento. e ficou-se por aqui.

a dor sem centro ainda é apenas isso. chamam-lhe tristeza, os sábios. eu chamo desemprego.

(Whisper of the heart, Yoshifumi Kondô)

«It is Christmas in the heart that puts Christmas in the air.»

W.T. Ellis

rebellious

«I could not help it; the restlessness was in my nature; it agitated me to pain sometimes. Then my sole relief was to walk along the corridor of the third story, backwards and forwards, safe in the silence and solitude of the spot, and allow my mind’s eye to dwell on whatever bright visions rose before it—and, certainly, they were many and glowing; to let my heart be heaved by the exultant movement . . . and, best of all, to open my inward ear to a tale that was never ended—a tale my imagination created, and narrated continuously; quickened with all of incident, life, fire, feeling, that I desired and had not in my actual existence. It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquility: they must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it. Millions are condemned to a stiller doom than mine, and millions are in silent revolt against their lot. Nobody knows how many rebellions besides political rebellions ferment in the masses of life which people earth. Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex.»

Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë

Jane Eyre, Robert Stevenson (1943)

uma nuvem sem céu

estou suspensa na passagem dos dias. sou uma nuvem vadia que anda por terra. falta-me o céu. falta-me estar mais perto do brilho do sol e da esperança das estrelas. falta-me esse chão-ao-contrário. sinto-me menos fofa, menos branca, cada vez mais magra, e, curiosamente, mais pesada. a dieta de expectativas desregulou-me. preciso de subir para o meu chão, ser novamente leve e subtil ao toque. branca. ser, afinal, apenas uma nuvem no seu lugar devido.

Perfume, Francesco Furini (1603-1646)

(sem) querer

«- Quer fazer o favor de me dar um cigarro?

 Seria fácil desempenhar o papel de ingénua. Mas era culpada, porque o meu pedido precipitou os acontecimentos. E eu tinha disso uma leve suspeita, ainda que para mim o não confessasse. (...) Bem no íntimo, sabia-o, mas não era suficientemente consciente para que o pudesse considerar um conhecimento.»

A colina da saudade, Han Suyin

Love is a Many-Splendored Thing, Henry King, Otto Lang

fingir

escondo metade do olhar debaixo da aba do chapéu. finjo seduzir uma câmara. as palavras, essas diluem-se no copo de vinho. silence... quel plaisir! estou vestida a rigor. não partilho com ninguém a minha cerimónia pessoal. o que penso não se vê. tenho o chamado 'instinto do escuro'. inventei eu a expressão. gosto de cinema. 

(Bette Davis em Of Human Bondage)