No momento da Libertação, Hemingway fazia parte das primeira tropas americanas que entraram em Paris. Pablo achava-se ainda em casa da mãe de Maya. A porteira da rue des Grands-Augustins [atelier do artista] era uma pessoas reservada, mas pouco tímida. Estava habituada a ver os amigos admiradores de Picasso deixarem prendas, quando ele estava ausente. Por várias vezes, amigos sul-americanos tinham deixado víveres. Muitas vezes Picasso partilhava-os com a porteira. Quando ela disse a Hemingway que Pablo não estava, ele perguntou se podia deixar um recado. Segundo nos contou depois, ela propôs: "Mas não deseja deixar uma prenda para o senhor?" Hemingway respondeu que não tinha pensado nisso, mas que era uma boa ideia. Foi até ao seu jeep e voltou com uma caixa de granadas, que depôs no cubículo da porteira com a seguinte inscrição: "Para Picasso, da parte de Hemingway".
Françoise Gilot, Carlton Lake, A Minha Vida com Picasso. S/l, Publicações Europa-América, 1965, p. 64-65
Meu Amor
ResponderEliminarEscrevo-te durante uma breve paragem na Madeira, já cheio de saudades. Tenho dormido um pouco e não tenho enjoado. A comida é óptima, há orquestra a tocar, e o tabaco americano custa o mesmo que o Sagres. (…)
Devemos chegar a Luanda a 15 (…)
Quando chegar a Luanda espero escrever de novo. Coragem e paciência, como tens tido até agora. Mil beijos para ti e para o nosso filho. Não te esqueças de estudar e de ter coragem e paciência. Lembra-te de mim.
António
PS. Segundo os rumores que aqui correm, devo ficar na CCS o que seria menos mau. (…) Vamos ver…
Beijos, beijos e beijos. (…)”
“My wife and I had called on Miss Stein, and she and the friend who lived with her had been very cordial and friendly and we had loved the big studio with the great paintings. It was like one of the best rooms in the finest museum except there was a big fireplace and it was warm and comfortable and they gave you good things to eat and tea and natural distilled liqueurs made from purple plums, yellow plums or wild raspberries.
ResponderEliminarMiss Stein was very big but not tall and was heavily built like a peasant woman. She had beautiful eyes and a strong German-Jewish face that also could have been Friulano and she reminded me of a northern I talian peasant woman with her clothes, her mobile face and her lovely, thick, alive immigrant hair which she wore put up in the same way she had probably worn it in college. She talked all the time and at first it was about people and places.
Her companion had a very pleasant voice, was small, very dark, with her hair cut like Joan of Arc in the Boutet de Monvel illustrations and had a very hooked nose. She was working on a piece of needlepoint when we first met them and she worked on this and saw to the food and drink and talked to my wife. She made one conversation and listened to two and often interrupted the one she was not making. Afterwards she explained to me that she always talked to the wives. The wives, my wife and I felt, were tolerated. But we liked Miss Stein and her friend, although the friend was frightening. The paintings and the cakes and the eau-de-vie were truly wonderful. They seemed to like us too and treated us as though we were very good, well-mannered and promising children and I felt that they forgave us for being in love and being married - time would fix that - and when my wife invited them to tea, they accepted.”
― Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast: The Restored Edition
Another variant of this incident, told to a biographer by James Lord, appeared in 1988 in a hostile book on Picasso by Ariana Stassinopoulos Huffington. According to Lord, Picasso scorned Hemingway and, to free himself from his long-standing obligation to his old patron, used Hemingway as a stick to beat Stein. Speaking of the two American writers, Picasso supposedly said:
ResponderEliminar“To listen to her, the whole world would think that she created me piece by piece. But if you want to see what she really understands about painting, all you have to do is look at the trash she likes at the moment. She says the same about Hemingway. Actually, those two were made for each other. I’ve never been able to stand him, never. He never really understood bullfighting, not as a Spaniard understands it. He was a charlatan, Hemingway. I’ve always known it, but Gertrude never knew it.” . . . The torrent of abuse was still gathering force, demolishing Hemingway on the way. “He came to see me after the Liberation and he gave me a piece of an SS uniform with SS embroidered on it, and he told me that he had killed the man himself. It was a lie. Maybe he had killed plenty of wild animals, but he never killed a man. If he had killed one, he wouldn’t have needed to pass around souvenirs. He was a charlatan and that’s why Gertrude liked him.”
A Farewell To Arms (1932) Full Length Movie - YouTube
ResponderEliminar► 78:24► 78:24
www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ZWcJ9fP0w0
01/12/2012 - Carregado por publicdomain101
A very young Gary Cooper and a young and beautiful Helen Hayes star in this 1932 classic ...
Obrigada!
EliminarImagens a preto e branco de guerra... Melhor assim, sem camuflados!
És una experiencia muy traumática. Yo todavia ahora no soporto los fuegos artificiales. Tienen el mismo sonido que las bombas. Los bombardeos aqui en Barcelona fueron terribles. Por mar y por aire. Nosotros vivíamos en la calle Platón y entonces veía el mar desde mi cuarto y pasaba un miedo espantoso. Te sientes tan impotente… Mi padre decía: cojámonos todos de la mano, contra el muro maestro. Y así nos quedabamos todos.”
ResponderEliminarAna María Matute
"Porque he vivido mucho. Porque me gusta mucho vivir. Soy muy vital. La literatura no es solamente ponerse a escribir, sino todo lo que hay que hacer en un momento dado ponerte a escribir. Hay que vivir."
ResponderEliminarAna María Matute
ESTORNINHO 2
ResponderEliminarVerdade! Gosto e consumo!
Ingiro álcool em larga quantidade
e não me ressinto.
Preferiam que bebesse sumo?
Em Paris?!? Mas nesta cidade,
ou Borgonha ou absinto!
" Je revins vers la grille et remontai l'allée; à la porte principale, je sonnai. Je perçus comme un rire étouffé sur ma droite, parmi les arbres: je reagardai, mais ne vis rien. Puis une voix d'homme appela da l'autre côté de la maison: "Ohé! Par ici." Je reconnus tout de suite la voix de Moreau. Il attendait devant l'entrée du salon, sous la terrasse, une pipe éteinte à la main; il portait un vieux gilet tricoté et un noeud papillon, et me parut lamentablement vieux. Il fronça les sourcils en voyant mon uniforme: "Que voulez-vous? Qui cherchez-vous?" J'avançai en ôtant ma casquette: "Vous ne me reconnaissez pas?" Il écarquilla les yeux et sa bouche s'ouvrit; puis il fit un pas en avant et me serra vigoureusement la main, en me tapant sur l'épaule. "Bien sû, bien sûr!"
Il recula de nouveau et me contempla, gêné: "Mais qu'est-ce que c'est que cet uniforme?" - "Celui sous lequel je sers." I Il se retourna et appela dans la maison: "Héloïse! Viens voir qui est là!" Le salon était plongé dans la pénombre; je vis une forme s'avancer, légère, grise; puis une vieille femme apparut derrière Moreau et me contempla en silence. C'était donc ça, ma mère?"
Jonathan Littell, LES BIENVEILLANTES, Paris, Gallimard, 2006, pp. 476.
Ode à Paz
ResponderEliminarPela verdade, pelo riso, pela luz, pela beleza,
Pelas aves que voam no olhar de uma criança,
Pela limpeza do vento, pelos atos de pureza,
Pela alegria, pelo vinho, pela música, pela dança,
Pela branda melodia do rumor dos regatos,
Pelo fulgor do estio, pelo azul do claro dia,
Pelas flores que esmaltam os campos, pelo sossego dos pastos,
Pela exatidão das rosas, pela Sabedoria,
Pelas pérolas que gotejam dos olhos dos amantes,
Pelos prodígios que são verdadeiros nos sonhos,
Pelo amor, pela liberdade, pelas coisas radiantes,
Pelos aromas maduros de suaves outonos,
Pela futura manhã dos grandes transparentes,
Pelas entranhas maternas e fecundas da terra,
Pelas lágrimas das mães a quem nuvens sangrentas
Arrebatam os filhos para a torpeza da guerra,
Eu te conjuro ó paz, eu te invoco ó benigna,
Ó Santa, ó talismã contra a indústria feroz.
Com tuas mãos que abatem as bandeiras da ira,
Com o teu esconjuro da bomba e do algoz,
Abre as portas da História,
deixa passar a Vida!
Natália Correia, in "Inéditos (1985/1990)"
"Spain"
ResponderEliminarYesterday all the past. The language of size
Spreading to China along the trade-routes; the diffusion
Of the counting-frame and the cromlech;
Yesterday the shadow-reckoning in the sunny climates.
Yesterday the assessment of insurance by cards,
The divination of water; yesterday the invention
Of cartwheels and clocks, the taming of
Horses. Yesterday the bustling world of the navigators.
Yesterday the abolition of fairies and giants,
the fortress like a motionless eagle eyeing the valley,
the chapel built in the forest;
Yesterday the carving of angels and alarming gargoyles;
The trial of heretics among the columns of stone;
Yesterday the theological feuds in the taverns
And the miraculous cure at the fountain;
Yesterday the Sabbath of witches; but to-day the struggle
Yesterday the installation of dynamos and turbines,
The construction of railways in the colonial desert;
Yesterday the classic lecture
On the origin of Mankind. But to-day the struggle.
Yesterday the belief in the absolute value of Greek,
The fall of the curtain upon the death of a hero;
Yesterday the prayer to the sunset
And the adoration of madmen. but to-day the struggle.
As the poet whispers, startled among the pines,
Or where the loose waterfall sings compact, or upright
On the crag by the leaning tower:
"O my vision. O send me the luck of the sailor."
(...)
To-morrow, perhaps the future. The research on fatigue
And the movements of packers; the gradual exploring of all the
Octaves of radiation;
To-morrow the enlarging of consciousness by diet and breathing.
To-morrow the rediscovery of romantic love,
the photographing of ravens; all the fun under
Liberty's masterful shadow;
To-morrow the hour of the pageant-master and the musician,
The beautiful roar of the chorus under the dome;
To-morrow the exchanging of tips on the breeding of terriers,
The eager election of chairmen
By the sudden forest of hands. But to-day the struggle.
To-morrow for the young the poets exploding like bombs,
The walks by the lake, the weeks of perfect communion;
To-morrow the bicycle races
Through the suburbs on summer evenings. But to-day the struggle.
To-day the deliberate increase in the chances of death,
The consious acceptance of guilt in the necessary murder;
To-day the expending of powers
On the flat ephemeral pamphlet and the boring meeting.
To-day the makeshift consolations: the shared cigarette,
The cards in the candlelit barn, and the scraping concert,
The masculine jokes; to-day the
Fumbled and unsatisfactory embrace before hurting.
The stars are dead. The animals will not look.
We are left alone with our day, and the time is short, and
History to the defeated
May say Alas but cannot help nor pardon.
W. H. Auden