And.

Fools Die

(...)

I want to tell you a story, I have no other vanity. I don’t desire success or fame or money. But that’s easy, most men, most women don’t, not really. Even better, I don’t want love.When I wasyoung, some women told me they loved me for my long eyelashes. I accepted. Later it was for my wit. Then for my power and money. Then for my talent. Then for my mind — deep. Ok, I can handle all of it. The only woman who scares me is the one who loves me for myself alone. I have plans for her. I have poisons and daggers and darkgravesin caves to hide her head. She can’t be allowed to live. Especially if she is sexually faithful and never lies and always puts me ahead of everything and everyone.

(...)

- Mario Puzo

Notebook, # 8.

Eva nasceu da necessidade de personificar o Pecado. O pairi-daeza guarda um Vestido preto e uns Sapatos vermelhos atrás de uma Macieira.

Furnished room.

Steppenwolf

"For Madmen Only"

(...)

He who has known the other days, the angry ones of gout attacks, or those with that wicked headache rooted behind the eyeballs that casts a spell on every nerve of eye and ear with a fiendish delight in torture, or soul-destroying, evil days of inward vacancy and despair, when, on this distracted earth, sucked dry by the vampires of finance, the world of men and of so-called culture grins back at us with the lying, vulgar, brazen glamor of a Fair and dogs us with the persistence of an emetic, and when all is concentrated and focused to the last pitch of the intolerable upon your own sick self--he who has known these days of hell may be content indeed with normal half-and-half days like today.

Thankfully you sit by the warm stove, thankfully you assure yourself as you read your morning paper that another day has come and no war broken out, no new dictatorship has been set up, no particularly disgusting scandal been unveiled in the worlds of politics or finance. Thankfully you tune the strings of your moldering lyre to a moderated, to a passably joyful, nay, to an even delighted psalm of thanksgiving and with it bore your quiet, flabby and slightly stupefied half-and-half god of contentment; and in the thick warm air of a contented boredom and very welcome painlessness the nodding mandarin of a half-and-half god and the nodding middle-aged gentleman who sings his muffled psalm look as like each other as two peas.

(...)

- Hermann Hesse

Notebook, # 7.

"If only I had an enemy bigger than my apathy, I could have won."

[Soundtrack - Click!]

Pack.

Orlanda Blues

3RD Chorus

This book is too nice for me
They made Clay Felker editor
of Esquire
Or Rust Hills one
and what ever happened to glass
and the joke about the Lord.

The Lord is my Agent.

My message is blah blah blah

My yort tackalitwingingly
  pasta vala tt, yea, p,
  my reurnent gollagigle
  dil plat most-rat, my
    erneealieing cralmaa
    tooth, ant, mop, sh,
  my devoid less 2 immensity
  secret muzning midnight,
  my whatzit
            you wanta
                  know
                       Whatzit!

       Joy    Look out!

- Jack Kerouac

Burst.

A          braço          (s) 

                                        com o teu Nome

a tua sombra arrasta          -se

pela berma do

pelo abismo do                               chão copo sofá

pelo limite do

otnauqne

descascas 

a lua         tal maça

 

transformando os teus dedos em maré          (s)

Flame.

Casabianca *

Love's the boy stood on the burning deck

trying to recite "The boy stood on

the burning deck." Love's the son

        stood stammering elocution

        while the poor ship in flames went down.

Love's the obstinate boy, the ship,

even the swimming sailors, who

would like a schoolroom platform, too,

        or an excuse to stay

        on deck. And love's the burning boy.

* (...) The boy had remained on the burning ship during the 1798 Battle of the Nile (a decisive defeat for Napoleon), thinking that his father, the admiral, had not released him from duty.

- Elizabeth Bishop