Moi non plus.

Je Ne Veux Pas Travailler

Ma chambre a la forme d'une cage
Le soleil passe son bras par la fenêtre
Les chasseurs à ma porte
Comme des petits soldats
Qui veulent me prendre

Je ne veux pas travailler
Je ne veux pas déjeuner
Je veux seulement oublier
Et puis je fume

Déjà j'ai connu le parfum de l'amour
Un millions de roses
N'embaumeraient pas autant
Maintenant une seule fleur
Dans mes entourages
Me rend malade

Je ne veux pas travailler
Je ne veux pas déjeuner
Je veux seulement oublier
Et puis je fume

Je ne suis pas fière de ça
Vie qui veut me tuer
C'est magnifique
Etre sympathique
Mais je ne le connais jamais

Je ne veux pas travailler
Je ne veux pas déjeuner
Je veux seulement oublier
Et puis je fume

Je ne suis pas fière de ça
Vie qui veut me tuer
C'est magnifique
Etre sympathique
Mais je ne le connais jamais

Je ne veux pas travailler
Je ne veux pas déjeuner
Je veux seulement oublier
Et puis je fume

De coisas que

Spring in Goscieradz, Leon Wyczólkowski (1852 - 1936)

Anteontem na feira do Livro do Porto, Ana Luísa Amaral, falando da sua poesia, confessava que os títulos provisórios do seu livro mais conhecido eram especialmente maus. Um era: A impossível sarça. 

A impossível sarça. Ei-la.

Do dia - 33

Do dia - 32

S/d, s/a (do filme homónimo)

"Somewhere the saving and putting away had to begin again and someone had to do the saving and keeping, one way or another, in books, in records, in people's heads, any way at all so long as it was safe, free from moths, silver-fish, rust and dry-rot, and men with matches." 

Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

Por entre as boninas - 2

Czeslaw Miłosz, Rascunho
Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library
Yale University

Desta manhã bonita em que trabalho - 6

Katherine Mansfield, s/d, s/a

“He began composing a poem. A feeling of divine happiness possessed him; his heart seemed to expand as he breathed. Suddenly, he saw the old man fumble in a pocket. He brought out something wrapped in a linen handkerchief and laid it on his knees. With infinite care he slowly parted the folds of the handkerchief and Feodor saw a book bound in parchment and tied with purple silk ribbons. He moved a little nearer the old man, who untied the ribbons and spread the book open. The pages were printed with large, black letters. Each page had a blue letter at the top embroidered in gold and by the bright moonlight it was quite easy to read what was written. Feodor moved nearer still. Then he saw that each page was a poem. He leaned over the old man’s shoulder and read for himself poems such as he had never dreamed of—poems that sounded in his ears like bells ringing in some splendid tower—like waves beating on warm sands—like dark rivers falling down forest-clad mountains.”

Katherine Mansfield, Tales of a Courtyard

Seasoning