Monday mood (4)

Jeanne Moreau em Jules et Jim de François Truffaut, 1967

Outros verões

António Carneiro, Figueira da Foz, 1921.

Alguém sabe

por que razão nós por cá, os portugueses, nos sites de procura e reserva de hóteis não temos activa a opção Pay on location, ao contrário de toda a gente mundo fora? Ahã.

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As Palavras e a Vida (2)

I was 20 when I got my hands on the newly published Unabridged Journals—a rep for Random House snuck me a free copy in my mailbox at Brookline Booksmith, the hip independent bookstore where I worked part-time while I studied literature and creative writing at Emerson College, downtown. I felt like I’d been given a bacon cheeseburger after a Lenten fast: 1982’s abridged journals were one-third the size of this chunky tome, with its chrome-tinted photograph of Plath at her Smith College graduation, smiling, looking off-camera, being handed a white carnation by a disembodied, feminine hand. Plath, the Real Plath, always elusive, was in here, I felt. So familiar was I with the abridged edition that I immediately knew where to look, based on the dates, to discover sections that had been mercilessly cut in the previous edition—to the point that many passages had made no sense at all. Why, for instance, did Plath meet Hughes one night at a party, bite him on the cheek when he kissed her, flee to Paris to see another boyfriend with barely a mention of Hughes’s name, and then marry him with no further commentary three months later? What had happened in between?

Emily Van Duyne, sublinhando o perturbador apagamento da vida de Sylvia Plath, aqui.

Sublinhados

A decadência da cidade, da qual a turistificação é mais uma consequência do que uma causa, encontra as suas raízes na moderna despolitização (que se tornou um lugar-comum da teoria política desde Carl Schmitt). Como disse uma vez Giorgio Agamben numa entrevista, para superar a decadência da cidade seria necessária uma nova forma de vida que encontrasse ao mesmo tempo a capacidade de habitar e a vida política.

António Guerreiro, hoje no Público.

A decadência da espécie, aqui.

Heróis modernos

Is this the dream? To live nearly a century and sustain a serrated intellect, righteous integrity and good health? His failing eyesight has been swapped for oracular vision. He looks vaguely like a bust of Socrates, bald, white-bearded and wise — except Ferlinghetti beat his charges of corrupting the youth. Beneath pudgy glasses, his eyes are hauntingly blue and compassionate. His posture remains youthful and upright. One ear is pierced, and his socks are tropical candy-striped. He’s a responsible shopkeeper and subversive arsonist rolled into one.

 Jeff Weiss sobre L. Ferlinghetti, em "Driving the Beat Road", 

uma reportagem extraordinária sobre a Beat Generation para o Washington Post.