sábado, 27 de fevereiro de 2010

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind.
Ode: Intimations of Immortality, William Wordsworth

quinta-feira, 25 de fevereiro de 2010

Wingate Paine, Untitled, 1964-65
Joan Baez by Yousuf Karsh
I want my face to be shaven, and my heart-
you can't plan on the heart, but
the better part of it, my poetry, is open.
My Heart, Frank O'Hara, 1955
Louise Bourgeois
I love you. I love you,
but I'm turning to my verses
and my heart is closing
like a fist.
Mayakovsky, Frank O'Hara

quarta-feira, 24 de fevereiro de 2010

You try & try to rise but you cannot

Don't try to blow out the sun for me

terça-feira, 23 de fevereiro de 2010

Os Olhos de Himmler, Rui Nunes

segunda-feira, 22 de fevereiro de 2010

Alone, she read herself into 'the middle of a world', like 'shutting the doors of a Cathedral'.
Virginia Woolf, Hermione Lee

domingo, 21 de fevereiro de 2010

sexta-feira, 19 de fevereiro de 2010

Little girl blue

'There is the puddle,' said Rhoda, 'and I cannot cross it. I hear the rush of the great grindstone within an inch of my head. Its wind roars in my face. All palpable forms of life have failed me. Unless I can stretch and touch something hard, I shall be blown down the eternal corridors for ever. What, then, can I touch? What brick, what stone? and so draw myself across the enormous gulf into my body safely?'
The Waves, Virginia Woolf

quinta-feira, 18 de fevereiro de 2010

Todos os diálogos acabam no silêncio

quarta-feira, 17 de fevereiro de 2010

i like my body when it is with your
e. e. cummings
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear)
e. e. cummings
The family called her Beauty

terça-feira, 16 de fevereiro de 2010

Give me a report on the condition of my soul.
Anna Who Was Mad, Anne Sexton

segunda-feira, 15 de fevereiro de 2010

He stretched his arms out. They remained empty.

sexta-feira, 12 de fevereiro de 2010

For she was a child, throwing bread to the ducks, between her parents, and at the same time a grown woman coming to her parents who stood by the lake, holding her life in her arms which, as she neared them, grew larger and larger in her arms, until it became a whole life, a complete life, which she put down by them and said, 'This is what I have made of it! This!'
Mrs Dalloway, Virginia Woolf

quinta-feira, 11 de fevereiro de 2010

She smiled at her tears.
Virginia Woolf in her mother's dress in Vogue, 1926

For we think back through our mothers if we are women.
Virginia Woolf

quarta-feira, 10 de fevereiro de 2010

Nancy Freeman-Mitford by Bassano
We have a little garden, which is not much to boast of, and yet it is a dozen little gardens each full of romance for the children - lawns surrounded by flowering hedges, and intricate thickets of gooseberries and currants, and remote nooks of potatoes and peas, and high banks, down which you can slide in a sitting posture, and corners in which you come upon unexpected puppies - altogether a pocket-paradise with a sheltered cove of sand in easy reach (for 'Ginia even) just below.
Leslie Stephen, summer of 1884
Julia Stephen