Pulo do Lobo

Um blog para os apreciadores do silêncio ...

Nome:
Localização: Neta, Alentejo, Portugal

terça-feira, junho 28, 2005

O futuro ali à esquina ...


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O que é fusão nuclear?A fusão nuclear consiste na combinação de dois átomos leves para formar um átomo mais pesado mas cuja massa é inferior à soma dos dois primeiros. A diferença entre a massa dos dois átomos iniciais e a massa do átomo resultante é libertada sob a forma de energia. A fusão nuclear é o processo que ocorre no interior das estrelas e que lhes fornece a sua energia.Para produzir a quantidade de electricidade que se gasta no mundo por ano são necessários 1.700 milhões de toneladas de carvão ou 85.000 toneladas de urânio processado em centrais nucleares convencionais de fissão ou 1.000 toneladas de lítio processado em reactores de fusão. Um único grama de combustível utilizado numa central de fusão nuclear pode produzir uma quantidade de energia superior à que se obtém quando se queimam 10.000 litros de petróleo.O que é o Tokamak?Máquina no interior da qual se realiza a fusão nuclear com confinamento magnético. Sigla russa da expressão “câmara toroidal magnética”, um “tokamak” é uma máquina que tem a forma de uma câmara de ar ou de um “donut” oco. Em torno da câmara, no exterior, estão colocados ímanes gigantescos que criam o campo magnético que vai confinar o plasma. No interior da câmara, que é revestida a berílio, colocam-se detectores que permitem controlar o que se passa durante as experiências.O que é o Confinamento?Para conseguir a fusão de dois átomos é necessário fazê-los chocar um contra o outro com uma energia suficientemente alta para que os seus núcleos possam suplantar a natural oposição das suas cargas eléctricas idênticas e se possam fundir. Esta energia é fornecida aos átomos sob a forma de calor - várias centenas de milhões de graus - mas para evitar que eles “fujam” uns dos outros e colidam de facto é necessários confiná-los num pequeno volume. Existem basicamente duas formas de obter este confinamento. O “confinamento inercial” consiste na utilização de vários raios laser que, vindos de diversas direcções, se concentram sobre um pequeno volume de gás e o fazem “implodir”. O outro método, que é o utilizado nos “tokamak”, consiste na utilização de um campo magnético que “aperta” o pequeno volume de gás.

segunda-feira, junho 27, 2005

Dos fracos nao reza a história ?


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terça-feira, junho 21, 2005

100 anos


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June 21, 1905 was the day when JEAN-PAUL-CHARLES-AYMARD SARTRE was born on 13, rue Mignard, XVI in Paris, a fruit of the love between Jean-Baptiste Sartre, a young naval officer dying of fevers of Cochin-China, and Anne Marie Schweitzer, daughter of Charles Schweitzer and cousin of the famous medical missionary Albert Schweitzer. He lost his father when he was a year old. In his autobiography, he regretted that he was refused the pleasure of making an acquaintance with a father.
However, Sartre admitted that he was nevertheless happy with the turn of events for two main reasons. The first is the death of his father "sent my mother back to her chains and gave me freedom." The second reason is that he would not have been the Sartre that he became had not events turned the way they were. As a result of the death of his father, Poulou and his mother came to live with his grandfather, Charles Schweitzer, from 1906 to 1911 in Meudon. His was an unhappy childhood, devoid of the happiness of friendship with his peers. A typical bourgeois, Charles was a strict disciplinarian. Each member of the family had a role to play, and Poulou had his. This very artificial condition made him indulge in play-acting.
As a result of this family setup, the young Sartre immersed himself in reading and writing. He made it a habit to devote time for reading, and he read whatever reading material was available, although he took more interest in novels and short stories. However, he admitted in his autobiography that his kind of writing was one of plagiarism. His grandfather later on discovered his misdemeanor and as a result, Charles became biased against the achievements of his grandson. For him, "literature did not fill a man's belly." He instead wanted Poulou to be a teacher. However, he was not able to dissuade Poulou from writing:
In short, he drove me into literature by the care he took to divert me from it, to such an extent that even now I sometimes wonder, when I am in a bad mood, whether I have not consumed so many days and nights, covered so many pages with ink, thrown on the market so many books that nobody wanted, solely in the mad hope of pleasing my grandfather.
Sartre's attachment to writing fulfilled a twofold advantage. First, he claimed he enjoyed his obscurity and thus wanted to prolong it. Second, it presented him an avenue for a kind of existence which he had not experienced before, an existence devoid of the artificiality of grown-ups.
To add to the unhappiness of his childhood was his realization when he was ten years old of his ugliness -- his being small and cross-eyed. He had been sporting long hair, and when his grandfather decided to bring him to a barber, it was then that he faced his true features. As to his smallness in stature, his grandfather used to blame this on his being a Sartre. Furthermore, Sartre's early life was a constant struggle with sickness and death. He even claimed that he was at the brink of the grave many times, including at birth.
In 1911, Anne Marie brought Poulou from Meudon and moved to Paris. They settled at the fifth floor of an apartment located at 1, rue Le-Goff. In 1913, he was enrolled at Lycée Montaigne where he had Monsieur Lieven as his schoolmaster. Although he indulged in reading and writing in his early years, Poulou realized that he was not yet that prepared to tackle schoolwork. Poulou later recalled that he was "a child prodigy who was not a good speller." When his grandfather learned about this incident, he decided that Poulou quit school for the time being and concentrate on learning how to spell. He was enrolled at a public school in Arcachon where he idolized his teacher, M. Barrault, so much so that he was disappointed when he read graffiti in the walls of the school criticizing his way of teaching.
In July 1914, at the start of the First World War, Poulou had to retire from reading for a short time because there were no more books to read; he even stopped writing. At first they did not leave Arcachon, but later they returned to Paris. During the war, he enrolled for one semester at the Poupon Academy where he had Mlle. Marie Louise as his teacher. When Poulou was ten years and three months old, his grandfather decided to register him at the Lycée Henri IV, where he had Monsieur Ollivier as his official teacher. There he met Paul Nizan, who would later be his constant companion and best friend. His experiences of grave happiness with his friends allowed him to drop the family play-acting. This gave him the confidence that shall later on build a strong character in the mature Sartre. It was also there that he "got used to democracy."
In 1917, his mother was remarried to Joseph Mancy, an engineer who was later assigned as head of the naval yards in La Rochelle that belonged to the Delaunay-Belleville Company. Soon after the marriage, Poulou, who grew up in an urban bourgeois world, found himself in the rural town of La Rochelle. He recalled that he was never happy when he was at the Lycée of La Rochelle. He later said that it was there that he "learned the meaning of solitude, and at the same time that of violence." Moreover, his stepfather decided to influence his education by acquainting him with geometry, but to no avail. His disappointment with his stepfather even came to the point of his calling his stepfather an "intruder." Poulou considered the fact that his grandfather, with his failing health, could no longer support his mother, the very reason why his mother remarried.
What Sartre said in his autobiography captures the loneliness of his growing up days: "I grew older in the darkness, I became a lonely adult, without father and mother, without home or hearth, almost without a name." He succinctly recollects this stage in his life:
Feminized by maternal tendencies, dulled by the absence of the stern Moses who has begotten me, puffed with pride by my grandfather's adoration, I was a pure object, doomed par excellence to masochism if only I could have believed in the family play-acting. But no. It perturbed me only on the surface, and the depths remained cold, unjustified. The system horrified me.

He returned in 1920 to Lycée Henri IV where he renews acquaintance with Paul Nizan, and in the following two years, he took up his Baccalaureat. After his two-year stint from 1922 to 1924 at Lycée Louis-Le-Grand, he took up his higher studies at the prestigious École Normale Superieure. There he had for his classmates Simone Weil, Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Jean Hippolyte, and Claude Levi-Strauss. In 1928, he failed the agrégation. The following year, he passed the same test when he resigned himself to more traditional philosophical ideas. It was also during this year that he met Simone de Beauvoir, who became his lifelong companion as well as his intellectual associate.
At the L'École normale, the relationship between Sartre and Beaver blossomed, and their mere intellectual companionship later turned to a relationship between lovers. Axel Madsen observes the commonality between the two:
Poulou and Simone were the gifted children of a class they learned to hate because of the way it deprived others of what young intellectuals would naturally consider everyone's birthright - a voice. What filled the young Sartre and Beaver with that deep, lifelong and absolute loathing of the bourgeoisie was the way it deprived others of the means of expressing themselves.
After obtaining the agrégation in philosophy he taught philosophy at the lycées in Le Havre, Laon and then Paris. It was when he was at Le Havre that he started writing Nausea. In 1933, he obtained a grant to study at the French Institute in Berlin, where, with the help of his friend R. Aron, he got acquainted with Husserl's phenomenology. During this time, he published Transcendance de l'ego. Meanwhile, Sartre commenced to evolve into a more political thinker. Indeed, on July 14, 1935, Sartre joined the Popular Front demonstration from the Bastille to the Porte de Vincennes. After his brief stint at Berlin, he did some research at the University of Freiburg. From 1929 to 1931, he engaged in military service. His book L'Imagination was published in 1936, the year that he and Beaver attempted to incorporate Olga Kosakiewicz into their life to form a ménage a trois.
Unfortunately, he encountered a twofold setback during this year: the attempted relationship with Miss Kosakiewicz failed and Gallimard denied the publication of Melancholia (La Nausée). Nevertheless, Gallimard accepted the novel the following year, and published it in 1938. While his literary notoriety was blooming, he was drafted to the French army to fight the invading German troops and on September 2, 1939, he was conscripted to the 70th Division in Nancy. He was later transferred to Brumath and then to Morsbronn. While at the military camp, he was working on his L'Être et néant. The following year, he was captured by the Germans and was imprisoned in Padoux. He was later transferred to Nancy and then to Stalag XII in Treves. While in prison, Sartre reread Heidegger and he recalled in his autobiography that he discussed Heidegger with his priest-friends in prison. He even wrote and directed a play, Bariona, while inside the prison camp. For reasons of poor health, he was released from prison in 1941.
Upon his release, he taught in Lycée Condorcet while founding, together with Maurice Merleau-Ponty, a short-lived intellectual Resistance group called Socialisme et Liberté. His magnum opus, L'Être et néant, was published in 1943 together with the play, Les Mouches. The following year, he gave up teaching to found the political and literary journal Les Temps modernes (Modern Times), of which he became editor-in-chief.
After the war, Sartre gained prominence especially with the publication of more books, Huis Clos, L'Age de raison, and Le Sursis. He refused the Legion of Honor awarded him by the government. He later went to the United States to give a series of lectures. When he presented his lecture, Existentialism is a Humanism, Sartre's notoriety continued to rise. With his passion for writing at its peak, volumes were added to the collection of books written by Sartre. In 1948, all of his works were put on the Index by the Catholic Church. He likewise participated in the founding of the Rassemblement Democratique Revolutionnaire (RDR), but he later on became disaffected with the group and left it the following year. Sartre visited Guatemala, Panama, Curacao, Haiti and Cuba and later on the Sahara.
During the early fifties, Beaver observed that Sartre had undergone a change in lifestyle. Moreover, the next decade saw the active political involvement of Sartre. In 1950 to 1951, Sartre started to reread Marx. He later condemned, together with Merleau-Ponty, the Soviet concentration camps.
The following year, he wrote The Communists and Peace, signed a manifesto against the Cold War, and protested against the Rosenberg executions. In 1954, he participated in a meeting of the World Council for Peace in Berlin after gaining a name for advocating the peace movement. His first journey to the Soviet Union, and his only visit to China, occurred in 1955. He visited the USSR in two more occasions, in one of which Khrushchev received him. He was also named the vice-president of the France-USSR Association. When Soviet troops invaded Hungary to crush an anti-Communist demonstration there, Sartre condemned the act and left the France-USSR Association. The following year, he protested against the Algerian war and the tortures committed by the French government there. He subsequently came to the open in criticizing De Gaulle and the Gaullist Party in France, and later gave a press conference on the violation of human rights committed in Algeria. Cutting short his lecture about the theater at Sorborne, he returned to Cuba together with Beaver where he met Fidel Castro and Che Guevara. He later visited Yugoslavia, where he met Tito.
During these times, he did not waiver in his commitment to the Algerian people, and he continued to speak for them. After the publication of his Critique de la Raison Dialectique, he visited Poland and Czechoslovakia. In 1964, he gave lectures at the UNESCO Kierkegaard Conference and at the Conference on Ethics at the Gramsci Institute in Rome. The Nobel Prize Committee later awarded him the Nobel Prize, but he declined to receive it for the reason that he did not want to be turned into an institution. In 1966, he joined and later presided at the War Crimes Commission organized by Bertrand Russell at Stockholm. Afterwards, he gave a series of lectures in Japan and then in Egypt, where he met Nasser and visited refugee camps. His affiliation with the Jewish people was affirmed when he visited Israel during the following year. He also expressed his support for Israel over the opening of the Gulf of Aqaba. Later in the same year, he went to Brussels to give a lecture on Vietnam.

His political involvement became more intense in 1968, when he supported the student movement in France during the May uprising. He even came to the point of accusing the Communist Party of betraying the May revolution. He condemned the Soviet Union when Soviet troops invaded Czechoslovakia. He did the same thing in 1975 in protest over what he called Soviet repression. The following year, Anne Marie Sartre-Mancy died. He continued his political involvement by editing and supervising the publication of various Leftist publications.
However, Sartre's health had never been good during these times. He suffered two heart attacks, one in 1971, and another one two years later. Thereupon, he transferred from boulevard Raspail to boulevard Edgar-Quinet. He also became semi-blind after suffering from two hemorrhages in his good eye. To help him continue with his intellectual endeavors, Pierre Victor, whom he met in 1970 and with whom he had engaged in ethical discussions, read to him books and articles which he wanted to read. He then started autobiographical dialogues on tape with Beaver.
His deteriorating health failed to stop him from being active in politics. In 1973, he took side with Israel during the war of Yom Kippur. In view of his continued support to the Jewish cause, the University of Jerusalem later presented him with an honorary doctorate. In 1977, he called on Israel to respond to Egyptian President Anwar Sadat's peace initiative and he even went in 1978 to Israel to further the peace process. The following year, he participated in an Israel-Palestinian conference.
Sartre's health was never the same after his second bout with heart attack. On March 20, 1980, he was hospitalized for edema of the lungs. After more than a month at the hospital, he went into a coma on April 13 and died two days later. His ashes were buried at the cemetery of Montparnasse on April 19.
The drama of Sartre's life is as paradoxical as his thoughts. For all the fame he gained in his life, he remained a man of simple tastes, a man committed to a principle worth dying for, a man capable of empathizing with the oppressed of the world. When interviewed five years before his death on how he would like people to remember him, Sartre replied:
I would like them to remember Nausea, one or two plays, No Exit and The Devil and the Good Lord, and then my two philosophical works, more particularly the second one, Critique of Dialectical Reason. Then my essay on Genet, Saint Genet, which I wrote quite a long time ago. If these are remembered, that would be quite an achievement, and I don't ask for more. As a man, if a certain Jean-Paul Sartre is remembered, I would like people to remember the milieu or the historical situation in which I lived, the general characteristics of this milieu, how I lived in it, in terms of all the aspirations which I tried to gather up within myself. This is how I would like to be remembered.

segunda-feira, junho 20, 2005

L' aprés midi d' un faune


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Le Faune:
Ces nymphes, je les veux perpétuer.

Si clair,
Leur incarnat léger, qu'il voltige dans l'air
Assoupi de sommeils touffus.

Aimai-je un rêve?
Mon doute, amas de nuit ancienne, s'achève
En maint rameau subtil, qui, demeuré les vrais
Bois même, prouve, hélas! que bien seul je m'offrais
Pour triomphe la faute idéale de roses.

Réfléchissons...

ou si les femmes dont tu gloses
Figurent un souhait de tes sens fabuleux!
Faune, l'illusion s'échappe des yeux bleus
Et froids, comme une source en pleurs, de la plus chaste:
Mais, l'autre tout soupirs, dis-tu qu'elle contraste
Comme brise du jour chaude dans ta toison?
Que non! par l'immobile et lasse pâmoison
Suffoquant de chaleurs le matin frais s'il lutte,
Ne murmure point d'eau que ne verse ma flûte
Au bosquet arrosé d'accords; et le seul vent
Hors des deux tuyaux prompt à s'exhaler avant
Qu'il disperse le son dans une pluie aride,
C'est, à l'horizon pas remué d'une ride
Le visible et serein souffle artificiel
De l'inspiration, qui regagne le ciel.

O bords siciliens d'un calme marécage
Qu'à l'envi de soleils ma vanité saccage
Tacite sous les fleurs d'étincelles, CONTEZ
« Que je coupais ici les creux roseaux domptés
» Par le talent; quand, sur l'or glauque de lointaines
» Verdures dédiant leur vigne à des fontaines,
» Ondoie une blancheur animale au repos:
» Et qu'au prélude lent où naissent les pipeaux
» Ce vol de cygnes, non! de naïades se sauve
» Ou plonge...

Inerte, tout brûle dans l'heure fauve
Sans marquer par quel art ensemble détala
Trop d'hymen souhaité de qui cherche le la:
Alors m'éveillerai-je à la ferveur première,
Droit et seul, sous un flot antique de lumière,
Lys! et l'un de vous tous pour l'ingénuité.

Autre que ce doux rien par leur lèvre ébruité,
Le baiser, qui tout bas des perfides assure,
Mon sein, vierge de preuve, atteste une morsure
Mystérieuse, due à quelque auguste dent;
Mais, bast! arcane tel élut pour confident
Le jonc vaste et jumeau dont sous l'azur on joue:
Qui, détournant à soi le trouble de la joue,
Rêve, dans un solo long, que nous amusions
La beauté d'alentour par des confusions
Fausses entre elle-même et notre chant crédule;
Et de faire aussi haut que l'amour se module
Évanouir du songe ordinaire de dos
Ou de flanc pur suivis avec mes regards clos,
Une sonore, vaine et monotone ligne.

Tâche donc, instrument des fuites, ô maligne
Syrinx, de refleurir aux lacs où tu m'attends!
Moi, de ma rumeur fier, je vais parler longtemps
Des déesses; et par d'idolâtres peintures
À leur ombre enlever encore des ceintures:
Ainsi, quand des raisins j'ai sucé la clarté,
Pour bannir un regret par ma feinte écarté,
Rieur, j'élève au ciel d'été la grappe vide
Et, soufflant dans ses peaux lumineuses, avide
D'ivresse, jusqu'au soir je regarde au travers.

O nymphes, regonflons des SOUVENIRS divers.
« Mon oeil, trouant le joncs, dardait chaque encolure
» Immortelle, qui noie en l'onde sa brûlure
» Avec un cri de rage au ciel de la forêt;
» Et le splendide bain de cheveux disparaît
» Dans les clartés et les frissons, ô pierreries!
» J'accours; quand, à mes pieds, s'entrejoignent (meurtries
» De la langueur goûtée à ce mal d'être deux)
» Des dormeuses parmi leurs seuls bras hasardeux;
» Je les ravis, sans les désenlacer, et vole
» À ce massif, haï par l'ombrage frivole,
» De roses tarissant tout parfum au soleil,
» Où notre ébat au jour consumé soit pareil.
Je t'adore, courroux des vierges, ô délice
Farouche du sacré fardeau nu qui se glisse
Pour fuir ma lèvre en feu buvant, comme un éclair
Tressaille! la frayeur secrète de la chair:
Des pieds de l'inhumaine au coeur de la timide
Qui délaisse à la fois une innocence, humide
De larmes folles ou de moins tristes vapeurs.
« Mon crime, c'est d'avoir, gai de vaincre ces peurs
» Traîtresses, divisé la touffe échevelée
» De baisers que les dieux gardaient si bien mêlée:
» Car, à peine j'allais cacher un rire ardent
» Sous les replis heureux d'une seule (gardant
» Par un doigt simple, afin que sa candeur de plume
» Se teignît à l'émoi de sa soeur qui s'allume,
» La petite, naïve et ne rougissant pas: )
» Que de mes bras, défaits par de vagues trépas,
» Cette proie, à jamais ingrate se délivre
» Sans pitié du sanglot dont j'étais encore ivre.

Tant pis!
vers le bonheur d'autres m'entraîneront
Par leur tresse nouée aux cornes de mon front:
Tu sais, ma passion, que, pourpre et déjà mûre,
Chaque grenade éclate et d'abeilles murmure;
Et notre sang, épris de qui le va saisir,
Coule pour tout l'essaim éternel du désir.
À l'heure où ce bois d'or et de cendres se teinte
Une fête s'exalte en la feuillée éteinte:
Etna! c'est parmi toi visité de Vénus
Sur ta lave posant tes talons ingénus,
Quand tonne une somme triste ou s'épuise la flamme.
Je tiens la reine!

O sûr châtiment...

Non, mais l'âme
De paroles vacante et ce corps alourdi
Tard succombent au fier silence de midi:
Sans plus il faut dormir en l'oubli du blasphème,
Sur le sable altéré gisant et comme j'aime
Ouvrir ma bouche à l'astre efficace des vins!

Couple, adieu; je vais voir l'ombre que tu devins.

S. Mallarmé

Voyage a l'enfer


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I. Et j'étais au haut du mont Atlas, et de là je contemplais le monde, et son or et sa boue, et sa vertu et son orgueil.
II. Et Satan m'apparut, et Satan me dit : « Viens avec moi, regarde, vois ; et puis ensuite tu verras mon royaume, mon monde à moi. »
III. Et Satan m'emmena avec lui et me montra le monde.
IV. Et planant sur les airs, nous arrivâmes en Europe. Là, il me montra des savants, des hommes de lettres, des femmes, des fats, des pédants, des rois et des sages ; ceux-là étaient les plus fous.
V. Et je vis un frère qui tuait son frère, une mère qui trompait sa fille, des écrivains qui, par le prestige de leur plume, abusaient du peuple, des prêtres qui trahissaient leurs fidèles, des pédants qui faisaient languir la jeunesse, et la guerre qui moissonne les hommes.
VI. Là, c'était un intrigant qui, rampant dans la boue, arrivait jusqu'aux pieds des grands, leur mordait le talon ; ils tombaient, et alors il tressaillait de la chute qu'avait faite cette tête en tombant dans la boue.
VII. Là, un roi savourait, dans sa couche d'infamie où de père en fils ils reçoivent des leçons d'adultère, il savourait les grâces de la courtisane favorite qui gouvernait la France, et le peuple, lui, applaudissait ; c'est qu'il avait les yeux bandés.
VIII. Et je vis deux géants : le premier, vieux, courbé, ridé et maigre, s'appuyait sur un long bâton tortueux appelé pédantisme ; l'autre était jeune, fier, vigoureux, avec une taille d'hercule, une tête de poète et des bras d'or ; il s'appuyait sur une énorme massue que le bâton tortueux avait pourtant abîmée ; la massue, c'était la raison.
IX. Et tous deux se battaient vigoureusement, et enfin le vieillard succomba. Je lui demandai son nom.- Absolutisme, me dit-il.- Et ton vainqueur ?- Il a deux noms.- Lesquels ?- Les uns l'appellent : Civilisation, et les autres : Liberté.
X. Et puis Satan me mena dans un temple, mais un temple en ruines.
XI. Et le peuple fondait des cercueils pour en faire des boulets, et la poussière qui y était s'envolait de dépit ; c'est que ce siècle-là, c'était un siècle de sang.
XII. Et les ruines restèrent désertes. Et un homme, un pauvre homme en guenilles, à la tête blanche, un homme chargé de misère, d'infamie et d'opprobre, un de ceux dont le front, ridés de soucis, renferme à vingt ans les maux d'un siècle, s'assit là au pied d'une colonne.
XIII. Et il paraissait comme la fourmi aux pieds de la pyramide.
XIV. Et il regarda les hommes longtemps ; tous le regardèrent en dédain et en pitié, et il les maudit tous ; car ce vieillard, c'était la Vérité.
XV. - Montre-moi ton royaume, dis-je à Satan.- Le voilà !- Comment donc ?Et Satan me répondit :- C'est que ce monde, c'est l'enfer !

G. Flaubert

Para os Hessianos


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German poet and novelist, who has depicted in his works the duality of spirit and nature, body versus mind and the individual's spiritual search outside the restrictions of the society. Hesse was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1946. Hermann Hesse was born into a family of Pietist missionaries and religious publishers in the Black Forest town of Calw, in the German state of Wüttenberg on July 2, 1877. His parents expected him to follow the family tradition in theology. Hesse entered the Protestant seminary at Maulbronn in 1891, but he was expelled from the school. After unhappy experiences at a secular school, Hesse worked in several jobs. In 1899 Hesse published his first works, Romantische Lieder and Eine Stunde Hinter Mitternacht. Hesse became a freelance writer in 1904, when his novel Peter Camenzind gained literary success. The book reflected Hesse's disgust with the educational system. In the same year he married Maria Bernoulli, with whom he had three children. A visit to India in 1911 interested Hesse in studies of Eastern religions and culminated in the novel Siddhartha (1922). It was based on the early life of Gautama Buddha. The culture of the ancient Hindus and the ancient Chinese had a great influence on Hesse's works. In 1912 Hesse and his family took a permanent residence in Switzerland. In the novel Rosshalde (1914) Hesse explored the question of whether the artist should marry. The author's reply was negative. During these years his wife suffered from growing mental instability and his son was seriously ill. Hesse spent the years of World War I in Switzerland, attacking the prevailing moods of militarism and nationalism. Hesse's breakthrough novel was Demian (1919). It was a Faustian tale of a man torn between his orderly bourgeois existence and a chaotic world of sensuality. Leaving his family in 1919, Hesse moved to Montagnola, in southern Switzerland. In 1922 appeared Siddhartha, a novel of asceticism set in the time of Buddha. Its English translation in the 1950s became a spiritual guide to the generation of American Beat poets. Hesse's second marriage to Ruth Wenger (1924-27) was unhappy. These difficult years produced Der Steppenwolf(1927). During the Weimar Republic (1919-1933) Hesse stayed aloof from politics. In 1931 Hesse married his third wife, Ninon Dolbin, and began in the same year work on his masterpiece Das Glasperlenspiel, which was published in 1943. In 1942 Hesse sent the manuscript to Berlin for publication. It was not accepted by the Nazis and the work appeared for the first time in Zürich. . Hesse's other central works include In Sight of Chaos (1923), a collection of essays, the novel Narcissus and Goldmund (1930) and Poems (1970). After receiving the Nobel Prize Hesse wrote no major works. He died of cerebral hemorrhage in his sleep on August 9, 1962 at the age of eighty-five. He is still one of the best-selling German writers throughout the world.

quinta-feira, junho 16, 2005

A corga dos Cardos


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Levantar tarde de preferência, quando o calor a isso obriga. Vestir a roupa própria para aí estar sem que os insectos, poeiras ou fumos nelas tirem vantagem. Estender o requeijao no pao alentejano e deitar-lhe umas gotas de mel em cima. Beber café com 80% de chicória. Ligar a televisao e ouvir 5 minutos de notícias. Ir à loja do Ti Zé comprar aquelas coisas indispensáveis e que tem um volume superior ao que o Polo admite. Passar pela bomba do Jorge, trazer o gasóleo verde e comprar gelados para todos. Preparar a grelha para a peixaria assada. Tirar o vinho do pipo e cortar um naco de presunto na adega. Almoçar enquanto se conversa. Depois para-se com a conversa e almoça-se só. e Em seguida continua-se a conversar enquanto se retiram os aproveitamentos para a cadela. Mais 5 minutos de informaçao e Sesta, de preferência com a minha alma gêmea. Ser interrompido de 15 em 15 m pelo meu mais velho a perguntar se já podemos ir para a Mina. A mae , solidária com a labreguice do pai, dá um grito ao filho, Deixa o teu Pai dormir descansado. O pai, ouve deleitado, e vira-se para o outro lado. Acordar no exacto momento que começava a dormir. Ir tomar banhos de sol para a Mina de Sao Domingos. Brincar com as crianças de modo a que ninguém deixe de saber que já chegámos e que só vao ter sossego quando partirmos. Prometer uma caracolada aos miúdos para nao fazerem muito chinfrim a sair da praia fluvial. Beber duas imperiais e tentar sacar um sorriso (sem ser na altura da conta ) ao dono do Rei do Caracol. Arrancar direito a Vale de Poço a ouvir a Rádio Comercial. Ser recebido pela Nina, a cadela, com o entusiasmo habitual. Regar a zona circundante à casa. Preparar a grelha e desafiar Baco enquanto o jantar se prepara. Receber as visitas habituais . Ver o Telejornal, ler o jornal do fim de semana e beber umas águas das pedras. Dormir com a minha alma gêmea . Encolher as pernas e reduzir ao mínimo o movimento. É que as camas de ferro alentejanas nao estao preparadas para tanta altura e volume. Levantar-me duas ou três vezes para beber água ou ir à casa de banho e acordar mais cansado do que quando me deitei.

Esta é a sinopse de um dia passado no Monte da Corga dos Cardos.

segunda-feira, junho 13, 2005

Até sempre ...


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Tenho o nome de uma flor
quando me chamas.
Quando me tocas, nem eu sei
se sou água, rapariga,
ou algum pomar que atravessei.
in «As Mãos e os Frutos», 1948

Nao nos morres assim tao cedo


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É sempre fácil gerar consensos depois de morto. Penso que Álvaro Cunhal não quererá os elogios fúnebres de quem o traiu politicamente e especialmente de quem o combatia violentamente antes do 25 de Abril. Poder-se-á discordar de muito que tenha dito e feito, mas ninguém lhe pode retirar o mérito de ter organizado e sustentado a única resistência activa ao antigo regime. Os protegidos de então talvez agora tenham a coragem de o afrontar. Mas não se esqueçam que a morte física nem sempre representa esquecimento. E, no caso de Ávaro Cunhal, penso que a história lhe fará justiça lembrando-o como um homem íntegro que acreditou numa utopia até ao final da sua vida. Talvez a alma de artista não seja alheio a esse percurso fatalista. Perdeu politicamente mas fez, ou melhor, espero que faça escola junto das geraçoes vindouras.

Ainda que nunca quisesses admitir a desumanidade do regime soviético lutaste de corpo e alma pela liberdade do povo português. Pela coerência, verticalidade e dignidade com que preencheste o teu destino o povo português deve-te a mais representativa das condecoraçoes. A memória!

sábado, junho 11, 2005

Alentejanando


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"Fazer da cal o bilhete de identidade. Comer o primeiro u de Augusto. Às Marias chamar Bias. Petiscar ao fim do dia. Acreditar em Deus e no Partido Comunista. São coisas dos alentejanos.Explicar Deus como “alguém que manda nisto tudo”. Casar pela Igreja. Baptizar os filhos. Ser indiferente à missa. Não faltar à procissão. Cantar ao menino pelos Reis. Chamar magana à morte. Dizer dos familiares que morreram: “o meu pai que Deus tem” ou “a minha Joaquina que Deus tem”. Tirar o chapéu diante do cemitério. Crer em virtuosos (bruxos). Temer as trovoadas como os gauleses do Astérix. Benzer o pão antes de entrar no forno. Não derramar azeite. São coisas de alentejanos.Estar apaixonado quando está triste. “Andar atrás de” quando está apaixonado. Chamar boda ao casamento e ao copo d’água função. Anteceder os nomes dos filhos do pronome possessivo meu ou minha: o meu João, a minha Ana. Da mulher dizer apenas “a minha”, ignorando-lhe o nome. Não ter trambelho para os trabalhos domésticos. Enforcar-se quando se vê viúvo. São coisas dos alentejanos.Ver cair a geada. Chamar charoco ao frio e busaranho ao vento gelado. Dizer que está aspereza quando há temporal. Ao Sol chamar “o astro”, como se fosse o único no céu. Ao calor chamar calma. Viver com o Suão. Chamar às planuras descampados. Cerros aos outeiros. À floresta arvoredos.Olhar o horizonte e saber ter vagar. Dizer: estou à espera de me ir embora. Declarar com solenidade: devagar que tenho pressa. Abalar no comboio da Cuba. A Lisboa chamar aldeia grande. Ter parentes na Brandoa. São coisas dos alentejanos.Estar de roda do lume. Sentar no chão para conversar. Parar no largo ao olhinho do sol. Ter sempre a navalhinha petisqueira no bolso das calças. Condutar o pão, o vinho e a vida. Beber só em companhia. Cantar quando os outros também cantam. À seca chamar desgraça. Querer a barragem do Alqueva. São coisas dos alentejanos.Porque sim.»

Afinal sempre me casei - Parte I


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I

Na sua rotina diária Gabriel percorria cerca de 10 minutos de carro até ao Terminal de Barcos do Barreiro. Ainda sob a influência dos vapores do wisky bebido na noite anterior, só quando estava prestes a passar pela bilheteira é que se lembrou que não tinha comprado a senha do passe daquele mês. Com a rapidez que se impunha, e face ao formigueiro suburbano acotovelando-se para comprar as mencionadas senhas, dirigiu-se mecânicamente às dispensadoras automáticas para assim conseguir o bilhetinho que o faria chegar a horas ao seu "mais que querido emprego". Com a pasta no meio das pernas, o jornal acabado de comprar debaixo do braço, e debatendo-se com a panóplia de cartões que premeditavam a queda eis que sente um ligeiro toque no ombro.
Espanto dos espantos, aquela morena com olhar triste, que de há uns meses a esta parte trazia debaixo de olho e que nunca o tinha mirado, encontrava-se ali, junto a si, a oferecer-lhe o desejado bilhete.
Tome, depois logo me dá um ….
Gabriel ainda balbuciou um tímido obrigado mas não mais do que isso.
Chatice, nem aproveitei para meter conversa , agora o melhor é apressar o passo ...
E foi assim , em passo acelerado, que se dirigiu para o Bar do barco onde a misteriosa personagem se encontrava a tomar café. Cerrou dentes e rompendo o aglomerado que se encontrava à entrada do bar, sentido a testorona a comandar-lhe os passos, prostrou-se a seu lado, tendo de seguida murmurado ao seu ouvido um tímido agradecimento.
-Muito obrigado… pela simpatia de há pouco, já não sabia o que fazer.
Não foi nada, deixe lá …
Pelo menos diga-me o seu nome.
Veronica.
Posso pagar os cafés ?, disse Gabriel muito nervoso .
Obrigado. Nao era preciso ....
Ora essa , o difícil foi ganhar coragem para falar consigo.
Como já deve ter reparado, não tenho conseguido disfarçar lá muito bem a forte atracção que sinto por por si e agora que estou aqui a seu lado só penso na melhor forma de ganhar a sua amizade.
Têm algum cartão seu consigo?
Cartão não tenho mas posso deixar-lhe o meu número de telefone .
Perfeito!
E o seu ? disse Gabriel.
Deixe estar assim por ora, eu depois telefono-lhe.
Um abanão forte, sinal que o barco estava prestes a atracar no Cais, impeliu Gabriel para a frente, tendo naturalmente deixado encostar o seu peito aos seios volumosos de Veronica. Que sensaçao aquela . Deixou-se estar e foi então que Veronica , olhando-o nos olhos , suavemente, desceu a mão e acariciou-lhe o sexo como ele nunca pensara ser possível num local público.
Você é bancário, não é?
Como sabe?
As mulheres têm um dedo que adivinha.
A sério, disse Gabriel, já me deve ter visto a entrar no banco.
Já não recebeu resposta pois Veronica tratou de despedir-se circunstancialmente com a desculpa de necessitar de ir apanhar um taxi para o seu emprego. Onde trabalharia ela e o que faria, estas ideias assaltaram de imediato Gabriel. Bem, o melhor é acelerar o passo pois a Gerente tem a mania que é dona do Banco e quando me atraso 5 minutos tenho que a ouvir o dia todo.
Depois de cumprimentar a rapaziada e tomar o café da ordem, Gabriel começou por consultar o seu email "privado", aquele que todos os homens têm e que por uma ou outra razao mantêm fora do circuito familiar. A maior parte era spam , mas , por curiosidade , resolveu abrir uma das muitas selecçoes de perfis compatíveis que as inúmeras empresas de relacionamentos online frequentemente enviam . Era quase um vício, mas inofensivo, pois Gabriel nunca pensara em tornar-se membro deste tipo de sites que ofereciam um sem fim de regalias em troca de uma verba semanal, mensal ou anual. Nao acreditava em nada daquilo simplesmente gostava de acreditar que aquelas raparigaes e rapazes andavam realmente procurando um relacionamento. Mas, naquele dia teve um dos maiores choques da sua vida.
Era ela, dizia-se Catarina, mas a foto , essa nao deixava lugar a dúvidas, era aquela a miúda que o tinha feito sonhar na sua adolescência . Almas gémeas, gostos refinados e uma certa partilha da sobranceria intelectual fruto de uma roda de amigos pouco dada a essas coisas do espírito. Mas o que é que a faria uma "miúda daquelas" a expôr-se assim desta maneira ? Que Gabriel saiba ela casou-se com um colega de Universidade e salvo erro até a tinha visto com uma barriga cheia de felicidade.
"Mulher procura homem, sincero, com vontade de recomeçar uma nova vida," ...
Nao pode ser !
Loira, olhos verdes, estatura média e aparência atlética. OK.
Ah ! Estado civil – Separada.
Fez-se luz.
De imediato , Gabriel, com o intuito de lhe enviar um pequeno cumprimento que a levasse a ler o seu perfil começou a preencher o espaço do seu perfil reservado à sua caracterizaçao e que dado ser um campo aberto permitia um comentário alargado.
"Escrevo estas linhas a pensar em ti. Como sabes, se calhar já te esqueceste, eu continuo a acreditar que tudo o que nos é concedido agora resulta de algo que demos no passado. E que a maturidade, senioridade, ..., nao é mais do que passado vestido de presente.
E, enviou-lhe um ramo de rosas vermelhas em sinal de cumprimento. Passados uns instantes a fotografia de Verónica foi retirada logo depois de o perfil de Gabriel ter sido consultado, certamente por Veronica que se encontrava online.
De imediato e no mesmo espaço Gabriel continuou a escrever, " Nao era necessário tirares a tua foto, porque nunca iria fazer, e, muito menos dizer, algo que te prejudicasse (ainda bem que a gravei a tempo, era estranho nao ter nenhuma foto tua, nao achas?).
Reparei no teu perfil que a literatura continua a preencher parte importante da tua vida. Ainda bem, porque a procura do belo, do etéreo e do múltiplo sao naturalmente apadrinhados pela literatura. Noblesse oblige, n'est-ce-pas ? Achas que já estou descrito ? com 600 caracteres ? só se for para contar o meu último pequeno almoço.
Poderia começar por dizer que sou um jovem homem maduro com uma pequena grande atracçao pela Vida. Naturalmente, aquela que apelamos de bem vivida, onde o fútil e o banal, só emergem após os libertarmos do nosso peso. O requinte e a "malvadez" (as mulheres gostam de chamar-lhe charme) sao outras das minhas características pessoais que muito me têm apoquentado. É inevitável, mesmo tendo lido todos os Manuais de como preservar a vida a dois, como ser um bom marido, etc, etc, nao há estaçao que nao tenha que regar nova Flor. Aparecem murchas, sem brilho, a perder folhas e passado uns tempos eis que se apresentam viçosas e orgulhosas de terem sido oportunamente transplantadas para o meu quintal. É óbvio que as nao posso guardar muito tempo, só o necessário até as devolver à Vida. E perguntas-me tu porquê, porque é que abraço essa profissao de ajudante de jardineiro se a minha vocaçao é a de agricultor ( onde tudo é fruto de trabalho árduo, onde cada estaçao tem as suas sementeiras próprias, onde a contemplaçao nao é uma perca de tempo, onde as raizes sao profundas, e eu respondo-te pela boca do nosso poeta maior "Porque tudo vale a pena quando a alma nao é pequena." Beijo do bibliotecário arrivista que nunca perde a oportunidade de agradecer a quem lhe fez bem. "
De repente recebeu a resposta ao seu ramo de flores. Um beijo online da Catarina, ou seja da Verónica que acrescentava a seguinte pergunta " Quem procuras ?"
"Nao procuro ninguém. Só estou a preencher este questionário maçudo porque te encontrei. Ainda que em formato tipo passe é sempre agradável rever-te. Aliás, o que é que adianta procurar alguém se eu próprio fui achado. Nos Perdidos e Achados, estás a ver ? ... e depois, claro, nunca me entregaram. E assim continuo,...isto nao é queixa, porque para a queixa ter lugar pressupôe-se a existência de um desconforto o que nao acontece no meu caso. Talvez o Hans Castorp soubesse explicar-te melhor a minha situaçao. Depois de algum tempo acostumado ao ar das montanhas , ainda que num sanatório, é dificil voltar a respirar o ar leve da planície. Percebes ? Já em tempos idos falámos sobre estas questoes próprias de quem ainda nao encontrou um rumo ( mas por outro lado aqueles que o encontraram queixam-se que antes nao o tivessem encontrado )de quem tudo questiona e tudo tenta entender. Nao sou dado a aceitar dogmas , doutrinas e até filosofias. Porque será ? Quererei ser mais do que os outros, ou muito simplesmente compreender os outros ? Nao sou eu a pessoa mais indicada (nao ? entao quem será , isto já é influência do politicamente correcto)para me julgar por isso deixo ao vosso critério essa avaliaçao que nao deconstruirei ( o Derrida que me perdoe ). Escrevi estas linhas para que sorrias como só tu sabes."