Beckett and Foucault, Some Affinities

Foucault frames his essay "What is an Author?" with a quotation from Beckett: "'What does it matter who is speaking,' someone said, 'what does it matter who is speaking'" (Harari 141-60); and Beckett figures prominently in the seminal post-structuralist Anti-Oedipus by Deleuze and Guattari, to whom Foucault acknowledges an extensive debt in a note to Discipline and Punish. Foucault's essay was the first to discuss the question of the "non-empirical author," positing the author as a "way of being within the discourse" (Eco 46); Beckett's reflexive thematization of these issues is scrupulous to the point of obsession. Foucault's quotation of Beckett refers us to a further theoretical issue, one that is described succinctly by Jacques Derrida: "Metaphor is less in the philosophical text [. . .] than the philosophical text is within metaphor" (258). Particularly when considered together, Beckett and Foucault radically interrogate the "philosophical" and "literary" genres within which they might be traditionally held to write; interrogate, indeed, the status of these genres in relation to the equally problematical notion of "reality."
The post-structuralist context of the point of contact between the writer and the philosopher implies an affinity, in respect to the primacy of text and discourse. My paper will trace out some of its contours, while seeking to avoid the critical temptation to reduce the "metaphorical" or literary discourse (exemplified by Beckett) to the terms of the philosophical one (Foucault); or to validate one in terms of the other. They are equally problematical and paradoxical, existing evidently ungrounded within a field of discourse. I wish to observe some cognate themes and their implications, and to consider their implicit dialogue. A broad thematic affinity pertains to the systematic construction of the self-subject by discourse. Beckett enacts the process textually; Foucault historicizes it. Foucault describes the process in terms of an expanding humanistic mythology, that masks the growth of a complex, self-perpetuating system of power. Corollaries may be observed, in turn, within Beckett's writing: such as practices and structures of surveillance; disciplines imposed upon the body; and the transformation of the body into a sign-subject by physical torture.
Let us begin with a rough outline of one or two of Foucault's ideas. He begins Discipline and Punish with graphic descriptions of public tortures and executions conducted in the eighteenth century. He explains the reason underlying them: by breaking the law, the criminal has personally offended against the king. Rectification must be witnessed in a public ritual: an awe inspiring spectacle of the monarch's power, unleashed upon the criminal. The offender's body becomes a sign of this power; the monarch inscribes - writes - his power upon that body, for all to read: "[Torture] must mark the victim: it is intended, either by the scar it leaves on the body, or by the spectacle that accompanies it, to brand the victim with infamy . . . ; it traces around, or, rather, on the very body of the condemned man, signs that must not be effaced" (34). Further, "[It] is the prince - or at least those to whom he has delegated his force - who seizes upon the body of the condemned man and displays it marked, beaten, broken (49). The ritual is the manifestation of "a policy of terror: to make everyone aware, through the body of the criminal, of the unrestrained presence of the sovereign" (49).
Foucault goes on to demonstrate a historical transformation of the process of social order. The monarch is removed as the visible origin of power; but power itself remains as an insidious, self-perpetuating network (although this is not to suggest that the monarch invented power to begin with - he himself was in all probability a function of it). The necessary nature of power is to mask its workings, in order to induce its subjects to conform. According to Foucault, power's grandest lie is a historical narrative that incorporates the emergence of the humanistic disciplines and the enlightenment they purport to foster. The lie constitutes the fictional existence of man as we know "him" - humanity as we know it. Foucault refers to a "new figure which, under the old name of man, first appeared less than two centuries ago" (Order of Things 325). We cast our eyes back in horror at the tortures he describes, because our subjective identities are the illusory products of power's lie of humanistic progress.
Strikingly similar themes are central to Beckett's novel How It Is, a satirical allegory of human progress, depicting a huge circle of alternating "torturers" and "victims," crawling perpetually one after the other through a universal sea of mud. The torture instills language and identity, by the method of carving words into the flesh of each victim. Beckett's allegory refers to the transmission of an individual conscious identity through time, as the Word is conveyed from one instantaneous self to the next, as much as to the idea of a communal history. The creation of the subjective self is seen as an innately torturous process; it takes place in the context of a cycle of power in which all are implicated. The novel is narrated from a perpetually fragmenting perspective, that relates a linear chronicle of history as imagined by these creatures, but with the understanding that, confined as they are within their own instantaneous existences in the mud, they are unable to know concretely that the infinite line of history is not, in fact, a cycle. In other words, there is essentially no human progress beyond the primeval slime, and the humanistic history is little more than a fairy tale, at best consoling, at worst delusive. We should however, note a significant contrast with Foucault, in that one of Beckett's perspectives appears to deny the very possibility of history: he makes it seem a fallacy, to cast back for origins into a sphere of representation, from one's blind entrapment in the instant of present reality. This is a consideration that requires of Foucault's project a high degree of methodological originality and sophistication (see for instance Hoy; Dreyfus and Rabinow).
Foucault upturns commonly held preconceptions about history and locates man as a function rather than the originator of history. Power is seen as the originator - power with intention but without a human source. While the idea has a ring of science fiction about it; there is no need to accuse Foucault of writing any type of fiction rather philosophy: he admits as much himself, while asserting that this is so because the institutions do not yet exist that could validate what he says (Hoy 52). Foucault distinguishes himself from philosophers such as Adorno and Derrida, who reinterpret received notions in similarly paradoxical ways, by his use of quite ordinary, everyday historical documentation, such as political and legal ordinances, institutional timetables and so on, as evidence. He is not writing about "grand" themes of philosophy, which have served to condition humanistic self-conceptions, but about everyday sites of control and order: prisons, schools, armies, hospitals, factories, human bodies; indeed, he abandons the traditional philosophical claim to make serious statements of truth:
Foucault has already shown that the imperative to use reason to discover a deep truth about ourselves and our culture is a historical construction which has to hide its history in order to function as goal for us. Moreover, the belief that there is a deep truth in the self leads directly to the application of scientific rationality to the self and thus to the very normalization one seeks to avoid.
Whenever he hears talk of meaning and value, of virtue and goodness, he looks for strategies of domination (Dreyfus and Rabinow 260, 109).
There is a significant comparison to be drawn here with Beckett, who departs from the idea of literature as an expression of the "higher" aspects of human existence, in favour of exploring "impotence and ignorance . . . that whole zone of being that has always been set aside by artists as something unusable . . ." (Beckett, To Israel Shenker 14).
A fascinating example of Foucault's technique, and a linchpin for the area of his thought I have described so far, is his interpretation of the English philosopher, Jeremy Bentham's plans (1791) for the construction of a "new" style of prison, which was to be called the "panopticon." Bentham is popularly conceived as an enlightened reformer of an inhumanly cruel system of punishment dating from the middle ages. The panopticon does not constrain the body with chains, disfigure it, or cast it into the darkness. Its ostensible purpose is not annihilation, but rehabilitation, which it undertakes to perform not through effects on the body, but via the operation of knowledge upon the mind and soul.
The panopticon is a "technology of surveillance" rather than a brutal means of constraint; it relies upon the clever organization of bodies in space. Inmates occupy individual cells that are located in a circle surrounding a central observation tower. The inmates are unable to communicate with each other; but, lit from behind, they may all be clearly observed from the tower: "They are like so many cages, so many small theatres, in which each actor is alone, perfectly individualized and constantly visible" (Discipline and Punish 200; my emphasis). Their behaviour can be monitored and tabulated; they can be organized into typographies and hierarchies, and minutely analysed. Thus a form of knowledge will be produced that is simultaneously a means to their control. This is the paradigm, Foucault asserts, for the various institutions of knowledge and discipline to be found in modern society: isolating man as an object of study, it is the model for the human sciences:
The prison became a sort of permanent observatory that made it possible to distribute the varieties of vice or weakness . . . A whole corpus of individualizing knowledge was being organized that took as its field of reference not so much the crime committed (at least in isolation), but the potentiality of danger that lies hidden in an individual and which is manifested in his observed everyday conduct. The prison functions in this as an apparatus of knowledge" (Discipline and Punish 126). The tower is made in such a way as to conceal from the inmates whether or not it contains any observers at any particular time. The inmates have always to assume the possibility that they are being watched and behave accordingly: internalizing this state of "permanent visibility" (Dreyfus and Rabinow 189) they become their own guardians, performing constant surveillance upon themselves. Foucault believes that the panopticon marks the development of a certain kind of human reality. "We are . . . in the panoptic machine," he writes (Discipline and Punish 217). The human subject exists inside the panoptic system, having internalized it in such a way that it becomes something like a structure of consciousness. At the same time, the panoptic technology produces the human being "as a subject"; subject in both senses, of being a subject to its power, and of having a particular kind of subjective consciousness (Foucault, afterword to Dreyfus and Rabinow 212). We are in the panopticon and it is in us: an effect of Foucault's paradoxical thinking is to undermine the "inside-outside" dualism that is the basis for the traditional notion of the individual human subject.
Critics have noticed the similarity of Beckett's Catastrophe (1982) to the panoptic idea (McMullan 27, Garner 48). Throughout this short play, a character named Protagonist stands immobile - though by no physical constraint - on a pedestal, while a dictatorial theatre director manipulates him, via the actions of a notebook-carrying assistant, whom he orders about. Protagonist is in a sense ironically named, because until the end of the play, he performs no action by his own motivation. Director's orders, as he "fine tunes" his production, serve at first increasingly to expose Protagonist to the theatre lights and reveal him to the audience. He has Assistant remove Protagonists's black dressing gown and hat, uncovering his pyjamas that are the colour of "ash"; then he has her make notes to "whiten" his "cranium," hands, and the rest of his "flesh." Finally, he calls to an offstage technician named Luke to reduce the scope of the theatre lighting in stages, so that the performance for which they are rehearsing will end with Protagonist's body having become invisible, while his bowed head will remain floating in darkness, lit by a spotlight.
The transition from black to white and the focusing of the theatre lights bespeak the significance Beckett places upon the gaze. These not only convey the impression of an intensifying gaze that brings Protagonist into an increasingly individualized existence, like the "actors" in Foucault's panopticon, but they also enable the process as a reality in the theatre. We are Director's intended audience and we share the gaze that discerns Protagonist - that draws him out of the darkness and inscribes him, shivering and impotent, into consciousness. It is sometimes pointed out that Beckett's work conforms to what he once said of James Joyce's: it is not about something, but rather, "it is that something itself" ("Dante..." 14). In Catastrophe's transformation of the theatre metaphor, in its critique of the myth of God, the audience members take on the role of the gaze of surveillance that assaults and shapes the image of Protagonist. The gaze does not ensue from them so much as they occupy a place within it - inside the space that Beckett has set aside for the representation of the gaze in the context of his play. Thus we observe a distinctly Foucauldian approach to the paradox of the human subject, particularly in Beckett's characteristic demonstration that crucial humanistic elements are artifices.
The gaze is an integral factor in much of Beckett's later drama, including his Film (1963) and television dramas, which are, of course, highly visual forms. The prototype for his dramatic use of the gaze was the "play" Breath (1969), only thirty-five seconds long, that Beckett sent to Kenneth Tynan on a postcard, as his contribution to Oh! Calcutta!. In Breath, the stage lights intensify at the same time as the sound of an inhalation; there is a pause before the exhalation is heard, synchronized with the dimming of the lights; all we see on the stage is some rubbish. The representation of the breath-pulse of consciousness starts and ends with the recorded sound of a "faint, brief cry," reminiscent of Pozzo's comment in Waiting for Godot: "They give birth astride of a grave. The light gleams an instant, then it's night once more" (Waiting for Godot 89).
Beckett's vision of human existence confined in a perpetual moment, no more living than not, has a philosophical affinity with Foucault's project to write a "history of the present" (Discipline and Punish 31), to his radical view of historical time, and as well, to the profound logical problem that Foucault takes on when he attempts to write a critique of power from a position that, it may be argued, is located within power's regime. How may he unveil power using power's own discourse, when any statement thus made could serve only to extend its domain? For Foucault, knowledge-discourse is immediately power. Many years ago, Beckett announced an equivalent aesthetic problem and the same sense of impotence, when he spoke of an art that might turn from the "dreary road" of tradition, toward the "expression that there is nothing to express, nothing with which to express, nothing from which to express, no power to express, no desire to express, together with the obligation to express." ("Tal Coat" 139). We may observe once again in Breath, as in Catastrophe, an assault upon the humanistic notion of the subject, as collectively we inhabit and perform our function within a purely mechanical representation of a moment of subjective human consciousness.
We should note, however, that what I have referred to as Beckett's dramatization of certain ideas, is not limited to his work for theatre. His prose has developed, along equally minimalist lines and in opposition to traditional modes of logic and grammar, toward a form of writing that involves the reading subject in the dramatic enactment of a deconstructing subjective identity. Beckett conditions the reader to depart from conventional frameworks, as though in an irrational attempt to pursue an ever receding significance. He describes impossible "inner landscapes," where no sooner is a feature proposed by one voice than it is refuted by another: "At the inexistent centre of a formless place" (Ill Seen Ill Said 9); "A place. Where none. A time when try see. Try say. How small. How vast. How if not boundless bounded" (Worstward Ho 11). Or where our subjective gaze, our mind's eye, will suddenly, like an absurd surrealist eyeball, fall into the image it is trying to discern or produce: "The eye breathes again but not for long. For slowly it emerges again. Rises from the floor and slowly up to lose itself in the gloom" (Ill Seen Ill Said 22), with an effect recalling Magritte and Redon. (Caws's The Eye in the Text, while overlooking Beckett, presents an intriguing analysis of such reflexive figures of perception.) Beckett adopts unconventional modes of metaphor and grammar so as to elude the reality of subject and object that narrative and grammatical conventions themselves imply.
Beckett uses the processes of writing to simulate the production of the subjective identity and the world it represents to itself. He develops the convention of the omniscient third person narrator to extremes where it collapses upon itself in absurdity. In his novel The Lost Ones for instance, the narrator describes a sealed subterranean cylinder, occupied by a society of individuals whose existences are constituted and governed by (Breath-like) rhythmical patterns of light and darkness, and complex rituals of movement, which are determined, in turn, by the geometry of the cylinder. The narrator is like God, inasmuch as the rules and realities exist before his gaze and as he articulates or dictates them. The more complex and precise his definitions become, the more his dictated order threatens to break down into chaos and impossibility. Undermining his attempt to describe the scrupulous logic of the cylinder's reality, is the implication that his language must refer to beyond the cylinder - that he himself must exist, illogically, both inside and outside its finite reality. Thus his persona cannot be maintained according to the terms he himself sets, and he is unmasked as one contrivance of an inhuman intention toward total control of an infinitely expanding system. Incidentally, Foucault writes of the importance of geometry to the production of the individual and society (see for instance Discipline and Punish 163, 316 n. 12). Beckett's adherence to the idea is striking in The Lost Ones, as in the prose works All Strange Away (1976) and Imagination Dead Imagine (1966), where an equally impossible omniscient narrator uses geometry to determine the form of the human body:
No way in, go in, measure. Two diameters at right angles AB CD divide the white ground into two semicircles ACB BDA. Lying on the ground two white bodies, each in its semicircle.
Still on the ground, bent in three, the head against the wall at B, the arse against the wall at A, the knees against the wall between B and C, the feet against the wall between C and A, that is to say inscribed in the semicircle ACB . . . (Imagination Dead Imagine 35, 37) A startling comparison is to be made with Foucault on official surveillance of a plague-stricken town at the end of the seventeenth century:
This enclosed, segmented space, observed at every point, in which the individuals are inserted in a fixed place, in which the slightest movements are supervised, in which all events are recorded, in which an uninterrupted work of writing links the centre and periphery, in which power is exercised without division, according to a continuous hierarchical figure, in which each individual is constantly located, examined and distributed among the living beings, the sick and the dead - all this constitutes a compact model of the disciplinary mechanism. (Discipline and Punish 197)
Confession is a further prominent thematic affinity. Foucault argues that in rituals of torture and execution the application of pain was precisely geared to the production of truth; the victim's confession under torture served to validate the written findings of the secret investigations by which he had been accused (Discipline and Punish 38; and see Dreyfus 145-6). In Foucault's History of Sexuality the theme is crucial: he proposes the Christian confessional as a model for the later "explosion" in talk about sex. Sex comes to be regarded as the repressed inner truth of the individual; however, the ensuing process of self-articulation, through self-examination, questioning and analysis, is really a means by which power further refines its enmeshment of the mind and body, as it pursues and produces the subject at ever deepening levels, within ever shrinking spaces on the table of human knowledge.
Beckett's characters are almost invariably obsessed with producing themselves through the discourse they utter. In some works the theme of confession is emphatic. In the play Not I (1972), the main character, Mouth, is a woman's mouth, isolated in a small light, with the rest of the actress's body hidden in darkness; the only other character is a hooded, priest-like Auditor, who listens in silence. Mouth's monologue - her existence - gushes forth, a stream of impressions and recollections, with repeated allusions to sin, God, punishment and guilt. She likens her discourse to excreta (". . . nearest lavatory . . . start pouring it out . . ."): it is at essence and origin a tainted organic flow. From a religious viewpoint, she seems to have fallen into a purgatorial state as a result of some forgotten or ill defined sin that it will take eternity to articulate. However, the context of Beckett's theatre suggests an ironic interpretation of the purgatorial scenario, as an allegory for an immediate state of existence, that coexists beneath, behind or prior to the illusion of conscious identity. Our gaze pierces into a primal dimension, where it "torment[s]" into existence her human essence of confessional discourse.
We can trace Beckett's and Foucault's affinity from their application of similar specific ideas and images to general philosophical and aesthetic stances - there are many more specific instances than I am able to deal with here. We are led to acknowledge an interplay between the oeuvres that not only contributes significance to both, but which appears to open the way to a general critical perspective. We should not consider that, as a philosopher-historian, Foucault speaks in a more authoritative voice about something we should perceive as "reality," for it would appear that Beckett has helped inform that reality to an indeterminate extent; as we have seen, Foucault is well acquainted with Beckett's pattern of thought (to say the least; but how could we ever affirm or deny that the reverse were not equally true?) Rather than consider traditional terms of influence, it is more fruitful to think of their writings as converging independently within the sphere of a "more real" reality than we are used to have represented to us: in philosophy, or in art or literature, or through the manifold systems through which we produce our workaday world - and have it produced for us. Foucault's writing can be described as "fiction" to the extent to which it is accepted that the interpretative institutions to which he refers are founded on power's lies and illusions. Reciprocally, Beckett's ostensible "fictions" for the stage and page evade conventional genres of illusory representation, and focus themselves reflexively upon the processes of production and reception as they occur within the reality of the present moment.
It is perhaps true that a Foucauldian perspective tends to "politicize" Beckett, by subtly re-shading understated elements that are implicitly political anyway. Beckett's shadowy wraiths, cringing from the light of consciousness may merely be interpreted as the expression of an aberrant existential angst. Who is to say that the light is not a "natural" and "normal" mode of existence, rather than an insidious, disembodied gaze of discourse-power? Hence, the oeuvre is considered by some to recede into apathy: as in the opening words from Waiting for Godot, there is simply "Nothing to be done." We must bear in mind, however, a familiar charge against the political Foucault's "inability to ground the resistance to power which [he claims] to articulate" (Callinicos 6).
Foucault's response is that, "from the idea that the self is not given to us, I think that there is only one practical consequence: we have to create ourselves as a work of art" (qtd. in Dreyfus and Rabinow 237). Similarly, Beckett's act of writing, which is at once an act of self-creation, implies a site of resistance against whatever it is that imposes the failure and impotence to which he habitually refers. The act of resistance needs to be an act of assertion that is not an act of power; hence, for instance, Beckett's writing speaks only ever of its own failure, avoiding claims of truth and emancipation. Leo Bursani and Ulysse Dutiot write of "something exhilarating in the idea of a joyful self-dismissal giving birth to a new kind of power" (9); while Foucault proposes an attitude of "hyperactive pessimism" (qtd. in Dreyfus and Rabinow 264). The act of resistance is a free and aesthetic act which aims to produce an alternative form of subjectivity; but it is an unverifiable possibility - as unknowable as death. In Catastrophe - which is perhaps Beckett's most overtly political play, dedicated as it was to the then politically imprisoned Vaclav Havel - Protagonist performs such an act when, contravening the Director's explicit order, he raises his head and opens his eyes to meet the gaze streaming at him from the dark, immediately halting the recorded audience applause (which had occurred right on Director's schedule). It is an aesthetic act in contravention to the established order; but to speak of an "heroic" act would be to pervert the image into a grotesque cliché in Beckettian terms, something tantamount to the "inspirational" figures of socialist realism. Beckett rescues the image from the type of meaning that could be so used as an instrument of power, and Protagonist's gaze fades into the dark, a mute gesture in the void.

M. Guest

A prova dos nove

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Força Benfica !

A pensar nos nossos tetranetos.

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Apenas nós podemos alterar o destino das coisas. Mesmo na inércia condicionamos o modo como o quotidiano se preenche. O passado é simplesmente presente vivido e o futuro sonho passado. Os elos entre coincidências sao mais ténues do que imaginamos e as galáxias espelhadas num grao de areia mostram-nos que a força da gravidade e a mecânica quântica nada podem contra a determinaçao do " homo sapiens sapiens ". Sejamos simples e empenhados na defesa da humanidade e atendamos às preces dos netos dos nossos netos. Salvemos o planeta Terra !

Honrar a memória do Inspector Joao Melo

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Apelo aqui a todos os portugueses para , com o seu protesto, honrarem a memória do nosso Heroi Joao Melo. É uma vergonha o que estes srs. juízes, procuradores, advogados, e todo o sistema judicial acaba de fazer. LIbertar criminosos deste calibre que a rajadas de kalachnikov ceifaram a vida de um agente da policia que os tentava deter. ´Nao acredito que isto aconteça em mais nenhum país do mundo.

Com nove anos de idade

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Ainda me lembro dessa manha, há 31 anos, em que retiraram a moldura com a fotografia do ex-Presidente do Conselho ladeada que estava pelas fotografias de Marcelo Caetano e Américo Tomás na escola pública que frequentava. Mandaram-nos cedo para casa porque as informaçoes ainda nao eram muitas. Houve alguma parcimónia no final dessa manha mas à tarde já estavamos a fazer o que sabiamos melhor. Jogar à bola. A Cuf estava na 1° divisao e o Barreirense no sobe e desce. Mas, o Benfica e o Sporting é que contavam, o resto era só paisagem. No entanto, dado o carácer disciplinador da minha querida maezinha nao me safei aos trabalhos de casa , e se a professora nao tivesse marcado nada, arranjava-se sempre uma cópiazinha e duas ou três divisoes daquelas com números decimais seguido das respectivas provas. É que o exame da 4 ° classe estava aí à porta. E como se recordarao os mais velhos aqueles livros obrigavam as meninges a exercitarem-se com os nomes dos rios, serras, províncias ultramarinas, as séries dinásticas da realeza portuguesa e a infindável parafernália de reduçoes, provas dos nove , reais e sei lá que mais. Nao eram os boatos sucessivos nem sequer o regresso dos exilados de renome que me preocupavam no início do Verao desse ano mas sim a melhor forma de ser aceite na equipa que ia "roubar lenha" nos quarteiroes circundantes. A nossa fogueira tinha que ser a maior de todas!. E no intervalo, das intermináveis futeboladas contra a "malta lá de baixo" que ganhávamos quase sempre, ainda tinhamos que fazer os cartuchos, recorrendo às Corin Tellados que já se tinham democratizado, para a guerra de canudos nas ruínas das "casas velhas". Os mais velhos , no início da puberdade, alimentavam as suas pulsoes sexuais com as Ginas e Lolas que de repente apareceram por todo o lado. Nós, os mais novos, achávamos aquilo uma chachada e queriamos mesmo era jogar às sargetas ou fazer parte da equipa dos mais velhos que iam caçar pardais para vender na barraquinha dos comes e bebes. Os longos períodos a seguir ao almoço, irremediavelmente "a fazer a digestao", eram passados a ler Mundos de Aventuras, Enid‘s Blyton , Salgari‘s e um ou outro Jules Verne. Ao cair da noite, às escondidas, iamos colar cartazes dos mais variados partidos para no dia seguinte, invariavelmente, irmos ouvir o que o Tó Coxo, de todos o mais esclarecido políticamente, dizia sobre o Ti Pedro, o jardineiro , que afinal era informador da Pide e dos inúmeros inimigos da revoluçao e da classe operária que se escondiam na maioria daquelas 3° assoalhadas daquela zona ... No intervalo dessas sessoes de esclarecimento iamos jogar aos cantos para o portao da fábrica da cortiça e o Tó Coxo era quase sempre o guarda redes. E podia defender com as muletas... Eu e o Patilhas é que nao gostávamos de muitas confusoes e quando a malta era muita iamos para o portao de baixo treinar para, quando fóssemos grandes, nao lhes dar as mínimas hipóteses. Até ao dia em que o Patilhas , num dos seus famosos estoiros , partiu o braço dum tenrinho de que já nao me lembro o nome. Os Pais, esses, nunca mais deixaram o Patilhas vir brincar para a rua e eu perdi aquele que me podia continuar a ensinar as primeiras fintas à séria ...
Mesmo na esquina da rua transversal à minha abriu a sede do PRP/BR , o verdadeiro partido das massas operárias. Os seus membros, um deles era ( e é ) casado com uma prima minha pagavam-nos uns gelados daqueles de gelo e corante e nós toca de colar cartazes a apelar à luta armada e à tomada do poder pelo Povo. O Tó Coxo era mais UDP mas , como o PRP/BR, culpava o PCP pelo rumo dos acontecimentos. Nós , iamos para o Parque jogar ao "espeta", às covinhas ( nao gostava muito porque os mais velhos abafavam-me sempre os melhores papas que conseguia ganhar aos domingos quando ia esperar os pombos para o pé do quartel dos bombeiros do Barreiro ) e ao "lá vai alho" até que a chegada dos vauxhall‘s, fiat‘s 124, opel‘s rekord, e ford’s capri dos nossos pais nos obrigassem a dar uma corrida por aquelas calçadas , onde ainda tinhamos presente o troar do galope dos cavalos da GNR, para ter tempo de lavar os pés e as maos antes de nos sentarmos à mesa para jantar ...

Terra

Terra

Também eu quero abrir-te e semear
Um grão de poesia no teu seio!
Anda tudo a lavrar,
Tudo a enterrar centeio,
E são horas de eu pôr a germinar
A semente dos versos que granjeio.

Na seara madura de amanhã
Sem fronteiras nem dono,
Há de existir a praga da milhã,
A volúpia do sono
Da papoula vermelha e temporã,
E o alegre abandono
De uma cigarra vã.

Mas das asas que agite,
O poema que cante ,
Será graça e limite
Do pendão que levante
A fé que a tua força ressuscite!

Casou-nos Deus, o mito!
E cada imagem que me vem
É um gomo teu, ou um grito
Que eu apenas repito
Na melodia que o poema tem.

Terra, minha aliada
Na criação! Seja fecunda a vessada,
Seja à tona do chão,
Nada fecundas, nada,
Que eu não fermente também de inspiração!

E por isso te rasgo de magia
E te lanço nos braços a colheita
Que hás de parir depois...
Poesia desfeita,
Fruto maduro de nós dois.

Terra, minha mulher!
Um amor é o aceno,
Outro a quentura que se quer
Dentro dum corpo nu, moreno!

A charrua das leivas não concebe
Uma bolota que não dê carvalhos;
A minha, planta orvalhos...
Água que a manhã bebe
No pudor dos atalhos.

Terra, minha canção!
Ode de pólo a pólo erguida
Pela beleza que não sabe a pão
Mas ao gosto da vida.

M. Torga

"aleijadinho"

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Nos princípios de setecentos Lisboa começa a ver chegar os carregamentos de ouro do Brasil. É uma riqueza que se sente.
Uma certa sociedade sabe ostentar os seus bens. Os mais pobres, artesãos e camponeses, não ficam alheios aos sonhos que uma melhor vida pode tornar reais. Os marinheiros que arribam contam histórias das terras distantes donde vem o ouro.
As construções são um reflexo de um pais rico. Em Mafra inicia-se a construção de um grande convento, que servirá de escola a muitos artistas. Alguns partirão depois para outras terras levando conhecimentos e práticas que ali adquiriram.
De Odivelas parte Manuel Francisco Lisboa. Também ele pensa numa vida melhor. No Brasil já o espera o seu irmão António Francisco Pombal. Certamente ali será mais fácil passar de artista a mestre, trabalho é o que não falta numa região que tanto se desenvolve.
Em Ouro Preto, Minas Gerais, a exploração mineira que se iniciara em 1698 é agora uma realidade. Durante muitos anos não há-de parar e em 1728 vão aparecer também os diamantes. Nem tudo o que se extrai é enviado para Portugal, que tolos não são eles...
Há que mudar de nome, Ouro Preto já não é. Em 1711 passará a chamar-se Vila Rica. Boa terra para Manuel Francisco se instalar.
Em 1724 obtém a carta de carpinteiro. É das melhores, pois abrange ofícios vários - entre eles o de desenhar plantas. Em 1730 é já mestre de obras. A Casa da Câmara e a Cadeia de Vila Rica, a capela-mor de Igreja de Castas Altas, são algumas das obras a que está ligado.
É já um homem com alguma importância, tem a sua oficina, os seus operários e os seus escravos. Entre estes Isabel, de origem africana, que terá um filho do seu senhor. O dia em que ele nasce é incerto, o do baptismo também, ou não seja a criança um bastardo, um mulato. No entanto o pai dá-lhe o seu nome: António Francisco Lisboa.
Em 1736 Manuel Francisco casa-se com Antónia Maria, do Funchal. Têm 4 filhos, um deles será padre. Quanto ao António Francisco, cresce como qualquer menino da sua condição. Cedo aprende que terá de se fazer à vida, a bens de herança não terá direito. A oficina do pai é o local onde vai passando o tempo. Vai aprendendo o que por lá se faz - desenho, arquitectura, ornamentos. A escultura e o entalhe parecem atraí-lo mais - assim se ocupa, e um ofício sempre lhe poderá servir para alguma coisa. Conhece também João Gomes Batista, que estudara desenho e gravação de metais em Lisboa, e que trabalha agora na Casa de Fundição de Vila Rica.
Quanto ao resto, aprende com os frades de Vila Rica apenas o essencial: música, latim e, claro! religião.

No Sec. XVIII a influência da Inquisição é ainda muito forte. Aqueles que chegam de Portugal têm-na bem presente - por isso cada qual trata de publicamente exibir o seu rosário...
Em Vila Rica o número de padres não pára de crescer - em 1750 são cerca de 80. É necessário controlar os sítios onde a riqueza é grande, pois sempre se pode tirar proveito da fortuna alheia. Os abusos, os crimes, os pecados, podem ser quase todos redimidos com oferendas generosas. Tudo, ou quase tudo se poderá perdoar com as dádivas a Deus. A Igreja é o centro do mundo.
Organizam-se confrarias e irmandades que zelam pelos interesse dos seus membros, ao mesmo tempo que lhes oferecem protecção. Mas também nelas existe selecção. Na maioria delas, não é admissível a entrada de homem que não seja branco. E branco puro, sem mistura de judeu, mouro ou mulato. Para estes existe a Arquiconfraria dos Mínimos do Cordão de S. Francisco, que não deixará de ser perseguida só pelo facto de admitir homens "pardos".
São estas confrarias que passam as cartas de habilitação para um oficio.
Apesar da sua condição, António Francisco Lisboa obtém a carta de carpinteiro. Sempre lhe vale para alguma coisa trabalhar na oficina do pai. Já pode executar vários trabalhos, e isso é coisa que nunca lhe faltará.
Duas das confrarias de Vila Rica dão oportunidade para se revelarem as capacidades de António Francisco. A Ordem Terceira do Carmo encomenda o projecto da Igreja a Manuel Francisco, a Ordem Terceira de S. Francisco fará encomenda idêntica ao seu filho.
As duas obras serão elogiadas e, na de S. Francisco, quer na fachada lateral, quer no púlpito, são já visíveis as marcas de um autor. Os trabalhos irão suceder-se.
O Barroco, tão em voga na Europa do Sec. XVII, só agora começa a chegar ao Brasil, sobretudo pela mão dos que vêm de Portugal. Mas aqui nos trópicos vai-se diferenciando do europeu, sobretudo em Minas Gerais, onde tanto ouro há.
António Francisco dá às suas obras um estilo próprio, quer no desenho das plantas, quer na talha e na escultura. É a imagem de uma região feita pelas mãos de um artista. As fachadas são enriquecidas, os interiores cobrem-se de talha. É aproximação do rococó, com um cunho mineiro.
Em 1767 morre Manuel Francisco Lisboa. Dois anos mais tarde o filho já não tem mãos a medir. As encomendas sucedem-se. O seu trabalho é disputado entre as várias confrarias - já pode fazer aquilo de que mais gosta - esculpir. Trabalha agora em pedra-sabão. Faz púlpitos, imagens, portas. Por tudo isto lhe vão pagando, e ele bem sabe como gastar o dinheiro...
Não é figura que atraia mulher para casamento - baixo, gordo e mulato - mas tem um filho natural. Da mãe pouco se sabe, apenas que se chama Narcisa, e que o faz andar em tribunais. António Francisco reconhece o filho como seu. Dá-lhe o nome de seu pai.
Há tempo para tudo, para o trabalho mas também para o prazer. A vida boémia diverte-o, gosta de viver. Talvez venha a pagar os desvairos que comete. Não perde uma oportunidade para se divertir como no dia em faz uma imagem de S. Jorge, que é réplica da figura do ajudante do Governador que a encomendara.
Em 1777 António Francisco Lisboa sente já os males da sua doença. De que sofre? Ninguém parece saber ao certo... mas que é grave, isso sente ele. São várias as hipóteses que se põem: escorbuto, sífilis, zamparina... Todas parecem ter origem num facto: a vida de excessos que tem levado. Há mesmo quem diga que tudo se deve à cardina** que terá ingerido para melhorar os seus dotes artísticos.
Certo é que, nesse ano, já não consegue deslocar-se sozinho. Que o diga a Confraria de Nossa Senhora das Mercês e Perdões que já suportou um pagamento aos negros que o transportaram quando foi vistoriar as obras.
A doença irá agravar-se com os anos. De forma lenta e dolorosa, como se dum calvário se tratasse.
Apesar de tudo António Lisboa é bem aceite. Tem obra feita, é respeitado. E não é homem de se expor.
Com o agravamento da doença vê o seu corpo a ficar cada vez mais deformado. Primeiro os pés, mais tarde as mãos. Momentos há em que não suporta as dores. O desespero é tal que chega a mutilar alguns dedos. Mas as mãos, também defeituosas, são o seu instrumento de trabalho. Males piores virão.
À sua fealdade junta-se agora a deficiência física. E há sempre alguns que a acham medonha. António Lisboa tem disso consciência, bem se lembra do dia em que um escravo, acabado de comprar, tenta suicidar-se ao ver o seu novo patrão. A amizade entre ambos nascerá depois.
António Lisboa decide não impor a sua presença. Evita sair durante o dia. Sempre que tem de o fazer, aproveita a madrugada. E para que não vejam as suas mazelas veste roupas que lhe tapem os membros, e chapéu que lhe cubra a cabeça. Dispensa de bom grado que assistam ao seu trabalho. Aos elogios que lhe fazem, responde por vezes com aspereza. É a doença que dói por dentro.
Os bons momentos, vive-os com os seus escravos - Januário, Agostinho e Maurício. Os dois últimos aprenderão as suas artes ao mesmo tempo que o amparam na doença. António Lisboa paga-lhes, transforma-os em seus operários. Januário será sobretudo o seu meio de transporte.
No mesmo ano em que adoece, casa-se o único filho natural que se lhe conhece. Da sua vida pouco se sabe, da nora se falará mais tarde.
Um homem a quem a natureza nada deu, que luta contra a sua doença, trabalhando; que transmite nas suas obras a devoção religiosa e que, de forma lenta, vai ficando estropiado... é uma figura digna de piedade. Quem o diz é o sentimento, ou o sentimentalismo lusitano a vir à tona, caridade. Já não lhe chamam António, mas sim o "aleijadinho" - assim ficará conhecido. Quanto ao seu verdadeiro nome, muitos o esquecerão. É o preço da caridade, é o nascimento de uma lenda.
Mas António Lisboa é lá homem de viver de piedades... Continua a trabalhar, adapta-se à doença. Alguns dedos das mãos já não existem, as pernas já não andam. Desloca-se de burro quando vai longe, às costas de Januário quando vai perto. E cada vez é menos visto. Com o auxilio dos seus operários arranja forma de poder trabalhar. Amarra os instrumentos às mãos, sacrifícios. E o seu mérito de artista é cada vez mais reconhecido. Muitos o afirmam, e disso é prova a deliberação da Ordem Terceira de Sabará em 25 de Novembro de 1781:
"O melhor meio para que estes trabalhos se façam com perfeição e sem alteração segundo os desenhos, é contratar o Mestre e os operários mais capazes de os executar da referida forma, e por esta razão o Reverendíssimo Comissário Superior e os irmãos membros da comissão estão de acordo e em unanimidade que apenas o Mestre António Francisco Lisboa e os operários poderão cumprir com toda a satisfação desejável..."
Mas António Lisboa não se limitará a ficar por aqui. Uma obra maior está à sua espera.

Em meados de setecentos havia chegado de Matosinhos (perto da cidade do Porto) Feliciano Mendes. Durante tempos andou, como outros, na procura de riqueza. Como tantos outros que partiram do Norte de Portugal, levou consigo as suas devoções. Tinha deixado na sua terra uma bonita Igreja - o Nosso Senhor do Bom Jesus de Matosinhos e as suas capelas dos Passos.
Também em Braga, no Minho, se construía um grande santuário dedicado ao Bom Jesus. Começavam as grandes romarias em Portugal...
Feliciano Mendes sobe um dia ao morro do Maranhão, junto a Congonhas do Campo. Lá no alto, o homem está mais perto de Deus. Quer construir aí um Igreja em devoção do Senhor do Bom Jesus de Matosinhos. Para isso doa toda sua fortuna. Quando morre, em 1761, a Capela está quase pronta. O culto já está divulgado, e os romeiros não param de deixar as suas esmolas. Há que aplicar o dinheiro. A confraria decide construir um santuário imponente. Também ali haverá os Passos. E um adro. E um grande artista a fazê-lo.
Em 1796 António Lisboa é contratado para fazer a execução das estátuas do santuário, cerca de 60, obra grande. Nem todas poderá esculpir. Mas pelo menos orienta os trabalhos. São precisos muitos operários. Melhor é instalar uma oficina em Congonhas. Para muitos será uma escola, afinal está ali um mestre. As obras irão durar alguns anos.
Em frente à igreja, um adro, o Largo dos Profetas (serão doze). Destes se encarrega António Francisco. Não são figuras estáticas. Distribuem-se em volta do largo como se de uma assembleia se tratasse. É deles que brotam as palavras, são eles os grandes oradores. António Francisco dá-lhes expressão, os gestos, as formas, as particularidades também. Os pés são grandes (para alguns, sinónimo de firmeza). As mãos mostram os ossos que vincam a pele e... um polegar "estranho", defeituoso até (é o reflexo dos seus males, pensarão outros mais tarde quando, ao olharem um Profeta, nele virem um auto-retrato de António Francisco).
O Mestre trabalha ainda nas Capelas dos Passos. Exprime o sofrimento de um Cristo. Também ele sofre com a morte de Agostinho Angola, era mais do que um escravo - era um amigo.
Talhada em cedro, mostra o realismo da Última Ceia. Mas tão real, que alguns dos passantes cumprimentam, julgando tratar-se de pessoas vivas...
Enalteceu a fé, mostrou mérito mas, quando regressa de Congonhas do Campo, António Francisco vê o seu sofrimento agravar-se. Vai ainda trabalhar no altar mor da Capela da Ordem Terceira de Sarabá. Mas já lhe chamam o "Aleijadinho" quando comentam as contas do trabalho apresentado. António Francisco Lisboa já não é. Esquecem o mestre, comentam os dinheiros...
Em 1810 trabalha ainda na talha da Igreja de Vila Rica (Ouro Preto). Desta vez é o seu ex-aluno Justino que firma o contrato. Eis o mestre a trabalhar para o aluno... As deslocações são já tão difíceis que se instala junto da Igreja. Será talvez a sua última obra ... e ainda por cima mal paga.
Um noite, Justino decide ir visitar a família. Não será visita breve. Quanto ao "Aleijadinho", nada lhe diz, que fique só, que se arranje. António Lisboa vê-se obrigado a regressar. Já não é homem de viver sozinho. Joana Araújo Correia, a nora, leva-o consigo. É parteira. Quem ampara gente que chega ao mundo, também há-de saber amparar na partida.
Durante dois anos António Lisboa não pode sequer levantar-se. Trabalhar, muito menos. Já não vê. Fala consigo. Dos tempos bons, dos outros que o não foram. E sobretudo da traição de Justino que nunca mais lhe apareceu para acertar contas. São coisas que não se perdoam a quem tanto se deu. Resta-lhe a fé e as tábuas onde está deitado.
Joana jamais o abandonará. Mas a dedicação da nora não lhe basta para aliviar tão grande sofrimento.
Morre no dia 18 de Novembro de 1814. António Francisco Lisboa é sepultado na Igreja de Nossa Senhora de Conceição. Aos seus nada deixa, ao mundo deixou muito.

A vitória da relatividade

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Excluindo os políticos e os detentores de cargos públicos, a generalidade da populaçao tem a verdade e a mentira como realidades insofismáveis. É na verdade que se recolhem aqueles que , socialmente empenhados, procuram tornar a vivência das pessoas, famílias e comunidades mais apetecíveis e compatíveis com as suas aspiraçoes de bem estar fisíco e intelectual. Na mentira, alimentam-se aqueles, cuja ambiçao desmedida os obriga a , como uma bola de neve, tornear as dificuldades da vida, através de artifícios, meias verdades e cinismo acabando quase sempre por recorrer à hipocrisia como género nobre na forma de se relacionarem com o meio que lhes é adverso.

O princípio do fim da Europa ...

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La fiévre, elle n'existe pas !
Sommes nous , le people du fin de siécle, avec notre desespoir et absence d' idéals, et la certitude de mourrir seul qui dirigent le monde pour l'abime.

O ca(o)marada Sampaio está a mais.

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E nao é que o povo português que votou Nao no último referendo sobre o aborto é todo estúpido. O Presidente do PS, PCP e BE vem agora a terreiro tentar influenciar o voto popular. Já é a segunda vez em menos de três meses. É obra !

O nosso tempo é o mais importante.

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Sempre sonhei com a pompa dos exércitos de Napoleao, a ousadia de Afonso Henriques, as armadilhas das tribos de Viriato, as cicatrizes dos gladiadores romanos, os duelos ao pôr do sol no Oeste americano, os estampidos das hordas de Gengis Kan, o salvamento dos Lusíadas, as danças de guerra dos Sioux, a tempera do aço dos samurais, o ascetismo dos monges tibetanos, o astrolábio de Fernao de Magalhaes, as intermináveis batalhas entre Spitfires e Fokkers, as conquistas de Alexandre, e com tudo aquilo que um jackpot do totoloto pode comprar. Mas isso foi antes de ter tido a fortuna de gerar duas crianças magníficas. Agora, quando a noite cai sonho com os meus tesouros, que, ainda por cima, me permitem revisitar , nos dois géneros, a minha longa e distante infância .

É assim, a vida , ...

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A pleíade de lugares comuns que nos assaltam diariamente tem vindo a aumentar. É óbvio que a democratizaçao dos suportes audiovisuais dao uma maozinha nesta avalanche de ditos, citaçoes, frases idiomáticas e excertos de textos supostamente acima da mortalidade. Mas, o que também é óbvio, é que a reflexao e a procura de respostas alternativas às questoes que a Vida e a Morte nos coloca tem vindo a diminuir por parte dos ocupantes das maiores cátedras do nosso País. Tirando uma ou outra tentativa de racionalizaçao da memória do colectivo português e um ou outro ensaio sobre as ancestrais dificuldades em encontrar oportunidades num horizonte incerto , pouco ou nada mais se tem produzido. Temo , por isso, que o palco continue a ser ocupado pelos vendilhoes da palavra na sua forma mais pobre.

The selfish giant

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EVERY afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the Giant's garden.
It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them. "How happy we are here!" they cried to each other.
One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived he saw the children playing in the garden.
"What are you doing here?" he cried in a very gruff voice, and the children ran away.
"My own garden is my own garden," said the Giant; "any one can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself." So he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board.
TRESPASSERSWILL BEPROSECUTED
He was a very selfish Giant.
The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside. "How happy we were there," they said to each other.
Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still winter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board it was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. "Spring has forgotten this garden," they cried, "so we will live here all the year round." The Snow covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down. "This is a delightful spot," he said, "we must ask the Hail on a visit." So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath was like ice.
"I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming," said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white garden; "I hope there will be a change in the weather."
But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant's garden she gave none. "He is too selfish," she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind, and the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees.
One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King's musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. "I believe the Spring has come at last," said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out.
What did he see?
He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children's heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. "Climb up! little boy," said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny.
And the Giant's heart melted as he looked out. "How selfish I have been!" he said; "now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden shall be the children's playground for ever and ever." He was really very sorry for what he had done.
So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became winter again. Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that he did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant's neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came the Spring. "It is your garden now, little children," said the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And when the people were going to market at twelve o'clock they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.
All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to bid him good-bye.
"But where is your little companion?" he said: "the boy I put into the tree." The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.
"We don't know," answered the children; "he has gone away."
"You must tell him to be sure and come here tomorrow," said the Giant. But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.
Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friend, and often spoke of him. "How I would like to see him!" he used to say.
Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden. "I have many beautiful flowers," he said; "but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all."
One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting.
Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvellous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved.
Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, "Who hath dared to wound thee?" For on the palms of the child's hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.
"Who hath dared to wound thee?" cried the Giant; "tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him."
"Nay!" answered the child; "but these are the wounds of Love."
"Who art thou?" said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child.
And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, "You let me play once in your garden, today you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise."
And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.

O. Wilde

A alcateia está triste

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Nós gostávamos da aliança entre conservadorismo e progresso que tu, Joao Paulo II, melhor do que ninguém sabias fazer. É com grande mágoa que te vemos partir. Até sempre companheiro.

The Nightingale and the Rose

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SHE said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses," cried the young Student; "but in all my garden there is no red rose."
From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
"No red rose in all my garden!" he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. "Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched."
"Here at last is a true lover," said the Nightingale. "Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow."
"The Prince gives a ball tomorrow night," murmured the young Student, "and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break."
"Here indeed is the true lover," said the Nightingale. "What I sing of, he suffers ­­ what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the marketplace. It may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold."
"The musicians will sit in their gallery," said the young Student, "and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her"; and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.
"Why is he weeping?" asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.
"Why, indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.
"Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.
"He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale.
"For a red rose?" they cried; "how very ridiculous!" and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.
But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.
Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.
In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."
But the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are white," it answered; "as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want."
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."
But the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are yellow," it answered; "as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want."
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student's window.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."
But the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are red," it answered, "as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year."
"One red rose is all I want," cried the Nightingale, "only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?"
"There is away," answered the Tree; "but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you."
"Tell it to me," said the Nightingale, "I am not afraid."
"If you want a red rose," said the Tree, "you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine."
"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried the Nightingale, "and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?"
So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.
The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.
"Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense."
The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.
But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.
"Sing me one last song," he whispered; "I shall feel very lonely when you are gone."
So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.
When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
"She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove ­­ "that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good." And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.
And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.
She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river ­­ pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.
But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.
And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.
And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.
And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.
But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.
Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.
"Look, look!" cried the Tree, "the rose is finished now"; but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.
And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.
"Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!" he cried; "here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name"; and he leaned down and plucked it.
Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand.
The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.
"You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose," cried the Student. "Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it tonight next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you."
But the girl frowned.
"I am afraid it will not go with my dress," she answered; "and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers."
"Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful," said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.
"Ungrateful!" said the girl. "I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has"; and she got up from her chair and went into the house.
"What I a silly thing Love is," said the Student as he walked away. "It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics."
So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.

O. Wilde