Entertainment

Lenka Attune


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Musicalmente falando…


…ando perdendo um bando de shows por conta da maternidade. Só pra citar os três mais importantes: teve o show do retorno do Shaman, o da Loreena McKennitt e o do Remove Silence. Sendo que o Shaman (original, obviamente) não tocava desde, sei lá, 2006 ou coisa parecida, e a Lorena, até onde eu saiba, nunca havia vindo ao Brasil. Talvez nunca volte. Parece de propósito, viu! Custava terem feito esses shows antes? Ou daqui a alguns meses? Agora a bebê está maiorzinha, já consegue ficar umas horinhas longe de mim…e daqui a uns meses vai estar mais independente ainda. Mas com 1 ou 2 meses não dá de jeito nenhum… que bom que uma alma caridosa gravou tudo e colocou no Youtube. Tá aí no menu lateral esquerdo pra quem quiser assistir. E o da Loreena em SP tem trechos aqui:

Falando em Loreena, acho que os únicos álbuns dela que não tenho são os 2 últimos:

 

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Músicas


 

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Filme assustador


Corrijo: o filme mais assustador que assisti nos últimos anos. E olha que nem é de terror, hein. Quer dizer, em termos…depende do que se considera amedrontador. EU pessoalmente tenho medo do que acontece na vida real, e não na ficção. Tenho mais medo das pessoas ditas normais do que dos psicopatas, pois apesar de ambos os tipos estarem entre nós, as ditas normais estão em maior número.

Preciso assistir mais vezes e analisar cuidadosamente. Mas, assim de cara, já dá para dizer uma coisa: o que é mais aterrorizante neste filme é que não dá para distinguir ficção de realidade, ou seja, o que é atuação e o que não é, o que é comédia e o que é sério. Aposto que o ator que interpretou a personagem principal deve ter ficado com muito, muito medo também, mas não podia expressar. E por isso, minhas palmas para ele!

Quem sabe russo, pode assistir online no seguinte link:

http://spectator.io.ua/v6fa35ff5e127b7dcaa3e16e25606aca3

E, para quem não entende russo, pode assistir no Netflix, legendado.

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Жанр: Комедия
Выпущено: Германия, Claussen Wobke Putz Filmproduktion, Constantin Film Produktion GmbH, Mythos Film
Режиссер: Давид Внендт
В ролях: Оливер Мазуччи, Фабиан Буш, Кристоф Мария Хербст, Катя Риман, Франциска Вульф, Ларс Рудольф, Михаэль Кесслер, Даниэль Аминати, Даги Би, Фред Аарон Блаке
О фильме: Берлин, наши дни. На заброшенном пустыре возвращается к жизни черный кошмар XX века — Адольф Гитлер, кровавый диктатор, погрузивший Германию, а за нею и половину человечества в ужас Второй мировой войны, непосредственный виновник десятков миллионов смертей. Ни власти, ни сторонников, ни жилья, ни денег у него теперь нет, но есть опыт восхождения со дна на вершины и твердая вера в победу национал-социализма. Неподготовленный мир принимает бывшего диктатора за гениального актера, его гневные речи взрывают интернет, и… Гитлер второй раз в жизни обретает статус суперзвезды. Чем же это обернется в наше время?

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In the year 2011, Adolf Hitler wakes up in a vacant lot in Berlin which appears to be the location of the garden outside the bunker where he was burned, with no knowledge of anything that happened following his death in 1945. Homeless and destitute, he interprets everything he sees and experiences in 2011 from a Nazi perspective (for instance, he assumes that Turks in Germany are an indicator of Karl Dönitz having persuaded Turkey to join the Axis, and thinks that Wikipedia is named for “Wikinger”) — and although everyone recognizes him, nobody believes that he is Hitler; instead, they think he is either a comedian or a method actor. He appears on a variety television show called “Whoa, dude!,” going off-script to broadcast his views. Videos of his angry rants become hugely successful on YouTube, and he achieves modern celebrity status as a performer. Newspaper Bild tries to take him down, but is sued into praising him. He is beaten up by far-right extremists who think he is mocking the memory of Hitler, unaware that he is the genuine article. In the end, he uses his popularity to re-enter politics.

The book was priced at €19.33, a deliberate reference to Hitler’s ascent to power in that year. By March 2014 it had sold 1.4 million copies in Germany. The book has been translated into 41 languages. An English-language translation, Look Who’s Back, translated by Jamie Bulloch, was published in April 2014 by MacLehose Press. It was long-listed for the 2015 Independent Foreign Fiction Prize and the 2016 IMPAC award.
The original audiobook version is read by comedian Christoph Maria Herbst and by May 2014 had sold over 520,000 copies. Herbst had played the Hitler-based character of Alfons Hatler in the two comedy films Der Wixxer (2004) and Neues vom Wixxer (2007) before, which landed him the part of reading the audio version of the book written from the first-person POV of Hitler.
Film rights were sold, as were foreign license rights. A feature film premiered in Germany on October 8, 2015, starring Oliver Masucci as Hitler, and directed by David Wnendt (de). As a part of the movie’s promotion campaign, Masucci was made to appear as Hitler in several German cities, including the filming locations Brandenburg and Berlin, testing the public’s reactions; including at least one appearance close to an NPD rally.

In The Jewish Daily Forward, Gavriel Rosenfeld described the novel as “slapstick”, but with a “moral message.” However, while acknowledging that Vermes’s portrayal of Hitler as human rather than monster is intended to better explain Germany’s embrace of Nazism, Rosenfeld also states that the novel risks “glamorizing what it means to condemn”: readers can “laugh not merely at Hitler, but also with him.”

In Süddeutsche Zeitung, Cornelia Fiedler posited that the book’s success may be due less to its literary merits and more to the fact that its protagonist is Adolf Hitler. She stated that focusing on Hitler, “either as a comic figure or as the incarnation of evil”, risks obscuring the historical facts. Fiedler described Vermes’s assumption that readers would agree that Hitler deserved mockery as “surprisingly naive”.

In The Sydney Morning Herald, reviewer Jason Steger interviewed the book’s author, who believes that the way Hitler is seen today “is one that hasn’t too much to do with the real one”. “Most people wouldn’t think it possible that if they would have lived back then they would have thought he was in some way attractive too”, he said.

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Em 2011, Adolfo Hitler acorda num terreno baldio em Berlim, sem saber o que aconteceu após o ano de 1945. Desabrigado e desamparado, Hitler interpreta tudo o que vê em 2011 a partir de uma perspectiva nazi (por exemplo, ele considera que a imigração turca na Alemanha é um indício de Karl Dönitz ter persuadido a Turquia para juntar-se ao Eixo, e pensa que o nome Wikipédia originou-se dos víquingues, “Wikinger”) e, apesar de toda a gente reconhecê-lo, ninguém acredita que ele é o próprio Hitler, e sim um comediante, ou um ator de método. Como resultado, os seus vídeos violentos e furioso tornam-se um enorme sucesso no YouTube, e ele alcança o estatuto de celebridade moderna como um artista. No final, ele usa sua popularidade para voltar à política.

O livro foi vendido a 19,33 euros, sendo uma referência deliberada da ascensão de Hitler ao poder naquele ano. Em março de 2014, foram vendidas 1.4 milhões de cópias na Alemanha. O romance foi listado para o Prémio Independente de Ficção Estrangeira de 2015, e para o Prémio Literário Internacional IMPAC de Dublim de 2016. O livro também foi traduzido em vinte e oito línguas. Em Portugal, o livro foi publicado pela editora Lua de Papel em 2013. No Brasil foi publicado pela editora Intrínseca em 2014. Nos países anglófonos, o livro sob o título de Look Who’s Back, foi traduzido por Jamie Bulloch, e publicado pela MacLehose Press em abril de 2014. O livro falado foi gravado pelo comediante alemão Christoph Maria Herbst, e em maio de 2014 foram vendidas 520.000 cópias.
O filme estreou na Alemanha a 8 de outubro de 2015, sendo realizado por David Wnendt, e protagonizado por Oliver Masucci como Hitler. Para promover a longa-metragem, Masucci apareceu como Hitler em várias cidades alemãs, incluindo Brandemburgo e Berlim.

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Elegia 1938 (Carlos Drummond de Andrade)


Trabalhas sem alegria para um mundo caduco,
onde as formas e as ações não encerram nenhum exemplo.
Praticas laboriosamente os gestos universais,
sentes calor e frio, falta de dinheiro, fome e desejo sexual.

Heróis enchem os parques da cidade em que te arrastas,
e preconizam a virtude, a renúncia, o sangue-frio, a concepção.
À noite, se neblina, abrem guardas chuvas de bronze
ou se recolhem aos volumes de sinistras bibliotecas.

Amas a noite pelo poder de aniquilamento que encerra
e sabes que, dormindo, os problemas te dispensam de morrer.
Mas o terrível despertar prova a existência da Grande Máquina
e te repõe, pequenino, em face de indecifráveis palmeiras.

Caminhas entre mortos e com eles conversas
sobre coisas do tempo futuro e negócios do espírito.
A literatura estragou tuas melhores horas de amor.
Ao telefone perdeste muito, muitíssimo tempo de semear.

Coração orgulhoso, tens pressa de confessar tua derrota
e adiar para outro século a felicidade coletiva.
Aceitas a chuva, a guerra, o desemprego e a injusta distribuição
porque não podes, sozinho, dinamitar a ilha de Manhattan.

(Poema publicado em Antologia Poética – 12a edição – Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1978, p. 107)

&&&&&&&

A contemporaneidade de “Elegia 1938”, de Carlos Drummond de Andrade
Diante da decadência de uma sociedade que perde gradualmente seus referenciais, o poeta critica a mecanização do homem e a falta de sentido da vida

Sinvaldo Júnior
Especial para o Jornal Opção

Os temas políticos, o so­frimento do ser hu­ma­no e as guerras, a solidão, o mundo frágil, os seres solitários e impotentes ante o sistema são uma das facetas da poesia drummondiana. Num mundo em que se prezam os conflitos (so­bretudo com os quais não se aprende, mas se destrói), a automatização do homem, o cinismo, a indiferença, a hipocrisia, cabe ao poeta, lírico e angustiadamente (dada a sua impotência), cantar este mundo tal como ele é, visto que não pode, sozinho, modificá-lo — é o que se percebe no poema “Elegia 1938”, de Carlos Drummond de Andrade.

Elegia? O que é isso? É um poema composto de versos hexâmetros e pentâmetros alternados — conceito que não se encaixa ao poema em questão —, ou poema lírico de tom terno e triste; canção de lamento — conceitos que se encaixam plenamente com o tom e a temática do poema de Drum­mond.

Embora o sistema do mundo não ofereça nenhum exemplo, nada que verdadeiramente valha a pena, o homem é o maior construtor desse mundo, para o qual trabalha e, em consequência indireta, sente calor, frio, falta de dinheiro, fome e desejo sexual, o que denota sua incoerência ou tamanha cegueira, pois, pergunta-se: por que se ocupar com trabalhos que nada lhe oferecem mas, ao contrário, lhe privam de verdadeiramente viver?; por que contribuir para um sistema que dá mais importância ao capital?; por que se conformar em fazer o que todos fazem (gestos universais) se, mesmo dedicado (cegamente dedicado), não se ganha nada em troca? — são questões levantadas pelo poema, cuja atualidade nos espanta. Ou não?

Os heróis (aí cabe uma ironiazinha) fazem apologia à virtude (mas inventam guerras e matam), à renúncia (mas são vaidosos), ao sangue-frio (mas pregam o ódio) — discurso que contribui e corrobora o verdadeiro intento do sistema e de seus criadores: cegar, desindividualizar o ser humano o máximo possível, porque assim é mais fácil enganar. Prega-se uma coisa aos seguidores (cegos trabalhadores), mas os “heróis” fazem outra, o oposto e, poderosos, possuem direitos que os meros mortais não possuem, como abrir guarda-chuvas de bronze ou se recolher a sinistras bibliotecas quando, à noite, neblina. E jamais — jamais — aceitariam ser destituídos dos seus privilégios em prol do outro, até porque não aceita nem enxerga a alteridade do outro.

A impotência é explícita e inevitável: Amas a noite pelo poder de aniquilamento que encerra — única forma de fuga da realidade, válvula de escape. O sono é comparado à morte, pois dormindo, os problemas te dispensam de morrer. Porém, o subterfúgio é efêmero, dado que, ao despertar, tudo volta ao que/como era antes: a Grande Máquina (com letras maiúsculas) existe, é real, posto que invisível (impalpável), o que dificulta uma possível luta contra ela. O ser humano, pequenino, se confronta (confronta?) com o sistema, grandioso. Mas é a insignificância do homem, ante esse mundo, que, na verdade, sobressai. Sim, somos insignificantes. Ou ainda duvida disso?

Mortos, na quarta estrofe, pode equivaler às pessoas inseridas nesse (neste) contexto inumano — metáfora do ser humano, tal qual ele é, visto que, automático, passivo, conformado, é como se realmente morto estivesse. E não está? Os assuntos das conversas se referem — sempre, sempre — ao futuro: esperança adiada. E mais fugas: horas de amor e tempo de semear (sensações concretas e produtivas) são trocados por literatura e telefone (prazeres passageiros e improdutivos, porque segundo muitos a literatura é, de fato, inútil).

Em virtude de tudo isso, basta (infelizmente) conformar-se, adiar para outro século a felicidade coletiva, aceitar (a chuva, contra a qual nada se pode fazer), a guerra, o desemprego e a injusta distribuição (contra as quais muito se poderia (e pode) fazer, mas se…), pois não é possível, sozinho, dinamitar a ilha de Manhattan (símbolo, no passado e mesmo agora, decorridos 74 anos, do sistema capitalista, o qual é o corresponsável por tudo (ou nada). Resta, portanto, a revolta contida, a incapacidade — a frustração. O que mais restaria?

É, assim, possível fazer um paralelo do ano de 1938 (ano em que foi escrito o poema e ao qual se refere) e o século 21 (pleno…), pois se percebe que nada, ou pouco, mudou — daí a (infeliz) contemporaneidade do poema. Escrito um ano antes do início da Segunda Guerra Mundial, em que poderosos ditavam e subordinados cumpriam, em que homens (cegos ou indiferentes) se conformavam com o status quo (mesmo que esse status quo os oprimissem, os robotizassem, os subjugassem, os matassem) — época que se assemelha ao contexto vigente (de servilismo, de pseudodemocracia, de guerras (injustificáveis), de ditadores (camuflados), de falta de organização e cooperação entre indivíduos realmente individuais). Época, sobretudo e consequentemente, de frustrações, porque sozinho (talvez com um trabalho conjunto sim, vide [aqui cabe uma pitada de humor negro] o World Trade Center em setembro de 2001), não se pode — por mais que se queira — explodir Nova York, símbolo, ainda hoje, de poderio, do capitalismo, de dinheiro, de imperialismo, causas, mesmo que indiretas (é sensato não sermos simplistas), de grandes males da humanidade.

Os poetas (dentre eles Carlos Drummond) existem, felizmente, para explicitar e cantar e escancarar o medo: o medo dos soldados, o medo dos ditadores, o medo dos democratas. É uma voz que destoa, ou deveria destoar. Dessa voz (des)toante, claro está, surge libertações. Libertações inúteis que não mudam o mundo, posto que são libertações individuais e individualistas. Somente de um conjunto de vozes destoantes, mas harmônicas, surgiria a verdadeira libertação. Utopia? Sim, mas a utopia é sempre melhor do que a cegueira e o cinismo. Ou não?

Sinvaldo Júnior é escritor. Doutorando em Literatura.

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The Rime of the Ancient Mariner


BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
(text of 1834)

Argument

How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold Country towards the South Pole; and how from thence she made her course to the tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean; and of the strange things that befell; and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere came back to his own Country.

PART I

It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
‘By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?

The Bridegroom’s doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin;
The guests are met, the feast is set:
May’st hear the merry din.’

He holds him with his skinny hand,
‘There was a ship,’ quoth he.
‘Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!’
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

He holds him with his glittering eye—
The Wedding-Guest stood still,
And listens like a three years’ child:
The Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
He cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.

‘The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the lighthouse top.

The Sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he!
And he shone bright, and on the right
Went down into the sea.

Higher and higher every day,
Till over the mast at noon—’
The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,
For he heard the loud bassoon.

The bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she;
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.

And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong:
He struck with his o’ertaking wings,
And chased us south along.

With sloping masts and dipping prow,
As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe,
And forward bends his head,
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
And southward aye we fled.

And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold:
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.

And through the drifts the snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen:
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken—
The ice was all between.

The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around:
It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound!

At length did cross an Albatross,
Thorough the fog it came;
As if it had been a Christian soul,
We hailed it in God’s name.

It ate the food it ne’er had eat,
And round and round it flew.
The ice did split with a thunder-fit;
The helmsman steered us through!

And a good south wind sprung up behind;
The Albatross did follow,
And every day, for food or play,
Came to the mariner’s hollo!

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
It perched for vespers nine;
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
Glimmered the white Moon-shine.’

‘God save thee, ancient Mariner!
From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—
Why look’st thou so?’—With my cross-bow
I shot the ALBATROSS.

PART II

The Sun now rose upon the right:
Out of the sea came he,
Still hid in mist, and on the left
Went down into the sea.

And the good south wind still blew behind,
But no sweet bird did follow,
Nor any day for food or play
Came to the mariner’s hollo!

And I had done a hellish thing,
And it would work ‘em woe:
For all averred, I had killed the bird
That made the breeze to blow.
Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,
That made the breeze to blow!

Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head,
The glorious Sun uprist:
Then all averred, I had killed the bird
That brought the fog and mist.
‘Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,
That bring the fog and mist.

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free;
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
‘Twas sad as sad could be;
And we did speak only to break
The silence of the sea!

All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody Sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the Moon.

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.

The very deep did rot: O Christ!
That ever this should be!
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and rout
The death-fires danced at night;
The water, like a witch’s oils,
Burnt green, and blue and white.

And some in dreams assurèd were
Of the Spirit that plagued us so;
Nine fathom deep he had followed us
From the land of mist and snow.

And every tongue, through utter drought,
Was withered at the root;
We could not speak, no more than if
We had been choked with soot.

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.

PART III

There passed a weary time. Each throat
Was parched, and glazed each eye.
A weary time! a weary time!
How glazed each weary eye,

When looking westward, I beheld
A something in the sky.

At first it seemed a little speck,
And then it seemed a mist;
It moved and moved, and took at last
A certain shape, I wist.

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
And still it neared and neared:
As if it dodged a water-sprite,
It plunged and tacked and veered.

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
We could nor laugh nor wail;
Through utter drought all dumb we stood!
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,
And cried, A sail! a sail!

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
Agape they heard me call:
Gramercy! they for joy did grin,
And all at once their breath drew in.
As they were drinking all.

See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!
Hither to work us weal;
Without a breeze, without a tide,
She steadies with upright keel!

The western wave was all a-flame.
The day was well nigh done!
Almost upon the western wave
Rested the broad bright Sun;
When that strange shape drove suddenly
Betwixt us and the Sun.

And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,
(Heaven’s Mother send us grace!)
As if through a dungeon-grate he peered
With broad and burning face.

Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
How fast she nears and nears!
Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,
Like restless gossameres?

Are those her ribs through which the Sun
Did peer, as through a grate?
And is that Woman all her crew?
Is that a DEATH? and are there two?
Is DEATH that woman’s mate?

Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold:
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The Night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,
Who thicks man’s blood with cold.

The naked hulk alongside came,
And the twain were casting dice;
‘The game is done! I’ve won! I’ve won!’
Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out;
At one stride comes the dark;
With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea,
Off shot the spectre-bark.

We listened and looked sideways up!
Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
My life-blood seemed to sip!
The stars were dim, and thick the night,
The steersman’s face by his lamp gleamed white;
From the sails the dew did drip—
Till clomb above the eastern bar
The hornèd Moon, with one bright star
Within the nether tip.

One after one, by the star-dogged Moon,
Too quick for groan or sigh,
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,
And cursed me with his eye.

Four times fifty living men,
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
They dropped down one by one.

The souls did from their bodies fly,—
They fled to bliss or woe!
And every soul, it passed me by,
Like the whizz of my cross-bow!

PART IV

‘I fear thee, ancient Mariner!
I fear thy skinny hand!
And thou art long, and lank, and brown,
As is the ribbed sea-sand.

I fear thee and thy glittering eye,
And thy skinny hand, so brown.’—
Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!
This body dropt not down.

Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.

The many men, so beautiful!
And they all dead did lie:
And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on; and so did I.

I looked upon the rotting sea,
And drew my eyes away;
I looked upon the rotting deck,
And there the dead men lay.

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray;
But or ever a prayer had gusht,
A wicked whisper came, and made
My heart as dry as dust.

I closed my lids, and kept them close,
And the balls like pulses beat;
For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky
Lay dead like a load on my weary eye,
And the dead were at my feet.

The cold sweat melted from their limbs,
Nor rot nor reek did they:
The look with which they looked on me
Had never passed away.

An orphan’s curse would drag to hell
A spirit from on high;
But oh! more horrible than that
Is the curse in a dead man’s eye!
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,
And yet I could not die.

The moving Moon went up the sky,
And no where did abide:
Softly she was going up,
And a star or two beside—

Her beams bemocked the sultry main,
Like April hoar-frost spread;
But where the ship’s huge shadow lay,
The charmèd water burnt alway
A still and awful red.

Beyond the shadow of the ship,
I watched the water-snakes:
They moved in tracks of shining white,
And when they reared, the elfish light
Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship
I watched their rich attire:
Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
They coiled and swam; and every track
Was a flash of golden fire.

O happy living things! no tongue
Their beauty might declare:
A spring of love gushed from my heart,
And I blessed them unaware:
Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
And I blessed them unaware.

The self-same moment I could pray;
And from my neck so free
The Albatross fell off, and sank
Like lead into the sea.

PART V

Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole!
To Mary Queen the praise be given!
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,
That slid into my soul.

The silly buckets on the deck,
That had so long remained,
I dreamt that they were filled with dew;
And when I awoke, it rained.

My lips were wet, my throat was cold,
My garments all were dank;
Sure I had drunken in my dreams,
And still my body drank.

I moved, and could not feel my limbs:
I was so light—almost
I thought that I had died in sleep,
And was a blessed ghost.

And soon I heard a roaring wind:
It did not come anear;
But with its sound it shook the sails,
That were so thin and sere.

The upper air burst into life!
And a hundred fire-flags sheen,
To and fro they were hurried about!
And to and fro, and in and out,
The wan stars danced between.

And the coming wind did roar more loud,
And the sails did sigh like sedge,
And the rain poured down from one black cloud;
The Moon was at its edge.

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still
The Moon was at its side:
Like waters shot from some high crag,
The lightning fell with never a jag,
A river steep and wide.

The loud wind never reached the ship,
Yet now the ship moved on!
Beneath the lightning and the Moon
The dead men gave a groan.

They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;
It had been strange, even in a dream,
To have seen those dead men rise.

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on;
Yet never a breeze up-blew;
The mariners all ‘gan work the ropes,
Where they were wont to do;
They raised their limbs like lifeless tools—
We were a ghastly crew.

The body of my brother’s son
Stood by me, knee to knee:
The body and I pulled at one rope,
But he said nought to me.

‘I fear thee, ancient Mariner!’
Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest!
‘Twas not those souls that fled in pain,
Which to their corses came again,
But a troop of spirits blest:

For when it dawned—they dropped their arms,
And clustered round the mast;
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,
And from their bodies passed.

Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
Then darted to the Sun;
Slowly the sounds came back again,
Now mixed, now one by one.

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
I heard the sky-lark sing;
Sometimes all little birds that are,
How they seemed to fill the sea and air
With their sweet jargoning!

And now ‘twas like all instruments,
Now like a lonely flute;
And now it is an angel’s song,
That makes the heavens be mute.

It ceased; yet still the sails made on
A pleasant noise till noon,
A noise like of a hidden brook
In the leafy month of June,
That to the sleeping woods all night
Singeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we quietly sailed on,
Yet never a breeze did breathe:
Slowly and smoothly went the ship,
Moved onward from beneath.

Under the keel nine fathom deep,
From the land of mist and snow,
The spirit slid: and it was he
That made the ship to go.
The sails at noon left off their tune,
And the ship stood still also.

The Sun, right up above the mast,
Had fixed her to the ocean:
But in a minute she ‘gan stir,
With a short uneasy motion—
Backwards and forwards half her length
With a short uneasy motion.

Then like a pawing horse let go,
She made a sudden bound:
It flung the blood into my head,
And I fell down in a swound.

How long in that same fit I lay,
I have not to declare;
But ere my living life returned,
I heard and in my soul discerned
Two voices in the air.

‘Is it he?’ quoth one, ‘Is this the man?
By him who died on cross,
With his cruel bow he laid full low
The harmless Albatross.

The spirit who bideth by himself
In the land of mist and snow,
He loved the bird that loved the man
Who shot him with his bow.’

The other was a softer voice,
As soft as honey-dew:
Quoth he, ‘The man hath penance done,
And penance more will do.’

PART VI

First Voice
‘But tell me, tell me! speak again,
Thy soft response renewing—
What makes that ship drive on so fast?
What is the ocean doing?’

Second Voice
Still as a slave before his lord,
The ocean hath no blast;
His great bright eye most silently
Up to the Moon is cast—

If he may know which way to go;
For she guides him smooth or grim.
See, brother, see! how graciously
She looketh down on him.’

First Voice
‘But why drives on that ship so fast,
Without or wave or wind?’

Second Voice
‘The air is cut away before,
And closes from behind.

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!
Or we shall be belated:
For slow and slow that ship will go,
When the Mariner’s trance is abated.’

I woke, and we were sailing on
As in a gentle weather:
‘Twas night, calm night, the moon was high;
The dead men stood together.

All stood together on the deck,
For a charnel-dungeon fitter:
All fixed on me their stony eyes,
That in the Moon did glitter.

The pang, the curse, with which they died,
Had never passed away:
I could not draw my eyes from theirs,
Nor turn them up to pray.

And now this spell was snapt: once more
I viewed the ocean green,
And looked far forth, yet little saw
Of what had else been seen—

Like one, that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turned round walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows, a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.

But soon there breathed a wind on me,
Nor sound nor motion made:
Its path was not upon the sea,
In ripple or in shade.

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek
Like a meadow-gale of spring—
It mingled strangely with my fears,
Yet it felt like a welcoming.

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,
Yet she sailed softly too:
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze—
On me alone it blew.

Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed
The light-house top I see?
Is this the hill? is this the kirk?
Is this mine own countree?

We drifted o’er the harbour-bar,
And I with sobs did pray—
O let me be awake, my God!
Or let me sleep alway.

The harbour-bay was clear as glass,
So smoothly it was strewn!
And on the bay the moonlight lay,
And the shadow of the Moon.

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,
That stands above the rock:
The moonlight steeped in silentness
The steady weathercock.

And the bay was white with silent light,
Till rising from the same,
Full many shapes, that shadows were,
In crimson colours came.

A little distance from the prow
Those crimson shadows were:
I turned my eyes upon the deck—
Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,
And, by the holy rood!
A man all light, a seraph-man,
On every corse there stood.

This seraph-band, each waved his hand:
It was a heavenly sight!
They stood as signals to the land,
Each one a lovely light;

This seraph-band, each waved his hand,
No voice did they impart—
No voice; but oh! the silence sank
Like music on my heart.

But soon I heard the dash of oars,
I heard the Pilot’s cheer;
My head was turned perforce away
And I saw a boat appear.

The Pilot and the Pilot’s boy,
I heard them coming fast:
Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy
The dead men could not blast.

I saw a third—I heard his voice:
It is the Hermit good!
He singeth loud his godly hymns
That he makes in the wood.
He’ll shrieve my soul, he’ll wash away
The Albatross’s blood.

PART VII

This Hermit good lives in that wood
Which slopes down to the sea.
How loudly his sweet voice he rears!
He loves to talk with marineres
That come from a far countree.

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve—
He hath a cushion plump:
It is the moss that wholly hides
The rotted old oak-stump.

The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk,
‘Why, this is strange, I trow!
Where are those lights so many and fair,
That signal made but now?’

‘Strange, by my faith!’ the Hermit said—
‘And they answered not our cheer!
The planks looked warped! and see those sails,
How thin they are and sere!
I never saw aught like to them,
Unless perchance it were

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag
My forest-brook along;
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,
That eats the she-wolf’s young.’

‘Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look—
(The Pilot made reply)
I am a-feared’—’Push on, push on!’
Said the Hermit cheerily.

The boat came closer to the ship,
But I nor spake nor stirred;
The boat came close beneath the ship,
And straight a sound was heard.

Under the water it rumbled on,
Still louder and more dread:
It reached the ship, it split the bay;
The ship went down like lead.

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,
Which sky and ocean smote,
Like one that hath been seven days drowned
My body lay afloat;
But swift as dreams, myself I found
Within the Pilot’s boat.

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,
The boat spun round and round;
And all was still, save that the hill
Was telling of the sound.

I moved my lips—the Pilot shrieked
And fell down in a fit;
The holy Hermit raised his eyes,
And prayed where he did sit.

I took the oars: the Pilot’s boy,
Who now doth crazy go,
Laughed loud and long, and all the while
His eyes went to and fro.
‘Ha! ha!’ quoth he, ‘full plain I see,
The Devil knows how to row.’

And now, all in my own countree,
I stood on the firm land!
The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,
And scarcely he could stand.

‘O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!’
The Hermit crossed his brow.
‘Say quick,’ quoth he, ‘I bid thee say—
What manner of man art thou?’

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
With a woful agony,
Which forced me to begin my tale;
And then it left me free.

Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns:
And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.

I pass, like night, from land to land;
I have strange power of speech;
That moment that his face I see,
I know the man that must hear me:
To him my tale I teach.

What loud uproar bursts from that door!
The wedding-guests are there:
But in the garden-bower the bride
And bride-maids singing are:
And hark the little vesper bell,
Which biddeth me to prayer!

O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been
Alone on a wide wide sea:
So lonely ‘twas, that God himself
Scarce seemèd there to be.

O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
‘Tis sweeter far to me,
To walk together to the kirk
With a goodly company!—

To walk together to the kirk,
And all together pray,
While each to his great Father bends,
Old men, and babes, and loving friends
And youths and maidens gay!

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.

The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest
Turned from the bridegroom’s door.

He went like one that hath been stunned,
And is of sense forlorn:
A sadder and a wiser man,
He rose the morrow morn.

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Notes on Writing Weird Fiction


By H. P. Lovecraft

My reason for writing stories is to give myself the satisfaction of visualising more clearly and detailedly and stably the vague, elusive, fragmentary impressions of wonder, beauty, and adventurous expectancy which are conveyed to me by certain sights (scenic, architectural, atmospheric, etc.), ideas, occurrences, and images encountered in art and literature. I choose weird stories because they suit my inclination best—one of my strongest and most persistent wishes being to achieve, momentarily, the illusion of some strange suspension or violation of the galling limitations of time, space, and natural law which for ever imprison us and frustrate our curiosity about the infinite cosmic spaces beyond the radius of our sight and analysis. These stories frequently emphasise the element of horror because fear is our deepest and strongest emotion, and the one which best lends itself to the creation of nature-defying illusions. Horror and the unknown or the strange are always closely connected, so that it is hard to create a convincing picture of shattered natural law or cosmic alienage or “outsideness” without laying stress on the emotion of fear. The reason why time plays a great part in so many of my tales is that this element looms up in my mind as the most profoundly dramatic and grimly terrible thing in the universe. Conflict with time seems to me the most potent and fruitful theme in all human expression.

While my chosen form of story-writing is obviously a special and perhaps a narrow one, it is none the less a persistent and permanent type of expression, as old as literature itself. There will always be a small percentage of persons who feel a burning curiosity about unknown outer space, and a burning desire to escape from the prison-house of the known and the real into those enchanted lands of incredible adventure and infinite possibilities which dreams open up to us, and which things like deep woods, fantastic urban towers, and flaming sunsets momentarily suggest. These persons include great authors as well as insignificant amateurs like myself—Dunsany, Poe, Arthur Machen, M. R. James, Algernon Blackwood, and Walter de la Mare being typical masters in this field.]

As to how I write a story—there is no one way. Each one of my tales has a different history. Once or twice I have literally written out a dream; but usually I start with a mood or idea or image which I wish to express, and revolve it in my mind until I can think of a good way of embodying it in some chain of dramatic occurrences capable of being recorded in concrete terms. I tend to run through a mental list of the basic conditions or situations best adapted to such a mood or idea or image, and then begin to speculate on logical and naturally motivated explanations of the given mood or idea or image in terms of the basic condition or situation chosen.

The actual process of writing is of course as varied as the choice of theme and initial conception; but if the history of all my tales were analysed, it is just possible that the following set of rules might be deduced from the average procedure:

(1) Prepare a synopsis or scenario of events in the order of their absolute occurrence — not the order of their narration. Describe with enough fulness to cover all vital points and motivate all incidents planned. Details, comments, and estimates of consequences are sometimes desirable in this temporary framework.
(2) Prepare a second synopsis or scenario of events — this one in order of narration (not actual occurrence), with ample fulness and detail, and with notes as to changing perspective, stresses, and climax. Change the original synopsis to fit if such a change will increase the dramatic force or general effectiveness of the story. Interpolate or delete incidents at will—never being bound by the original conception even if the ultimate result be a tale wholly different from that first planned. Let additions and alterations be made whenever suggested by anything in the formulating process.

(3) Write out the story—rapidly, fluently, and not too critically — following the second or narrative-order synopsis. Change incidents and plot whenever the developing process seems to suggest such change, never being bound by any previous design. If the development suddenly reveals new opportunities for dramatic effect or vivid storytelling, add whatever is thought advantageous—going back and reconciling the early parts to the new plan. Insert and delete whole sections if necessary or desirable, trying different beginnings and endings until the best arrangement is found. But be sure that all references throughout the story are thoroughly reconciled with the final design. Remove all possible superfluities—words, sentences, paragraphs, or whole episodes or elements—observing the usual precautions about the reconciling of all references.

(4) Revise the entire text, paying attention to vocabulary, syntax, rhythm of prose, proportioning of parts, niceties of tone, grace and convincingness or transitions (scene to scene, slow and detailed action to rapid and sketchy time-covering action and vice versa. . . . etc., etc., etc.), effectiveness of beginning, ending, climaxes, etc., dramatic suspense and interest, plausibility and atmosphere, and various other elements.

(5) Prepare a neatly typed copy—not hesitating to add final revisory touches where they seem in order.

The first of these stages is often purely a mental one—a set of conditions and happenings being worked out in my head, and never set down until I am ready to prepare a detailed synopsis of events in order of narration. Then, too, I sometimes begin even the actual writing before I know how I shall develop the idea—this beginning forming a problem to be motivated and exploited.

There are, I think, four distinct types of weird story; one expressing a mood or feeling, another expressing a pictorial conception, a third expressing a general situation, condition, legend, or intellectual conception, and a fourth explaining a definite tableau or specific dramatic situation or climax. In another way, weird tales may be grouped into two rough categories—those in which the marvel or horror concerns some condition or phenomenon, and those in which it concerns some action of persons in connexion with a bizarre condition or phenomenon.

Each weird story—to speak more particularly of the horror type—seems to involve five definite elements: (a) some basic, underlying horror or abnormality—condition, entity, etc.—, (b) the general effects or bearings of the horror, (c) the mode of manifestation—object embodying the horror and phenomena observed—, (d) the types of fear-reaction pertaining to the horror, and (e) the specific effects of the horror in relation to the given set of conditions.

In writing a weird story I always try very carefully to achieve the right mood and atmosphere, and place the emphasis where it belongs. One cannot, except in immature pulp charlatan–fiction, present an account of impossible, improbable, or inconceivable phenomena as a commonplace narrative of objective acts and conventional emotions. Inconceivable events and conditions have a special handicap to overcome, and this can be accomplished only through the maintenance of a careful realism in every phase of the story except that touching on the one given marvel. This marvel must be treated very impressively and deliberately — with a careful emotional “build-up” — else it will seem flat and unconvincing. Being the principal thing in the story, its mere existence should overshadow the characters and events. But the characters and events must be consistent and natural except where they touch the single marvel. In relation to the central wonder, the characters should shew the same overwhelming emotion which similar characters would shew toward such a wonder in real life. Never have a wonder taken for granted. Even when the characters are supposed to be accustomed to the wonder I try to weave an air of awe and impressiveness corresponding to what the reader should feel. A casual style ruins any serious fantasy.

Atmosphere, not action, is the great desideratum of weird fiction. Indeed, all that a wonder story can ever be is a vivid picture of a certain type of human mood. The moment it tries to be anything else it becomes cheap, puerile, and unconvincing. Prime emphasis should be given to subtle suggestion—imperceptible hints and touches of selective associative detail which express shadings of moods and build up a vague illusion of the strange reality of the unreal. Avoid bald catalogues of incredible happenings which can have no substance or meaning apart from a sustaining cloud of colour and symbolism.

These are the rules or standards which I have followed — consciously or unconsciously — ever since I first attempted the serious writing of fantasy. That my results are successful may well be disputed — but I feel at least sure that, had I ignored the considerations mentioned in the last few paragraphs, they would have been much worse than they are.

Source: http://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/essays/nwwf.aspx

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Real Wild One


I’m a real wild one, wild one, wild one, wild one

Well, I’m just outta school, like I’m real, real cool
Gotta dance like a fool,
got the message that I gotta be a wild one
Ooh, yeah, I’m a wild one
Gonna break it loose, gonna keep ‘em movin’ wild
Gonna keep a-swingin’, baby, I’m a real wild child

Gonna meet all my friends, gonna have ourselves a ball
Gonna tell my friends, gonna tell them all that I’m a wild one
Ooh, yeah, I’m a wild one
Gonna break it loose, gonna keep ‘em movin’ wild
Gonna keep a-swingin’ baby, I’m a real wild child
I’m a real wild one and I like a wild fun
In a world gone crazy, everything seems hazy, I’m a wild one
Ooh, yeah, I’m a wild one
Gonna break it loose, gonna keep ‘em movin’ wild
Gonna keep a-swingin’, baby, I’m a real wild child
I’m a wild one
I’m a wild one
I’m a wild one
Ooh, baby, I’m a wild one
Gonna break it loose, gonna keep ‘em movin’ wild
Gonna keep a-swingin’, baby, I’m a real wild child

Categorias: Entertainment, Música, Music | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Deixe um comentário

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