Conversion

"But Proportion has a sister, less smiling, more formidable, a Goddess even now engaged - in the heat and sands of India, the mud and swamp of Africa, the purlieus of London, wherever in short the climate or the devil tempts men to fall from the true belief which is her own - is even now engaged in dashing down shrines, smashing idols and setting up in their place her own stern countenance. Conversion is her name and she feasts on the wills of the weakly, loving to impress, to impose, adoring her own features stamped on the face of the populace. At Hyde Park Corner on a tub she stands preaching; shrouds herself in white and walks penitentially disguised as brotherly love through factories and parliaments; offers help, but desires power; smites out of her way roughly the dissentient, or dissatisfied; bestows her blessing on those who, looking upward, catch submissively from her eyes the light of their own."

Virginia Woolf

Recantos III

Envolvidos no calor intenso do Verão, atravessamos paisagens que, apesar de feridas pelo fogo, impõem a custo a sua dignidade. Gigantes serenos no horizonte, a Estrela e o Caramulo guardam estas terras que o Mondego atravessa, incansável na sua peregrinação até ao mar. Pelo caminho, cumprimentam-nos nostalgicamente as memórias de um longínquo passado da Humanidade.

Skógarmaðr

Qu'on me chasse de ce monde de métal

Je veux être banni,

Ignoré par ceux qui m'accablent

Oh oui, je suis le coupable

Le meurtrier qui songe à les tuer

Le loup humain, mais pas l'humain

Je suis l'homme des forêts

Le skógarmaðr

Manhã

"(...) there is something awful in the being surrounded by familiar faces asleep - in the knowledge that those who are dearest to us and to whom we are dearest, are profoundly unconscious of us, in an impassive state, anticipative of that mysterious condition to which we are all tending - the stopped life, the broken threads of yesterday, the deserted seat, the closed book, the unfinished and abandoned occupation, all are images of death. The tranquility of the hour is the tranquility of death."

Charles Dickens