quinta-feira, 20 de junho de 2019

Diário Laboratório (primeira entrada) de 18/3/2018

(Primeira Entrada)
Cumprir-se o variegado da vida mas em escrita. É essa plurivocidade que alimenta - de que se deve alimentar - a ficção.

sábado, 15 de junho de 2019

Diário Laboratório (quarta entrada) 16/3/2018

(Quarta Entrada)
Pensa de outro modo, vale a pena. Podem não gostar de ti e perseguirem-te. Tirarem-te a fazenda ou manterem-te na penúria.
Mas, vale a pena porque, então, poderás reencontrar os clássicos.

domingo, 9 de junho de 2019

Diário Laboratório (terceira entrada) 16/3/2018

(Terceira Entrada)
A grande virtude do vício é que obriga à repetição obsessiva.

Para seres escritor - não interessa se bom, se mau - basta sentires que a literatura é um filtro narcótico qualquer.

quarta-feira, 5 de junho de 2019


   The Brave Cherokee By John Howard Payne

O’ soft fills the dew on the twilight descending
And night over the distant forest is bending
Like the storm spirit, dark o’er the tremulous rain
But midnight enshrouded my lone heart in it’s dwelling
A tumult of woe in my bosom is swelling
And tear unbefitting the warrior is telling
That hope has abandoned the brave Cherokee
Can a tree that is torn from its root by the fountain
The pride of the valley; green spreading and fair
Can it flourish, removed to the rock of the mountain
Unwarmed by the sun and unwatered by care?
Though vesper be kind, her sweet dews in bestowing
No life giving Brook in its shadows is flowing
And when the chill winds of the desert are blowing
So droops the transplanted and lone Cherokee
    Sacred graves pf my sires, and I left you forever
How melted my heart when I bade you adieu
Shall joy light the face of the Indian? Ah, never
While memory sad has the power to renew.

As flies the fleet deer when the bloodhound has started
So fled the winged hope from the poor broken hearted
Oh, could she have turned ere forever departing
And beckons with smiles to her sad Cherokee
Is it the low wind through the wet willows rushing
That fills with wild numbers my listening ear?
Or is it some hermit rill in the solitude gushing
The strange playing minstrel, whose music I hear?
Tis the voice of my father, slow, solemnly stealing
I see his dim form by yon meteor kneeling
To the God of the White man, the Christian appealing
He prays for the foe of the dark Cherokee
Great spirit of good, whose abode is in Heaven,
Whose wampum of peace is the bow in the sky
Wilt though give to the wants of the calmorous ravens,
Yet turn a deaf ear to my piteous cry?
O'er the ruins of home, o'er my heart's desolation
No more shalt though hear my unblest lamentation
For death's dark encounter, I make preperation
He hears the last groan of the wild Cherokee