Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom have stopped at a cabman’s shelter, a small coffeehouse under the Loop Line Bridge, for a cuppa and a rest on their way home. And the hope that the coffee will sober Stephen up. After an appropriate period of such hospitality, Bloom sees that it is time to leave. James […]
My first introduction to the world of Paul Bowles, as well as the Sub Rosa record label, was through this disc. The combination of stories read by Bowles himself, as well as the artwork and ambiance by storyteller Mohammed M’Rabet, made it wonderful bedtime listening, allowing me to transport my mind to what a hazy, stoned Tangier must have been like in the 1950s and 60s. This aged very nicely.
The master speaks!
De surpresa, encontro no poema de Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986) que hoje transcrevo as razões porque pouco me entusiasmam as aventuras de Sherlock Holmes. Simultaneamente, e pelas razões opostas, percebo como me colo às aventuras deslindadas por Maigret. Trata-se, afinal, e tão só, de casos de humanidade neste último personagem e ausência dela no primeiro.
Humanidade reconhecível, desde logo, nos gestos mínimos de comer e amar, e que em Maigret são omnipresentes tanto no carinho sóbrio com que o personagem Maigret trata Madame Maigret como na presença constante do acto de comer enquanto gesto essencial de convívio e partilha com os restantes personagens que povoam os enredos das histórias.
Nada disto existe no personagem Holmes, como bem argumenta Jorge Luis Borges, pleno de razão, no poema Sherlock Holmes, referindo a sua ausência no personagem:
É casto. Nada sabe do amor. Não quis.
Esse homem tão viril renunciou à arte
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Jorge Luis Borges in prime form:
In the fifth century of the Prophet’s age,
Persia gazed down from her minarets
on the invasion of the desert lances,
and Attar of Nishapur glimpsed a rose,
addressing it in voiceless words
such as one thinks but does not pray:
Your shadowy sphere is in my hands.
Time is bending and forgetting us both,
this afternoon, this abandoned garden.
Your gentle weight lies moist on the air.
The relentless tide of your fragrance
rises to my old, declining face,
but I know you longer than that child
who saw you through the sheets of a dream,
or here in this garden, some certain morning.
The whiteness of the sun may belong to you
or the gold of the moon, or the crimson
certainty of a sword in victory.
I am blind and know nothing, yet I still see
there are more roads to travel. And every thing
is really an infinity of things. You are music
and rivers, palaces, angels, and skies,
an endless rose, infinite and intimate,
which the Lord will reveal to my lifeless eyes.
“Philip K. Dick and the Fake Humans” is a compelling essay by Henry Farrell published today in The Boston Review. From the essay: This is not the dystopia we were promised. We are not learning to love Big Brother, who lives, if he lives at all, on a cluster of server farms, cooled by environmentally friendly technologies. […]
Our friends at Biblioklept never cease to surprise. The political junkies followed the wrong person into a future oblivion. It was the cyberpunk Philip K. Dick who may have had the right vision all along.