Arx tarpeia Capitoli proxima ('the Tarpeian Rock is close to the Capitol'), a warning that one's fall from grace can come swiftly.
Sunday, 16 October 2022
Sunday, 17 April 2022
BECKETT - WAITING FOR GODOT, THE UNNAMABLE AND WORSTWARD HO
Waiting for Godot (1952)
Estragon: Nothing to be done.
Vladimir: I'm beginning to come round to that opinion.
Vladimir: Let us not waste our time in idle discourse! (Pause. Vehemently.) Let us do something while we have the chance! It is not every day that we are needed. Not indeed that we personally are needed. Others would meet the case equally well, if not better. To all mankind they were addressed, those cries for help still ringing in our ears! But at this place, at this moment of time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not. Let us make the most of it, before it is too late! Let us represent worthily for once the foul brood to which a cruel fate consigned us!
Vladimir: Was I sleeping, while the others suffered? Am I sleeping now? Tomorrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of today? That with Estragon my friend, at this place, until the fall of night, I waited for Godot? That Pozzo passed, with his carrier, and that he spoke to us? Probably. But in all that what truth will there be? (Estragon, having struggled with his boots in vain, is dozing off again. Vladimir looks at him.) He'll know nothing. He'll tell me about the blows he received and I'll give him a carrot. (Pause.) Astride of a grave and a difficult birth. Down in the hole, lingeringly, the grave digger puts on the forceps. We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. (He listens.) But habit is a great deadener. (He looks again at Estragon.) At me too someone is looking, of me too someone is saying, He is sleeping, he knows nothing, let him sleep on. (Pause.) I can't go on! (Pause.) What have I said?
Vladimir: We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?
Estragon: Billions.
The Unnamable (1954)
- To go on means going from here, means finding me, losing me, vanishing and beginning again, a stranger first, then little by little the same as always, in another place, where I shall say I have always been, of which I shall know nothing, being incapable of seeing, moving, thinking, speaking, but of which little by little, in spite of these handicaps, I shall begin to know something, just enough for it to turn out to be the same place as always, the same which seems made for me and does not want me, which I seem to want and do not want, take your choice, which spews me out or swallows me up, I’ll never know, which is perhaps merely the inside of my distant skull where once I wandered, now am fixed, lost for tininess, or straining against the walls, with my head, my hands, my feet, my back, and ever murmuring my old stories, my old story, as if it were the first time.
- I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.
- All this business of a labour to accomplish, before I can end, of words to say, a truth to recover, in order to say it, before I can end, of an imposed task, once known, long neglected, finally forgotten, to perform, before I can be done with speaking, done with listening, I invented it all, in the hope it would console me, help me to go on, allow me to think of myself as somewhere on a road, moving, between a beginning and an end, gaining ground, losing ground, getting lost, but somehow in the long run making headway.
- Yes, in my life, since we must call it so, there were three things, the inability to speak, the inability to be silent, and solitude, that’s what I’ve had to make the best of.
- Perhaps it's done already, perhaps they have said me already, perhaps they have carried me to the threshold of my story, before the door that opens on my story, that would surprise me, if it opens, it will be I, it will be the silence, where I am, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.
Worstward Ho (1983)[edit]
Sunday, 30 August 2020
reivindicatória x imissão de posse
Qual é a diferença entre reivindicatória e imissão de posse?
As duas ações (petitórias) são pautadas no domínio, ou seja, exige-se prova da propriedade. Da mesma forma que se diferenciam as ações possessórias, a definição de cada uma das ações petitórias se dá primordialmente pelo exercício da posse, enquanto na Imissão de posse o Autor nunca teve o exercício da posse, na Reivindicatória o Autor busca recuperar uma posse perdida.
Friday, 27 March 2020
Un coup de dés jamais n'abolira le hasard (Mallarmé) - Toute Pensée émet un Coup de Dés ("Every Thought issues a Throw of Dice")
Un coup de dés jamais n'abolira le hasard (Mallarmé)
(Redirected from Un Coup de Dés Jamais N'Abolira Le Hasard (Mallarmé))
Un coup de dés jamais n'abolira le hasard (A Throw of the Dice will Never Abolish Chance) is a poem by the French Symbolist poet Stéphane Mallarmé. Its intimate combination of free verse and unusual typographic layout anticipated the 20th century interest in graphic design and concrete poetry.
History[edit]
The poem was written by Mallarmé in 1897 and published in May of that same year in the magazine Cosmopolis, but was published in book form only in 1914, 16 years after the author's death, based on his extensive notes and exacting instructions.[1][2] The first edition was printed on July 10, 1914 by the Imprimerie Sainte Catherine at Bruges, in a private 60-copy issue.[1]
The poem[edit]
The poem is spread over 20 pages, in various typefaces, amidst liberal amounts of blank space. Each pair of consecutive facing pages is to be read as a single panel; the text flows back and forth across the two pages, along irregular lines.
The sentence that names the poem is split into three parts, printed in large capital letters on panels 1, 6, and 8. A second textual thread in smaller capitals apparently begins on the right side of panel 1, QUAND MÊME LANCÉ DANS DES CIRCONSTANCES ÉTERNELLES DU FOND D'UN NAUFRAGE ("Even when thrown into eternal circumstances from the bottom of a shipwreck"). Other interlocking threads in various typefaces start throughout the book. At the bottom right of the last panel is the sentence Toute Pensée émet un Coup de Dés ("Every Thought issues a Throw of Dice").[1]
Critical interpretation[edit]
The philosopher Quentin Meillassoux argues that the formal construction of the poem is governed by the book's physical relationship to the number 12, while the contents of the poem are constructed under a metrical constraint related to the number 7. Meillassoux claims that the "Number" referenced in the poem explicitly refers to 707, which is, by his count, the number of words in the 1898 version of the text.[3]
Translations into English[edit]
- "A Dice Throw", Mallarmé: The Poems (Penguin, 1977), translated by Keith Bosley
- "A Throw of the Dice", Early Writings by Frank O'Hara (Grey Fox Press, 1977)
- "Dice Thrown Never Will Annul Chance", Selected Poetry and Prose, edited by Mary Ann Caws (New Directions, 1982), translated by Brian Coffey
- "A Throw of the Dice", Collected Poems (University of California Press, 1994), translated by Henry Weinfeld
- "A Dice Throw At Any Time Never Will Abolish Chance", Collected Poems and Other Verse (Oxford University Press, 2006), translated by E.H. and H.M. Blackmore
- A Roll of the Dice Will Never Abolish Chance (Wave Books, 2015), translated by Robert Bononno and Jeff Clark (designer)
See also[edit]
- Un Coup de Dés Jamais N'Abolira Le Hasard (Broodthaers), a purely graphical recreation of the poem by Marcel Broodthaers.
- 1914 in poetry
- 1897 in poetry
- List of most expensive books and manuscripts
References[edit]
- ^ a b c Un Coup de Dés Jamais N'Abolira Le Hasard (PDF). Librairie Gallimard (copyright by Nouvelle Revue Française). July 1914. p. 24.
- ^ Broodthaers (1970); quoted in Forum, Barcelona
- ^ Meillassoux, Quentin. The Number and the Siren: A Decipherment of Mallarmé's Coup De Dés. Faimouth, U.K.: Urbanomic, 2012. Print.
External links[edit]
Die dort oben haben uns längst vergessen. Sie richten uns nicht. Im Sterben bin ich ganz allein. Mein einziger Richter? Ich.
"Die dort oben haben uns längst vergessen. Sie richten uns nicht. Im Sterben bin ich ganz allein. Mein einziger Richter? Ich." Dark, Fernsehserie
Sunday, 17 November 2019
Ulysses (poem) - Alfred, Lord Tennyson
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees; all times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy,
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the scepter and the isle—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Friday, 28 June 2019
IF - RUDYARD KIPLING
"If—" is a poem by English Nobel laureate Rudyard Kipling, written circa 1895[1]as a tribute to Leander Starr Jameson. It is a literary example of Victorian-erastoicism.[2] The poem, first published in Rewards and Fairies (1910), is written in the form of paternal advice to the poet's son, John.[3]
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
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