Será que um Stradivarius sente a mesma arrebatação do violinista?
Quando os lábios
In the same moment, both hate and desire died forever within him, as he knew the price of his revenge.
The dead astronaut was perhaps more beautiful in death than she had been in life. Tiny though she was, she must have been tough as well as highgly-trained to qualify for this mission. As she lay at Tibor's feet she was neither a Russian, nor the first female human being to have seen the far side of the Moon. She was merely the girl that he had killed.
Nick was talking from a long way off.
"She was carrying this," he said, in an unsteady voice. "Had it tight in her hand. Took me a long time to get it out."
Tibor scarcely heard him, and never even glanced at the tiny spool of tape lying in Nick's palm. He could not guess, in this moment beyond all feeling, that the Furies had yet to close in upon his soul --- and that soon the whole world would be listening to an accusing voice from beyond the grave, branding him more irrevocably than any man since Cain.
in Tales from Planet Earth - Arthur C. Clarke
E a pele recordam
If God approved his creation, He breathed the painted clay-model into life by signing His own name.
The Pillow Book
E as mãos sentem
Sigo os meus próprios passos na neve, fria, ás vezes engano-os, contorno-os, num desafio. Abatem-se sobre mim vagas de emoção, uma sucessão de granizo e azeite a ferver sob as muralhas de um qualquer reino distante.
Como se tocassem de novo
Who am I?Who am I? They often tell me
I stepped from my cell’s confinement
Calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
Like a squire from his country-house.
Who am I? They often tell me
I used to speak to my warders
Freely and friendly and clearly, as though it were mine to command.
Who am I? They also tell me
I bore the days of misfortune
Equally, smilingly, proudly, like one accustomed to win.
Am I then really all that which other men tell of?
Or am I only what I myself know of myself?
Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
Struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat,
Yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
Thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness,
Tossing in expectation of great events,
Powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
Weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
Faint, and ready to say farewell to it all?
Who am I? This or the other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
And before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army,
Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?
Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, 0 God, I am Thine!
Dietrich Bonhoeffer
March 4,1946
FIM
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