-
"Também em francês trocava as palavras, mas o seu chofer Augusto não só a compreendia, como lhe respondia com palavras ainda mais embaralhadas. Ela o chamava de Eulalie, e ele, com avançada esclerose, atendia à vontade pelo nome do antigo patrão. E sentava-se com ela no sofá, dava-lhe o braço no jardim, permitia-se chama-la simplesmente pelo pronome, também afrancesado para Maria Violette. Quando Augusto morreu na cama dela, usando um pijama com o monograma do meu pai, mamae enviuvou de novo, de um luto mais profundo que o primeiro. E agora já não falava língua alguma, não se locomovia, nem sequer chorava, me enternecia assisti-la assim, com uma tristeza enfim cristalizada." Chico Buarque em Leite Derramado

Comentários

Enviar um comentário

Mensagens populares deste blogue

What it costs

-
If you ever get the chance to love a person who knows grief, do not let them go You see, the thing about grief is that it’s not exclusive it consumes life and it taints everything a little grey It won’t hesitate to remind you that everyone and everything you love will disappear some day But I’ve found that the people who carry grief love with a fierceness that no one else knows  They understand what’s at stake because they’ve had to let someone go  So they remember the little things and they show up when it counts They know that life is rare you won’t have to spell it out So don’t take for granted the people who know loss for they know more about love because they know what it costs - Whitney Hanson
Ler mais

to all the Hans Hubermann

-
To most people, Hans Hubermann was barely visible. An un-special person. Certainly, his painting skills were excellent. His musical ability was better than average. Somehow, though, and I’m sure you’ve met people like this, he was able to appear as merely part of the background, even if he was standing at the front of a line. He was always just there. Not noticeable. Not important or particularly valuable. The frustration of that appearance, as you can imagine, was its complete misleadence, let’s say. There most definitely was value in him, and it did not go unnoticed by Liesel Meminger. (The human child—so much cannier at times than the stupefyingly ponderous adult.) She saw it immediately. His manner. The quiet air around him. When he turned the light on in the small, callous washroom that night, Liesel observed the strangeness of her foster father’s eyes. They were made of kindness, and silver. Like soft silver, melting. Liesel, upon seeing those eyes, understood that Hans Hubermann
Ler mais
-
Imagem
" E de novo acredito que nada do que é importante se perde verdadeiramente. Apenas nos iludimos, julgando ser donos das coisas, dos instantes e dos outros. Comigo caminham todos os mortos que amei, todos os amigos que se afastaram, todos os dias felizes que se apagaram. Não perdi nada, apenas a ilusão de que tudo podia ser meu para sempre." Miguel Sousa Tavares
Ler mais