TAUTOLOGIA

Ao domingo à tarde, a rádio passava o Nelson Ned cantando Domingo à Tarde.

Isabela Figueiredo, Caderno de Memórias Coloniais.

Domingo no mundo (95)

Édouard Vuillard, Rosas numa Jarra de Vidro, 1919.

O poder da raiva

That her lifelong, most fundamental positions were consistently construed as their opposites was no doubt demoralizing. But Dworkin did not cater to hostile readers, pleading with them to understand. Instead, she played the long game, refusing to leave behind a legacy of compromise. As she would later reflect: 

My only chance to be believed is to find a way of writing bolder and stronger than woman hating itself—smarter, deeper, colder. This might mean that I would have to write a prose more terrifying than rape, more abject than torture, more insistent and destabilizing than battery, more desolate than prostitution, more invasive than incest, more filled with threat and aggression than pornography. How would the innocent bystander be able to distinguish it, tell it apart from the tales of rapists themselves if it were so nightmarish and impolite? There are no innocent bystanders. 

“Nightmarish and impolite” might be the only descriptions of her work that Dworkin and her critics could agree on. And yet, as grim as her outlook was, just as it was her curse to see the seed of genocide in everything—the calamity waiting in every expression and symbol of inequality, however small or private—it was her gift to see in everything an opportunity to resist.

Sobre a vida e a recepção da obra de Andrea Dworkin, aqui.

Domingo no mundo (94)

Constant Montand, Ninfas nas margens do lago, c. 1900.

Morneza

Ao falar não tenho a certeza de procurar a palavra certa; tento antes evitar a palavra tola. Mas, como sinto remorsos por renunciar cedo de mais à verdade, fico-me pela palavra média. 

Roland Barthes por Roland Barthes; trad. de Jorge Constante Pereira.

Domingo no mundo (93)

Filipo Indoni, Pensiere d'Amore (Pormenor), séc. XX.

Domingo no mundo (92)

Childe Hassam, Woman Reading, 1885.

Great Expectations

Ainda posso recordar os meus vinte anos sem ressentimento. Talvez por ainda não ter conseguido o que então me propunha e por não ter perdido a esperança de o conseguir. A juventude, no fim de contas, não é mais do que uma grande esperança.

Gonzalo Torrente Ballester, Memória de um Inconformista; trd. António Gonçalves.