Tag Archives: in memoriam

Cassius Marcellus Clay, Jr. (aka Muhammad Ali), R.I.P.


Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.


I don’t have to be what you want me to be.


Boxing is a lot of white men watching two black men beat each other up.


I’m the greatest thing that ever lived! I’m the king of the world! I’m a bad man. I’m the prettiest thing that ever lived.


Cassius Clay is a name that white people gave to my slave master. Now that I am free, that I don’t belong anymore to anyone, that I’m not a slave anymore, I gave back their white name, and I chose a beautiful African one.


I’ve made my share of mistakes along the way, but if I have changed even one life for the better, I haven’t lived in vain.


People don’t realize what they had till it’s gone. Like President Kennedy, there was no one like him, the Beatles, and my man Elvis Presley. I was the Elvis of boxing.


The man who has no imagination has no wings.


I done wrestled with an alligator, I done tussled with a whale; handcuffed lightning, thrown thunder in jail; only last week, I murdered a rock, injured a stone, hospitalised a brick; I’m so mean I make medicine sick.


The name Muhammad is the most common name in the world. In all the countries around the world – Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, Morocco, Turkey, Syria, Lebanon – there are more Muhammads than anything else. When I joined the Nation of Islam and became a Muslim, they gave me the most famous name because I was the champ.


I’m so fast that last night I turned off the light switch in my hotel room and was in bed before the room was dark.


I am the greatest, I said that even before I knew I was.


Fotografias: Internet
Quotes: Muhammad Ali

Mary Ellen Mark, R.I.P.


“Photograph the world as it is. Nothing’s more interesting than reality.”

Partiu Mary Ellen Mark, (1940-2015), um dos nomes maiores da fotografia contemporânea. Uma referência fundamental da fotografia documental dos últimos 50 anos.

Fotógrafa de causas, temerária, determinada e independente,  Mary Ellen Mark tudo fez e tudo fez muito bem.

Lendárias as suas reportagens sobre os bordéis de Bombaim e sobre os Circos itinerantes da Índia, mas também os retratos espantosos, intimistas, que conseguia, desde actores e realizadores (a sua declarada paixão pelo cinema) até aos retratos de rua e à fantástica série sobre Madre Teresa de Calcutá.

Percorreu, com enorme competência os caminhos da fotografia comercial e publicitária, assinando campanhas para grandes marcas internacionais.

Viajante incansável, abriu caminhos novos à fotografia documental mas considerou-se, sempre e acima de tudo, uma “street photographer”.

Por razões que explica no texto abaixo, considerava esta a sua melhor fotografia


“This was taken in India, at a circus in Ahmedabad. I think it was called the Great Golden Circus. I’m a street photographer, but I’m interested in any ironic, whimsical images, and there’s something very romantic about a circus. I was doing a book; I spent six months travelling, saw 18 different circuses, and it was just a wonderful time. Believe me, there couldn’t be a more strange place for a circus than India.

I made an appointment to photograph Ram Prakash Singh and the elephant he trained, called Shyama. Singh had a very big ego – he was also the ringmaster, the No 1 guy – which explains the expression on his face. He actually thought the picture was all about him. I always leave it up to my subject to see what they come up with, and he wrapped the elephant’s trunk around his neck. I thought it was great and shot a couple of rolls. But when I looked at the pictures afterwards, I noticed that in one shot Shyama had slid his eyes to the side, so he had a bit of an evil look on his face. That was definitely the one to use.

I work in colour sometimes, but I guess the images I most connect to, historically speaking, are in black and white. I see more in black and white – I like the abstraction of it.

The picture has a very anthropo-morphic quality. That’s why I like this so much: I think Shyama’s communicating with me in a way. He had to stay in that position for a while. He’d had enough of the shoot. A year later, we learned that Shyama had died after eating a poisoned chapati.”










MARY ELLEN MARK has achieved worldwide visibility through her numerous books, exhibitions and editorial magazine work. She has published photo-essays and portraits in such publications as LIFE, New York Times Magazine, The New Yorker, Rolling Stone, and Vanity Fair. For over four decades, she has traveled extensively to make pictures that reflect a high degree of humanism. Today, she is recognized as one of our most respected and influential photographers. Her images of our world’s diverse cultures have become landmarks in the field of documentary photography. Her portrayals of Mother Teresa, Indian circuses, and brothels in Bombay were the product of many years of work in India. A photo essay on runaway children in Seattle became the basis of the academy award nominated film STREETWISE, directed and photographed by her husband, Martin Bell.

Mary Ellen recently received the 2014 Lifetime Achievement in Photography Award from the George Eastman House as well as the Outstanding Contribution Photography Award from the World Photography Organisation. She has also received the Infinity Award for Journalism, an Erna & Victor Hasselblad Foundation Grant, and a Walter Annenberg Grant for her book and exhibition project on AMERICA. Among her other awards are the Cornell Capa Award from the International Center of Photography, the John Simon Guggenheim Fellowship, the Matrix Award for outstanding woman in the field of film/photography, and the Dr. Erich Salomon Award for outstanding merits in the field of journalistic photography. She was also presented with honorary Doctor of Fine Arts degrees from her Alma Mater, the University of Pennsylvania and the University of the Arts; three fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts; the Photographer of the Year Award from the Friends of Photography; the World Press Award for Outstanding Body of Work Throughout the Years; the Victor Hasselblad Cover Award; two Robert F. Kennedy Awards; and the Creative Arts Award Citation for Photography at Brandeis University.

She has published eighteen books including Passport (Lustrum Press, 1974), Ward 81 (Simon & Schuster, 1979), Falkland Road (Knopf, 1981), Mother Teresa’s Mission of Charity in Calcutta (Friends of Photography, 1985), The Photo Essay: Photographers at work (A Smithsonian series), Streetwise (second printing, Aperture, 1992), Mary Ellen Mark: 25 Years (Bulfinch, 1991), Indian Circus,(Chronicle, 1993 and Takarajimasha Inc., 1993), Portraits (Motta Fotografica, 1995 and Smithsonian, 1997), a Cry for Help (Simon & Schuster, 1996), Mary Ellen Mark: American Odyssey (Aperture, 1999), Mary Ellen Mark 55 (Phaidon, 2001), Photo Poche: Mary Ellen Mark (Nathan, 2002), Twins (Aperture, 2003), Exposure (Phaidon, 2005), Extraordinary Child (The National Museum of Iceland, 2007), Seen Behind the Scene (Phaidon, 2009), Prom (Getty, 2012) and Man and Beast (University of Texas Press, 2014.) Mark’s photographs have been exhibited worldwide.

She also acted as the associate producer of the major motion picture, AMERICAN HEART (1992), directed by, Martin Bell.

Her book, Exposure, is a large retrospective book published by Phaidon Press. It showcases 134 of Mary Ellen’s best images, including both iconic and previously unpublished images.

Her most recent book Man and Beast features photographs from Mexico and India.

Aside from her book and magazine work, Mark has photographed advertising campaigns among which are Barnes and Noble, British Levis, Coach Bags, Eileen Fisher, Hasselblad, Heineken, Keds, Mass Mutual, Nissan, and Patek Philippe.


Memórias minhas, in memoriam dos milhares de desaparecidos


Fotografia: João Martins Pereira

O Captain ! my Captain !

In Memoriam


O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

Walt Whitman, 1865





(ilustração que, suponho, ser de autoria de Maria Salavessa Guimil)

Sobre o Futebolista, já tudo foi dito e será, muito justamente, redito e revisto. Foi um dos melhores de todos os tempos, talvez o melhor (assim o disse Don Alfredo di Stefano) ou, pelo menos o que mais possibilidades de acompanhar a evolução fisica, tactica e técnica do futebol até aos dias de hoje, com o mesmo nivel de genialidade, qualidade e eficácia.

Sobre o Homem, relembra-se, muito justamente, a humildade, a simplicidade, o desportivismo, o culto da amizade, a alegria de viver e, claro, a paixão pelo futebol, pelo Benfica e por Portugal.

Tive dois privilégios.

Vi jogar Eusébio as vezes suficientes para recordar a genialidade do seu talento. Ao vivo, não tantas como teria gostado porque, para meu azar, deixou o Benfica no época de 74/75, ano em que cheguei a Lisboa. Antes disso, eram as épicas 4as feiras europeias, com saida das Caldas a meio da tarde para vencer os longos 82 kms em versão pre-autoestrada. Uma das últimas vezes que o vi na Luz, do alto do 3o anel foi na festa de homenagem que o Benfica lhe fez, em finais de 73, um “Eusébio x Resto do Mundo”. Foi o célebre jogo do castigo ao Humberto e ao Toni, que levou à saida de Jimmy Hagan e onde se estreou um rapaz que, no ano seguinte, chegaria ao Benfica, chamado Bento. Foi há 40 anos.

Anos mais tarde, no inicio dos anos 90, tive a felicidade de o conhecer pessoalmente e de com ele conviver em longas noite de conversa. Jantávamos, então, com alguma regularidade, no Restaurante “A Paz”, na Ajuda. O restaurante era conduzido pelo António, ancorado na cozinha sabedora de sua Mulher. Por voltas e contra voltas da vida, acontecia nessa altura coincidirmos, com alguma frequencia, a jantar sozinhos o Eusébio, o Tenente Coronel Melo Antunes, recem-chegado da UNESCO, e eu. Assim me vi, deslumbrado, entre duas das figuras maiores do Portugal contemporaneo. Por sugestão do António (por amizade, mas tambem para não lhe ocupar mais uma mesa…) acabei por beneficiar de horas e horas de conversa, estórias e História, em jantares memoraveis, que se prolongavam até desoras, pela noite dentro, já com porta fechada e o António à mesa. Com, suponho, alguma empatia com ambos, o encontro foi-se mantendo e durante alguns meses, jantámos pelo menos todas as 5a feiras.

Depois, por mais reviravoltas da vida, aquela tertúlia improvável foi-se espaçando até que desapareceu.

Desde essa altura, nunca mais vi Melo Antunes. Nem sequer me pude despedir porque, quando ele partiu, vivia eu no estrangeiro.

Encontrei Eusébio mais algumas vezes, no Estádio ou na Tia Matilde, onde ele almoçava, encontros apenas de circunstancia. Recordei-o quando, há uns anos atrás, fiz questão de me perder, sozinho, pelas ruas da Mafalala até encontrar um recinto de cimento numa praceta onde, numa bar à conversa com os habitantes locals, me disseram: “sabes, mano, antes isto era terra, era aqui o campo onde o Eusébio jogava”. Verdade exacta, ou nāo, eu escolhi acreditar. Agora que partiu, não me poderei despedir porque, de novo, vivo no estrangeiro. Para mais, vivo agora em Londres, o palco da meia final de 66 e infausto cenário de uma das mais tocantes fotografias do futebol mundial. O Futebolista enquanto Homem.


Tive a rara oportunidade e o privilegio de conviver com duas pessoas extraordinárias, dois Homens bons, de uma simplicidade desarmante e de uma inteligência (cada um no seu lugar) finíssima. Já cá nāo estão, mas talvez partilhem hoje uma mesa cumplice, onde quer que estejam. Que Descansem em Paz.

(Nunca mais voltei a “A Paz”, já passaram mais de 20 anos. Vou lá uma destas noites, in memoriam).

Madiba – In Memoriam










(by William Earnest Henley)

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud,
Under the bludgeoning of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Dave Brubeck (1920 – 2012)


Morreu ontem, na véspera de completar 92 anos, uma das figuras a quem o jazz mais deve, mesmo que por vezes não o tenha reconhecido.

Chamava-se Dave Brubeck, um esteta do jazz.


Pianista de formação clássica (como John Lewis, Oscar Peterson, André Previn ou Keith Jarrett, por exemplo), Brubeck foi, durante as décadas de 50 e 60, desprezado pelos sectores ultra-ordoxos do jazz dito “puro”, que não lhe perdoavam a aproximação a um publico jovem, estudantil, de uma classe media branca, a matriz clássica das composições (contemporânea de, e por oposição a, improvisadores arrojados como Coltrane), a elegância e contenção do estilo e, talvez acima de tudo, o sucesso comercial, considerado um pecado mortal de um género musical que se entendia miserabilista.

Brubeck a tudo sobreviveu, e a musica do seu famoso Quarteto abriu as portas do jazz a públicos muito mais vastos.

Pessoalmente, tive a felicidade de ver Brubeck ao vivo em três ocasiões, no North Sea Jazz Festival, no Ronnie Scott, em Londres, e, a ultima e memorável, num concerto de piano solo no CCB, em Lisboa.

Brubeck deixa uma discografia vasta de que destaco 2 registos. Um, porventura menos divulgado, “Dave Digs Disney“, onde o Quarteto recria versões dos temas dos filmes de animação da Disney (ouçam a belíssima versão de Someday My Princesa Will Come, o tema principal do filme  Branca de Neve, cuja interpretação mais conhecida será a de Miles Davis) e o incontornável “Time Out“, com aquele que será o tema mais divulgado do jazz, certamente o de maior sucesso comercial e o responsável por milhares terem sido, e continuarem a ser, mordidos pelo “bicho do jazz”.

Chama-se Take Five, mas o destino tem destas ironias. Não foi composto por Brubeck, mas sim pelo seu fiel escudeiro, o grande Paul Desmond, um dos profetas maiores do sax alto.



A propósito de Brubeck, transcrevo, com a devida vénia, o obituário publicado no “The Guardian” por John Fordham. Aqui fica.

When the end of the 20th century came, some aspects of jazz began to be given the status of a classical form. In the reassessments that followed, the work of the American pianist and composer Dave Brubeck, who has died aged 91, was a major beneficiary. He was a figure simultaneously feted and mugged by ecstatic fans and infuriated purists during the years between 1954 and 1966 – the time when his catchiest and most deftly composed records were pop hits.

Like the Modern Jazz Quartet, which enjoyed similar commercial success in that period, Brubeck’s music flattered and engaged the young white middle-class, and particularly the student population, much as the classical-sounding clarinettist Benny Goodman’s work had done in the mid-1930s. Brubeck intertwined jazz swing with time-signatures that looked like algebra, and mingled standard song-forms with rondos and fugues. All kinds of music fans who would have hated to be seen with a jazz album owned Brubeck records in the 60s, just as they own Diana Krall, Jan Garbarek or Keith Jarrett discs today.

But if Brubeck’s success, and the repertoire that achieved it, could be fighting talk among music-lovers 40 years ago, now time, and the eclecticism and fluid collaborations of a shrinking world, have healed his estrangement from the jazz audience. Brubeck’s pieces are now recognised for the 20121206-000004.jpgharmonically subtle, melodically devious and original works they are, and his most classically oriented works (such as the soft-winds Bach tribute Chorale) as triumphs in a treacherous territory in which short-changing jazz or dumbing-down symphonic composition is very hard to avoid. The Brubeck debate eventually vanished into the archives, and his real gifts – as a composer, and a charter of new rhythmic waters as inventive as the brilliant bebop drummer-composer Max Roach – came to be appreciated for what they always were.

Unlike Goodman and his college audience triumphs of the 1930s, Brubeck discovered his jazz in the postwar world – in a very different climate, which initiated the unusual chemistry of his music by a very different route. Jazz, pop and dancing were synonymous in the 30s. But Brubeck emerged a decade later, after the more cerebral and exploratory modernist idiom of bebop had profoundly influenced the music.

To make jazz popular again, to haul it out of the bare-bulb, hipster-subculture cellar it had holed up in during the late 1940s, would require a different approach. Brubeck, who grew up on a California ranch and initially trained as a vet, certainly made no such opportunistic calculations in the beginning, and wanted only to pursue his abiding passion for music any way he could. However, the populist approach found him in the end, whether he was looking for it or not. Born in Concord, California, he was originally trained in classical music, at first by a piano-playing mother. His environment cut him out to be a cowboy more than a musician – and with two older brothers on their way to music college, he was initially happy to embrace the alternative of working on the land himself. Though he resisted leaving the family ranch, his parents persuaded him to enrol as veterinarian major at the College of the Pacific.


Brubeck’s musical enthusiasms then overtook him, and he switched courses after a year – to the mingled delight and anxiety of the music faculty, which welcomed someone clearly cut out to be one of its most naturally gifted students, but whose notation-reading was so poor they made him promise never to teach music before they had let him graduate. During this period Brubeck led and played in jazz bands most nights of the week, and also met Iola Whitlock, who ran the weekly campus radio show. Brubeck proposed to her after a two-week relationship, and she survives him, along with four sons and a daughter.

Brubeck was a conscientious objector during the second world war, but was eventually given an army band to run on a tour of Europe in 1944. His superior officer, a jazz fan, repeatedly intervened to prevent the musician being sent to the front. After demobilisation, he studied at Mills College with the classical composer Darius Milhaud, who revealed the intricacies of polyrhythm and polytonality to him, and influenced his music for life, telling him that if he wanted to express America, he would always use the jazz idiom.


Brubeck then founded an experimental collective, the Jazz Workshop Ensemble. It was dedicated to exploring forms of jazz less hidebound by orthodox “swing” and Tin Pan Alley-derived harmonic structures. In 1951 he formed his first quartet, including a feathery-sounding alto saxophonist called Paul Desmond, a confirmed disciple of the undemonstrative, dynamically restrained white “cool school” variations on bebop whom he had briefly worked with in San Francisco in 1947. The pianist set up his own record label, Fantasy Records, and released Jazz at Oberlin (1953), the quartet’s first album. This exploration of live recording, rare for the time, secured a deal with Columbia Records – and the ensuing Jazz Goes to College (1954) sold over 100,000 copies. The success made Brubeck the first jazz musician to be featured on the cover of Time magazine, which said he was ushering in the birth of a new kind of jazz age in the US.

In the late 1950s the first quartet lineup, with bassist Norman Bates and drummer Joe Dodge, was transformed by the remarkable drummer Joe Morello and the bassist Gene Wright, and the most popular and influential Brubeck quartet was born. The familiar four-on-four metre of straight-ahead jazz time was augmented by complex tempos like 9/8 (as in the engaging Mozartian Blue Rondo a la Turk) and 11/4, though the improvising sections of Brubeck’s pieces frequently loosened into regular swing, which ingeniously balanced their appeal.

The album Time Out (1959) turned out to be the group’s biggest landmark, unleashing the first million-selling post-bebop jazz records with singles of Blue Rondo and the Desmond composition – triggered by a 5/4 Morello drum exercise – Take Five. Between 1959 and 1965, the Quartet won Down Beat magazine’s readers’ poll five times and was Playboy readers’ favourite jazz group for 12 years running, from 1957 to 1968. By the early 1960s, the New Yorker announced that the quartet was “the world’s best-paid, most widely travelled, most highly publicised, and most popular small group now playing improvised syncopated music”.


But this success had not come without reservations in the jazz world. Brubeck was on the wrong side of the purists almost as soon as his discs started to become hits – for what were seen by some as three betrayals. First, and maybe worst, he made money, which was a form of notoriety usually regarded as a sell-out by hardline hipsters. Second, his conspicuously complex tempos paraded cleverness and a fondness for European classical devices at a time when black American jazz was dumping much of its formal baggage, and fiery, impassioned and unpredictable improvisers such as Sonny Rollins and John Coltrane were on the rise. Third, he was portrayed by the cognoscenti as wasting the talents of a truly great improviser in Desmond, his lyrical and delicate alto saxophonist.

Such generally perspicacious writers as the British critic Benny Green were merciless with Brubeck. But the band was a huge success all around the world, and toured constantly. The jazz-loving American comedian Mort Sahl once remarked of American cold-war foreign diplomacy that “After John Foster Dulles visits a country, the State Department sends the Brubeck Quartet in to repair the damage.”

The quartet finally disbanded in 1967, rejoining only once, in 1976, for a 25th anniversary tour. Brubeck branched out, concentrating increasingly on large-scale composition, writing ballets – Points on Jazz (1960) entered the repertory of the American Ballet Theatre – a mass, various cantatas, and combinations of jazz musicians and symphony bands. He also began performing with his highly musical sons: Darius, a keyboard player; Chris, a trombonist/bassist; Danny, a drummer; and latterly the youngest, cello-improviser Matthew. He also worked effectively with the saxophonist Jerry Bergonzi in the 80s, and the uncannily Desmond-like Bobby Militello in the 90s.

Brubeck’s landmarks, awards and citations became too numerous to count – he played for presidents Kennedy, Johnson, Reagan and Clinton, appeared at the Reagan-Gorbachev Moscow summit in 1988, and composed a score for Pope John Paul II’s visit to San Francisco in 1987.

All his life, Brubeck continued to regard himself as “a composer who plays the piano”. Though much was made of his piano-playing by his early fans, Brubeck’s solos relied heavily on riff-like block chords and rather relentless dynamics. They became more varied and unpredictable in the later stages of his career and remained so into his 80s. But Brubeck’s real achievement was to blend European compositional ideas, very demanding rhythmic structures, jazz song-forms and improvisation in expressive and accessible ways. His son Chris was to tell the Guardian, “when I hear Chorale, it reminds me of the very best Aaron Copland, something like Appalachian Spring. There’s a sort of American honesty to it.”
The Guardian / John Fordham

Morreu um Poeta

Manuel António Pina (1943-2012), R.I.P.

Não o Sonho

Talvez sejas a breve
recordação de um sonho
de que alguém (talvez tu) acordou
(não o sonho, mas a recordação dele),
um sonho parado de que restam
apenas imagens desfeitas, pressentimentos.
Também eu não me lembro,
também eu estou preso nos meus sentidos
sem poder sair.
Se pudesses ouvir,
aqui dentro, o barulho que fazem os meus sentidos,
animais acossados e perdidos
Os meus sentidos expulsaram-me de mim,
desamarraram-me de mim e agora
só me lembro pelo lado de fora.

in “Atropelamento e Fuga”



Faz hoje um ano que Steve Jobs partiu.
A homepage da Apple presta-lhe uma bela homenagem.




Clarice Lispector (1920 – 1977)


Há momentos na vida em que sentimos tanto
a falta de alguém que o que mais queremos
é tirar esta pessoa de nossos sonhos
e abraçá-la.

Sonhe com aquilo que você quiser.
Seja o que você quer ser,
porque você possui apenas uma vida
e nela só se tem uma chance
de fazer aquilo que se quer.

Tenha felicidade bastante para fazê-la doce.
Dificuldades para fazê-la forte.
Tristeza para fazê-la humana.
E esperança suficiente para fazê-la feliz.

As pessoas mais felizes
não têm as melhores coisas.
Elas sabem fazer o melhor
das oportunidades que aparecem
em seus caminhos.

A felicidade aparece para aqueles que choram.
Para aqueles que se machucam.
Para aqueles que buscam e tentam sempre.
E para aqueles que reconhecem
a importância das pessoas que passam por suas vidas.

O futuro mais brilhante
é baseado num passado intensamente vivido.
Você só terá sucesso na vida
quando perdoar os erros
e as decepções do passado.

A vida é curta, mas as emoções que podemos deixar
duram uma eternidade.
A vida não é de se brincar
porque um belo dia se morre.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Um poema curiosíssimo, bipolar, de Clarice Lispector. Para ler e, quando chegar ao fim, recomeçar … de baixo para cima !

Não te amo mais.
Estarei mentindo dizendo que
Ainda te quero como sempre quis.
Tenho certeza que
Nada foi em vão.
Sinto dentro de mim que
Você não significa nada.
Não poderia dizer jamais que
Alimento um grande amor.
Sinto cada vez mais que
Já te esqueci!
E jamais usarei a frase
Sinto, mas tenho que dizer a verdade
É tarde demais…

(Clarice Lispector)


veio de um mistério.
partiu para outro.
Ficamos sem saber a
essência do mistério.
Ou o mistério não era essencial,
era Clarice viajando nele.

(Carlos Drummond de Andrade)