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Comem jornais. Vivem daquilo. Por alguns dias. Sair da cidade. Eu mesmo me sentia contaminado. De outro tipo, mas igualmente perverso. Dava pena ver a dona Lu.
Emagreceu um bocado. Sentiam-se bem com isso. Ten days later Robbie hanged himself.http://www.minora-teplo.com.ua/includes/164/2077-znakomstvo-s-devushkoy.php
Following that Justin drank rat poison. And three days later Max went the way of Brian, Robbie and Justin. One person kills himself and the thing spreads like the flu, a powerful virus. The news is all over the papers, TV, radio, and those corpses who only hours before were just a shy student, just a widower, an unassuming appliance salesman or the son of a Chinese immigrant, lacking any talent or shine, become celebrities like movie stars or baseball players.
Contagious stars. They gossip, talk about it, actually wallow in it. Devour newspapers.
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Live off it. The students join hands in song. Mourning is declared and the flag lowered to half-mast. The tributes are a prize.
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You kill yourself and in exchange you get to be famous in your little town. For a few days. And a while later someone else hangs himself, and then someone else, in a vicious circle that paradoxically gives life to those dead towns with names as well known as Frostproof. An epidemic, the sociologists say. Or a mask. The only way you can keep from blowing your brains out is by turning off the TV. Turning off the radio. Not reading the papers. Leaving town. Even I felt contaminated.
Of another kind but just as perverse. The difference was that no one killed himself. You felt sorry for Dona Lu. She lost a lot of weight. I practically had to carry her to the car the times we went to church. And on those occasions, the vultures swarmed around her, all but asking for an autograph.
How bad does it hurt to lose a child? Flocks in search of carrion. It made them feel good. Which incidentally is another symptom of the epidemic. The pathological goodness that surfaces in the community. Instead of fever and diarrhea, all of a sudden you get this symptom, compassion. Ela se encosta na parede e fecha os olhos. O mugido da vaca continua e continua. E se ela pudesse se despedir da filha?
Depois outro pousa. Helena ouve o som das asas. Helena abre os olhos, pede outro cigarro. Adalberto, eu me chamo Adalberto. Helena, prazer. Helena acende o seu cigarro e fecha os olhos de novo. O mugido da vaca continua, nem mais alto nem mais baixo. Adalberto matou a bezerra. Adalberto afasta-se do matadouro puxando a vaca. Queria ter se despedido, dito algo, queria pedir mais um cigarro.
Helena and the man are smoking, sitting curbside in front of the store. She leans against the wall and closes her eyes. The cow bellows on and on. The man put a board across the bogs and roped the body of the calf. He wrapped the rope around the tall light pole and pulled as hard as he could. He tied the rope to the cow and tried to get her to pull. They are silent. The cow keeps on bellowing, she never quits.
And if she could say goodbye to her young one? Help her die, lick her or something? Neither does she. Now and then a vulture takes off. Then another lands. Helena hears the sound of the wings. The muck makes no sound as it slowly swallows the calf. Helena hears the man strike a match, smells sulfur and tobacco. Helena opens her eyes, asks for another cigarette. Helena, my pleasure. The store closed some time ago, some time since the slaughterhouse shut down.
Helena lights her cigarette and closes her eyes again. The cow keeps on bellowing, no louder, no softer.
Relações entre Espanha e Portugal – Wikipédia, a enciclopédia livre
And animals still die anyhow, Helena says half asleep now. Adalberto killed the heifer. Only its neck and little head still stick out. Its head flops sideways into the swamp, its eyes dead, scared and very round. It has long lashes and a pink nose, like heifers do. Adalberto walks away from the slaughterhouse, pulling the cow along. Helena realizes the bellowing has stopped, that Adalberto said goodbye and she just stood there.
Shrieks and the flapping of wings above the mire bring Helena to, the wings hiding the horror that must be happening inside the black circle. Filha de rei. Queria uma amiga para gostar. Decidiu acabar com tanta tristeza. Chamou o vidraceiro, chamou o moldureiro. E em segredo mandou fazer o maior espelho do reino. Uma sorriu e deu bom-dia. A outra deu bom dia sorrindo. E riram as duas. Daughter of a king. But what good was it being a princess if she had no one to play with?
Angola: Presidente doente num país enfermo
Alone in the palace, she cried and cried. She wanted nothing to do with dolls, she wanted nothing to do with toys. She wanted a friend to like. At night, the king would hear his daughter's sobs. What good is the crown if your daughter cries at night? He decided to put an end to such sorrow. He called for the glassmaker; he called for the framemaker. And, secretly, he had the biggest mirror in the kingdom made. And, silently, he had the mirror placed at the foot of his sleeping daughter's bed.
When the princess awoke, she was no longer alone.
A single beautiful girl looked at her in surprise, hair still mussed from sleep. Quickly, they both jumped out of bed. Quickly, they drew near and made each other's acquaintance. One smiled and said good morning. The other said good morning with a smile. Nesse espelho em particular vi meu pau deformado livre e solto numa das manchas desgarradas. E se o meu pau fosse prum lado, eu pro outro, e nunca mais que a gente se reencontrasse?
Que seria do homem sem o pau, do pau sem o homem? Aquele monstro mutante refletido nos espelhos pirados, ondulando, estufando, se afilando achatando desmembrando, aquilo espelhava a minha verdadeira natureza -- minha e de todos ali. Meu medo era de que aquelas imagens torturadas do meu verdadeiro eu saltassem fora dos espelhos pra assumir a realidade -- a minha realidade.
Qual dessas imagens reflete quem eu sou de verdade? Portanto, nenhuma. Lids at half mast, only the whites of his eyes showing, our climatic sitar player paid no heed to the ambient nakedness, traveling along in his own orbit, as he always did in fact. I noticed that the rise of his raw cotton pants had ripped at the seam, exposing the tufted skin of a sack set free from the constraints of underwear and the like.
Now and then, depending on the movement of his body, one of his balls would defenestrate itself out the opening, in a display of solidarity — on its part at least — with the collective nudity.
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When I faced into the first mirror, I felt the kick of a disconcerting revelation right in my stomach. As in the other mirrors I was to confront, I saw myself disfigured into myriad antithetical versions of monstrousness: an obese dwarf in one, a Quixotic bean pole in another, rippled like a washboard in a third. In yet another, I was completely dismembered, set adrift in oily blobs across the reflective surface.
In this particular mirror, I saw my disfigured cock free and unfettered in one of the floating patches of oil. And if my cock were to go off one way, and me another, never the twain to meet again? Where would man be without his cock, and a cock without his man? Would we be happier like that, my cock and me, each on his own path for the rest of his life? At one point I was struck by a mind-blowing insight. I was and always have been a polymorphous ameba but only now did I realize it.
I was afraid those anguished images of my real self would leap out of their mirrors and actually take over reality—my reality. Man, I gotta tell you, I was petrified. All around me everyone was splitting their sides laughing at the performance artistry of their mirrored bodies, undulating, expanding, splintering, corrugating, while I flailed about in the panic of a nightmare that was becoming ever more real to me. Which of these images reflects who I really am? There can be only one answer: all of them. And therefore, none of them. I am nothing. We are nothing.
You are — not. Alguem te olhou mais insistentemente, com um olhar de perigo, e voce quase sucumbiu. Tudo isso foi hoje, durante o dia. De noite. Taking the bus up into the mountains, at night, is different. Someone told you they went out yesterday and got back home at five and slept until one in the afternoon and had macaroni with ground beef and diced wieners for lunch.
Someone taught you how to say konnichi wa, a Japanese greeting. Someone looked at you kindly, someone else with curiosity you were probably chewing your lips and making faces while you read in the subway , a taxi driver gave you a bit of a nasty look because it was a short run. Someone kept staring at you, danger in the eyes, and you almost buckled under. All of this was earlier today. And now you are taking the bus up into the mountains and your soul is made of macaroni with ground beef and metro and a book and konnichi wa. Taking the bus up into the mountains is different.
At night. The sky is dark, with stars, oh so many stars, flung haphazardly across it, and the trees are gray and sometimes pass right outside the windowpane. And suddenly you wonder: how many meters up, how many kilometers away? But what does it matter if the world is twenty-four hours old, and if it is here, in this space between, that everything happens.
Translation - English from the book "Caligraphies" for Claudia Roquette-Pinto At the stoplight a boy asks me for a handout. He sees my weary face, my muscles decrying urgent needs, my life catching its breath, my fears. The boy gives me a handout: his smile. Without despair, without hope. When the light turns green, my hands are slow to go back to the world honking outside, begging for a handout.
I feel the car engine nuzzle the pavement, and I am coming from something headed toward something else perhaps not so very far away. Never has anyone pointed out conflicts, repetitions, or any of the things you have. On top of it all, your translations are easy to read and very concise. Nobody can replace you. We lose the World Cup! Last but not least, she is a talented writer. The quality of her work was not only recognized by my editor, Shambhala Publications—her sensitivity and careful attention to each word and expression was what I had been after for a long time.
My books are complex, and I am totally at ease entrusting them to her, knowing that we will resolve any questions together later. Porto que acham que para se ser portista tem que se bajular o presidente. Acordo ensonada mas pronta para seguir a rotina normal antes de ir trabalhar. O mesmo aconteceu em muitos outros momentos. Depois, Francisco Silva desculpa-se, diz que estava doente. Barra lateral. Mesmo sem deslumbrar, a equipa portista criou oportunidades suficientes para chegar ao intervalo com outro resultado. Estavam dois velhos Alentejanos falando sobre o mar quando a pginas tantas diz um pro outro: - Oh home, cala-te que na percebes nada de mar.
Ainda me lembro do saudoso Artur Agostinho. Foi para parecer doente, e por isso, fragilizado? Facebook gibt Menschen. Espero ter a oportunidade de o desmonstrar ao longo dos dias neste blog. Depois de ter recusado, pela terceira vez, a compra de bilhete a individuos que oh azar dos azares!
O primeiro de muitos. Tritt Facebook bei, um dich mit Jose Teixeira und anderen Nutzern, die du kennst, zu vernetzen. Vamos voltar a vencer! Ela se sentou e jantou sem dizer uma palavra. Estive na Luz no jogo contra o Manchester - ingleses, contra o Barcelona Catalaes, Celtic - 10 Escoceses. O Boto parece que ganha 2 a 0. They are always in favour of the separation between football and politics, but when it starts to smell like elections they will all stop there The account is official, campaign, created not a week ago, and, of course, ps already liked it.
Resposta pronta do outro: - Pra tua informao, o mar morto, que o mar morto j eu o conhecia antes dele estar doente. A cada palavra se percebe o objetivo do autor dos textos.