semper idem
Ano XIII
...M'ESPANTO ÀS VEZES , OUTRAS M'AVERGONHO ...
(Sá de Miranda) _________________
correio para jppereira@gmail.com _________________
17.2.04
POEIRA
Pepys teve um dia feliz, ontem, há trezentos e quarenta e três anos: o seu “Lord”, Sir Edward Mountagu, conde de Sandwich, verificou-lhe as contas e pagou-lhe uma considerável quantia. Depois jantaram e foram ao teatro, mas a peça não o entusiasmou: "I saw “The Virgin Martyr,” a good but too sober a play for the company.”
A pouco mais de um mês de morrerem, Scott e os seus companheiros estão enterrados na tempestade. Evans dá sinais de perturbação mental. Ontem , há noventa e dois anos, Scott anotou no seu diário: “it’s no use meeting troubles halfway, and our sleep is all too short to write more.”
(Pintura de Dora Carrington) Vinte anos depois, no mesmo dia, em 1932, Dora Carrington defronta-se com a morte do seu companheiro Lytton Strachey e escreve no seu diário:
“At last I am alone. At last there is nothing between us. I have been reading my letters to you in the library this evening.You are so engraved on my brain that I think of nothing else. Everything I look `at is part of you. And there seems no point in life now you are gone. I used to say: `I must eat my meal properly as Lytton wouldn't like me to behave badly when he was away.' But now there is no coming back. No point in `improvements'. Nobody to write letters to. Only the interminable long days which never seem to end and the nights which end all too soon and turn to dawns. All gaiety has gone out of my life and I feel old and melancholy. All I can do is to plant snow drops and daffodils in my graveyard!”
Depois queimou alguns objectos pessoais de Lytton, deu a roupa, “the bodily companions”, aos caseiros. Escreveu: “In a few years what will be left of him? A few books on some shelves, but the intimate things that I loved, all gone”
Daqui a dias, Dora Carrington mata-se com um tiro. Já tinha tentado antes, sem conseguir.
Pepys teve um dia feliz, ontem, há trezentos e quarenta e três anos: o seu “Lord”, Sir Edward Mountagu, conde de Sandwich, verificou-lhe as contas e pagou-lhe uma considerável quantia. Depois jantaram e foram ao teatro, mas a peça não o entusiasmou: "I saw “The Virgin Martyr,” a good but too sober a play for the company.”
A pouco mais de um mês de morrerem, Scott e os seus companheiros estão enterrados na tempestade. Evans dá sinais de perturbação mental. Ontem , há noventa e dois anos, Scott anotou no seu diário: “it’s no use meeting troubles halfway, and our sleep is all too short to write more.”
(Pintura de Dora Carrington) Vinte anos depois, no mesmo dia, em 1932, Dora Carrington defronta-se com a morte do seu companheiro Lytton Strachey e escreve no seu diário:
“At last I am alone. At last there is nothing between us. I have been reading my letters to you in the library this evening.You are so engraved on my brain that I think of nothing else. Everything I look `at is part of you. And there seems no point in life now you are gone. I used to say: `I must eat my meal properly as Lytton wouldn't like me to behave badly when he was away.' But now there is no coming back. No point in `improvements'. Nobody to write letters to. Only the interminable long days which never seem to end and the nights which end all too soon and turn to dawns. All gaiety has gone out of my life and I feel old and melancholy. All I can do is to plant snow drops and daffodils in my graveyard!”
Depois queimou alguns objectos pessoais de Lytton, deu a roupa, “the bodily companions”, aos caseiros. Escreveu: “In a few years what will be left of him? A few books on some shelves, but the intimate things that I loved, all gone”
Daqui a dias, Dora Carrington mata-se com um tiro. Já tinha tentado antes, sem conseguir.
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© José Pacheco Pereira
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