(cont.)
The authority of government, even such as I am willing
to submit to--for I will cheerfully obey those who know and
can do better than I, and in many things even those who
neither know nor can do so well--is still an impure one: to
be strictly just, it must have the sanction and consent of
the governed. It can have no pure right over my person and
property but what I concede to it. The progress from an
absolute to a limited monarchy, from a limited monarchy to a
democracy, is a progress toward a true respect for the
individual. Even the Chinese philosopher was wise enough to
regard the individual as the basis of the empire. Is a
democracy, such as we know it, the last improvement possible
in government? Is it not possible to take a step further
towards recognizing and organizing the rights of man? There
will never be a really free and enlightened State until the
State comes to recognize the individual as a higher and
independent power, from which all its own power and
authority are derived, and treats him accordingly. I please
myself with imagining a State at last which can afford to be
just to all men, and to treat the individual with respect as
a neighbor; which even would not think it inconsistent with
its own repose if a few were to live aloof from it, not
meddling with it, nor embraced by it, who fulfilled all the
duties of neighbors and fellow men. A State which bore this
kind of fruit, and suffered it to drop off as fast as it
ripened, would prepare the way for a still more perfect and
glorious State, which I have also imagined, but not yet
anywhere seen.
29.3.05
On the Duty of Civil Disobedience
by Henry David Thoreau
(1849, original title: Resistance to Civil Government)
I heartily accept the motto, "That government is best
which governs least"; and I should like to see it acted up
to more rapidly and systematically. Carried out, it finally
amounts to this, which also I believe--"That government is
best which governs not at all"; and when men are prepared
for it, that will be the kind of government which they will have.
Government is at best but an expedient; but most governments
are usually, and all governments are sometimes, inexpedient.
The objections which have been brought against a standing army,
and they are many and weighty, and deserve to prevail,
may also at last be brought against a standing government.
The standing army is only an arm of the standing government.
The government itself, which is only the mode which the people
have chosen to execute their will, is equally liable to be abused
and perverted before the people can act through it.
by Henry David Thoreau
(1849, original title: Resistance to Civil Government)
I heartily accept the motto, "That government is best
which governs least"; and I should like to see it acted up
to more rapidly and systematically. Carried out, it finally
amounts to this, which also I believe--"That government is
best which governs not at all"; and when men are prepared
for it, that will be the kind of government which they will have.
Government is at best but an expedient; but most governments
are usually, and all governments are sometimes, inexpedient.
The objections which have been brought against a standing army,
and they are many and weighty, and deserve to prevail,
may also at last be brought against a standing government.
The standing army is only an arm of the standing government.
The government itself, which is only the mode which the people
have chosen to execute their will, is equally liable to be abused
and perverted before the people can act through it.
YOU WEREN'T THERE
(Sullivan) 1999
Well, you say it's such a small, small world
flying Club Class back from the far-east
curled up safe and warm in the big chair
you were drifting through the skies of anywhere
Get the courtesy car to the Sheraton
there's live on-the-spot reports on the CNN between the ad-breaks
so you think you know what's going on - but you don't
because you weren't in Belfast, no you weren't there
and no you weren't in Waco, no you weren't there
and you weren't in Kosovo, you weren't there
and you weren't in my head so you don't know how it felt
walking arm in arm with crowds to the square
and the banners waving and the sun glinting
All this information swims round and round
like a shoal of fish in a tank going nowhere
Up and down between the glass walls
You're so safe in the knowledge they're impenetrable
and you look out at the world and see nothing at all
so go back to sleep and you'll be woken when the time comes
and you'll never know just what hit you or where it came from
because you weren't in Bradford, no you weren't there
and you weren't on the hill, no you weren't there
and you weren't with us so you never saw
just what happened when the television crews came knocking on the door
how the people told them all to go to Hell,
smashed the cameras and sent them away
There were sirens going off and policemen coming in
and all that you love was being swept away
in the rush of a black tide all done in your name
and you'll never know just what happened there
or how it feels - just how it feels . . .
(Sullivan) 1999
Well, you say it's such a small, small world
flying Club Class back from the far-east
curled up safe and warm in the big chair
you were drifting through the skies of anywhere
Get the courtesy car to the Sheraton
there's live on-the-spot reports on the CNN between the ad-breaks
so you think you know what's going on - but you don't
because you weren't in Belfast, no you weren't there
and no you weren't in Waco, no you weren't there
and you weren't in Kosovo, you weren't there
and you weren't in my head so you don't know how it felt
walking arm in arm with crowds to the square
and the banners waving and the sun glinting
All this information swims round and round
like a shoal of fish in a tank going nowhere
Up and down between the glass walls
You're so safe in the knowledge they're impenetrable
and you look out at the world and see nothing at all
so go back to sleep and you'll be woken when the time comes
and you'll never know just what hit you or where it came from
because you weren't in Bradford, no you weren't there
and you weren't on the hill, no you weren't there
and you weren't with us so you never saw
just what happened when the television crews came knocking on the door
how the people told them all to go to Hell,
smashed the cameras and sent them away
There were sirens going off and policemen coming in
and all that you love was being swept away
in the rush of a black tide all done in your name
and you'll never know just what happened there
or how it feels - just how it feels . . .
"What brought it to pass? What disaster took their reason away
from men? What whip lashed them to their knees in shame and
submission? The worship of the word "We."
When men accepted that worship, the structure of centuries
collapsed about them, the structure whose every beam had come
from the thought of some one man, each in his day down the ages,
from the depth of some one spirit, such as spirit existed but for
its own sake. Those men who survived- those eager to obey, eager
to live for one another, since they had nothing else to vindicate
them- those men could neither carry on, nor preserve what they
had received. Thus did all thought, all science, all wisdom
perish on earth. Thus did men- men with nothing to offer save
their great numbers- lose the steel towers, the flying ships, the
power wires, all the things they had not created and could never
keep. Perhaps, later, some men had been born with the mind and
the courage to recover these things which were lost; perhaps
these men came before the Councils of Scholars. They answered as
I have been answered- and for the same reasons.
But I still wonder how it was possible, in those graceless years
of transition, long ago, that men did not see whither they were
going, and went on, in blindness and cowardice, to their fate. I
wonder, for it is hard for me to conceive how men who knew the word "I,"
could give it up and not know what they had lost. But such has been
the story, for I have lived in the City of the damned,
and I know what horror men permitted to be brought upon them.
Perhaps, in those days, there were a few among men, a few of
clear sight and clean soul, who refused to surrender that word.
What agony must have been theirs before that which they saw
coming and could not stop! Perhaps they cried out in protest and
in warning. But men paid no heed to their warning. And they,
those few, fought a hopeless battle, and they perished with their
banners smeared by their own blood. And they chose to perish, for
they knew. To them, I send my salute across the centuries, and my pity.
Theirs is the banner in my hand. And I wish I had the power to
tell them that the despair of their hearts was not to be final,
and their night was not without hope. For the battle they lost
can never be lost. For that which they died to save can never
perish. Through all the darkness, through all the shame of which
men are capable, the spirit of man will remain alive on this
earth. It may sleep, but it will awaken. It may wear chains, but
it will break through. And man will go on. Man, not men.
Here, on this mountain, I and my sons and my chosen friends shall
build our new land and our fort. And it will become as the heart
of the earth, lost and hidden at first, but beating, beating
louder each day. And word of it will reach every corner of the
earth. And the roads of the world will become as veins which will
carry the best of the world's blood to my threshold. And all my
brothers, and the Councils of my brothers, will hear of it, but
they will be impotent against me. And the day will come when I
shall break the chains of the earth, and raze the cities of the
enslaved, and my home will become the capital of a world where
each man will be free to exist for his own sake.
For the coming of that day I shall fight, I and my sons and my
chosen friends. For the freedom of Man. For his rights. For his
life. For his honor.
And here, over the portals of my fort, I shall cut in the stone
the word which is to be my beacon and my banner. The word which
will not die, should we all perish in battle. The word which can
never die on this earth, for it is the heart of it and the
meaning and the glory.
The sacred word:
EGO"
-Ayn Rand, "Anthem"
from men? What whip lashed them to their knees in shame and
submission? The worship of the word "We."
When men accepted that worship, the structure of centuries
collapsed about them, the structure whose every beam had come
from the thought of some one man, each in his day down the ages,
from the depth of some one spirit, such as spirit existed but for
its own sake. Those men who survived- those eager to obey, eager
to live for one another, since they had nothing else to vindicate
them- those men could neither carry on, nor preserve what they
had received. Thus did all thought, all science, all wisdom
perish on earth. Thus did men- men with nothing to offer save
their great numbers- lose the steel towers, the flying ships, the
power wires, all the things they had not created and could never
keep. Perhaps, later, some men had been born with the mind and
the courage to recover these things which were lost; perhaps
these men came before the Councils of Scholars. They answered as
I have been answered- and for the same reasons.
But I still wonder how it was possible, in those graceless years
of transition, long ago, that men did not see whither they were
going, and went on, in blindness and cowardice, to their fate. I
wonder, for it is hard for me to conceive how men who knew the word "I,"
could give it up and not know what they had lost. But such has been
the story, for I have lived in the City of the damned,
and I know what horror men permitted to be brought upon them.
Perhaps, in those days, there were a few among men, a few of
clear sight and clean soul, who refused to surrender that word.
What agony must have been theirs before that which they saw
coming and could not stop! Perhaps they cried out in protest and
in warning. But men paid no heed to their warning. And they,
those few, fought a hopeless battle, and they perished with their
banners smeared by their own blood. And they chose to perish, for
they knew. To them, I send my salute across the centuries, and my pity.
Theirs is the banner in my hand. And I wish I had the power to
tell them that the despair of their hearts was not to be final,
and their night was not without hope. For the battle they lost
can never be lost. For that which they died to save can never
perish. Through all the darkness, through all the shame of which
men are capable, the spirit of man will remain alive on this
earth. It may sleep, but it will awaken. It may wear chains, but
it will break through. And man will go on. Man, not men.
Here, on this mountain, I and my sons and my chosen friends shall
build our new land and our fort. And it will become as the heart
of the earth, lost and hidden at first, but beating, beating
louder each day. And word of it will reach every corner of the
earth. And the roads of the world will become as veins which will
carry the best of the world's blood to my threshold. And all my
brothers, and the Councils of my brothers, will hear of it, but
they will be impotent against me. And the day will come when I
shall break the chains of the earth, and raze the cities of the
enslaved, and my home will become the capital of a world where
each man will be free to exist for his own sake.
For the coming of that day I shall fight, I and my sons and my
chosen friends. For the freedom of Man. For his rights. For his
life. For his honor.
And here, over the portals of my fort, I shall cut in the stone
the word which is to be my beacon and my banner. The word which
will not die, should we all perish in battle. The word which can
never die on this earth, for it is the heart of it and the
meaning and the glory.
The sacred word:
EGO"
-Ayn Rand, "Anthem"
28.3.05
24.3.05
For the Courtesan Ch'ing Lin
On your slender body
Your jade and coral girdle ornaments chime
Like those of a celestial companion
Come from the Green Jade City of Heaven.
One smile from you when we meet,
And I become speechless and forget every word.
For too long you have gathered flowers,
And leaned against the bamboos,
Your green sleeves growing cold,
In your deserted valley:
I can visualize you all alone,
A girl harboring her cryptic thoughts.
You glow like a perfumed lamp
In the gathering shadows.
We play wine games
And recite each other's poems.
Then you sing `Remembering South of the River'
With its heart breaking verses. Then
We paint each other's beautiful eyebrows.
I want to possess you completely -
Your jade body
And your promised heart.
It is Spring.
Vast mists cover the Five Lakes.
My dear, let me buy a red painted boat
And carry you away.
- Wu Tsao
On your slender body
Your jade and coral girdle ornaments chime
Like those of a celestial companion
Come from the Green Jade City of Heaven.
One smile from you when we meet,
And I become speechless and forget every word.
For too long you have gathered flowers,
And leaned against the bamboos,
Your green sleeves growing cold,
In your deserted valley:
I can visualize you all alone,
A girl harboring her cryptic thoughts.
You glow like a perfumed lamp
In the gathering shadows.
We play wine games
And recite each other's poems.
Then you sing `Remembering South of the River'
With its heart breaking verses. Then
We paint each other's beautiful eyebrows.
I want to possess you completely -
Your jade body
And your promised heart.
It is Spring.
Vast mists cover the Five Lakes.
My dear, let me buy a red painted boat
And carry you away.
- Wu Tsao
I have not had one word from her
Frankly I wish I were dead
When she left, she wept
a great deal; she said to me, "This parting must be
endured, Sappho. I go unwillingly."
I said, "Go, and be happy
but remember (you know
well) whom you leave shackled by love
"If you forget me, think
of our gifts to Aphrodite
and all the loveliness that we shared
"all the violet tiaras,
braided rosebuds, dill and
crocus twined around your young neck
"myrrh poured on your head
and on soft mats girls with
all that they most wished for beside them
"while no voices chanted
choruses without ours,
no woodlot bloomed in spring without song..."
- Sappho
Frankly I wish I were dead
When she left, she wept
a great deal; she said to me, "This parting must be
endured, Sappho. I go unwillingly."
I said, "Go, and be happy
but remember (you know
well) whom you leave shackled by love
"If you forget me, think
of our gifts to Aphrodite
and all the loveliness that we shared
"all the violet tiaras,
braided rosebuds, dill and
crocus twined around your young neck
"myrrh poured on your head
and on soft mats girls with
all that they most wished for beside them
"while no voices chanted
choruses without ours,
no woodlot bloomed in spring without song..."
- Sappho
(outro do gajo...)
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of sleep, breaking
Through the rotating shell, strong
As motor muscle on the drill, driving
Through vision and the girdered nerve.
From limbs that had the measure of the worm, shuffled
Off from the creasing flesh, filed
Through all the irons in the grass, metal
Of suns in the man-melting night.
Heir to the scalding veins that hold love's drop, costly
A creature in my bones I
Rounded my globe of heritage, journey
In bottom gear through night-geared man.
I dreamed my genesis and died again, shrapnel
Rammed in the marching heart, hole
In the stitched wound and clotted wind, muzzled
Death on the mouth that ate the gas.
Sharp in my second death I marked the hills, harvest
Of hemlock and the blades, rust
My blood upon the tempered dead, forcing
My second struggling from the grass.
And power was contagious in my birth, second
Rise of the skeleton and
Rerobing of the naked ghost. Manhood
Spat up from the resuffered pain.
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of death, fallen
Twice in the feeding sea, grown
Stale of Adam's brine until, vision
Of new man strength, I seek the sun.
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of sleep, breaking
Through the rotating shell, strong
As motor muscle on the drill, driving
Through vision and the girdered nerve.
From limbs that had the measure of the worm, shuffled
Off from the creasing flesh, filed
Through all the irons in the grass, metal
Of suns in the man-melting night.
Heir to the scalding veins that hold love's drop, costly
A creature in my bones I
Rounded my globe of heritage, journey
In bottom gear through night-geared man.
I dreamed my genesis and died again, shrapnel
Rammed in the marching heart, hole
In the stitched wound and clotted wind, muzzled
Death on the mouth that ate the gas.
Sharp in my second death I marked the hills, harvest
Of hemlock and the blades, rust
My blood upon the tempered dead, forcing
My second struggling from the grass.
And power was contagious in my birth, second
Rise of the skeleton and
Rerobing of the naked ghost. Manhood
Spat up from the resuffered pain.
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of death, fallen
Twice in the feeding sea, grown
Stale of Adam's brine until, vision
Of new man strength, I seek the sun.
Ears in the turrets hear
Ears in the turrets hear
Hands grumble on the door,
Eyes in the gables see
The fingers at the locks.
Shall I unbolt or stay
Alone till the day I die
Unseen by stranger-eyes
In this white house?
Hands, hold you poison or grapes?
Beyond this island bound
By a thin sea of flesh
And a bone coast,
The land lies out of sound
And the hills out of mind.
No birds or flying fish
Disturbs this island's rest.
Ears in this island hear
The wind pass like a fire,
Eyes in this island see
Ships anchor off the bay.
Shall I run to the ships
With the wind in my hair,
Or stay till the day I die
And welcome no sailor?
Ships, hold you poison or grapes?
Hands grumble on the door,
Ships anchor off the bay,
Rain beats the sand and slates.
Shall I let in the stranger,
Shall I welcome the sailor,
Or stay till the day I die?
Hands of the stranger and holds of the ships,
Hold you poison or grapes?
- Dylan Thomas
Ears in the turrets hear
Hands grumble on the door,
Eyes in the gables see
The fingers at the locks.
Shall I unbolt or stay
Alone till the day I die
Unseen by stranger-eyes
In this white house?
Hands, hold you poison or grapes?
Beyond this island bound
By a thin sea of flesh
And a bone coast,
The land lies out of sound
And the hills out of mind.
No birds or flying fish
Disturbs this island's rest.
Ears in this island hear
The wind pass like a fire,
Eyes in this island see
Ships anchor off the bay.
Shall I run to the ships
With the wind in my hair,
Or stay till the day I die
And welcome no sailor?
Ships, hold you poison or grapes?
Hands grumble on the door,
Ships anchor off the bay,
Rain beats the sand and slates.
Shall I let in the stranger,
Shall I welcome the sailor,
Or stay till the day I die?
Hands of the stranger and holds of the ships,
Hold you poison or grapes?
- Dylan Thomas
Do you like concrete agony Kreuzberg on Saturday?
Tell me baby what you need
There's the Zoo alive as the city sleeps tonight
Eternal divided dream
Going down to Potsdamer singing Checkpoint Charlie blues
The 70's brought Bowie baby
Do what you do
You gotta feel Berlin
Baby yeah
You gotta feel Berlin
Baby yeah
You gotta feel Berlin
Do you like punk rock mutiny rock 'n' roll depravity?
Tell me baby what you need
Boys keep swinging Wild At Heart until the morning
Let this baby set you free
Going down to Potsdamer singing Checkpoint Charlie blues
The 70's brought Bowie baby
Do what you do
You gotta feel Berlin
Baby yeah
You gotta feel Berlin
Baby yeah
Just life that's what it is
Don't be afraid of an angel's kiss
Just life that's what it is
Don't be afraid of
A criminal kiss
Tell me baby what you need
There's the Zoo alive as the city sleeps tonight
Eternal divided dream
Going down to Potsdamer singing Checkpoint Charlie blues
The 70's brought Bowie baby
Do what you do
You gotta feel Berlin
Baby yeah
You gotta feel Berlin
Baby yeah
You gotta feel Berlin
Do you like punk rock mutiny rock 'n' roll depravity?
Tell me baby what you need
Boys keep swinging Wild At Heart until the morning
Let this baby set you free
Going down to Potsdamer singing Checkpoint Charlie blues
The 70's brought Bowie baby
Do what you do
You gotta feel Berlin
Baby yeah
You gotta feel Berlin
Baby yeah
Just life that's what it is
Don't be afraid of an angel's kiss
Just life that's what it is
Don't be afraid of
A criminal kiss
He tries to see, although he can't
He tries, but doesn't understand
He calls on a different phone-line
No one that he knows
An out of focus acquaintance
Speaking in a silent parlance "Remember me", breaks the silence
A recurring line again
He's looking for something
Can't see that he's stranded
He's just moving/going somewhere
He just can't stand this feeling no more
He feels the blood run through his veins
Tries to get up, be young again
His face in the bathroom mirror
Someone looks at him
His undisputed kind of self-love
Weaker than it used to be like "Don't forget me", breaks the silence
A different life begins
He's looking for something
Can't see that he's stranded
He's just moving/going somewhere
He just can't stand this feeling no more
Looks in the mirror, feels the snag
Packs his bag and picks a map "Don't forget me", seems inapt
He doesn't want to know "Don't forget me"
He's looking for something
Can't see that he's stranded
He's just moving/going somewhere
He just can't stand this feeling no more
He's waiting for something
Becoming a vision
He's just moving/going somewhere
He just can't stand this feeling no more.
- Liv Kristine
He tries, but doesn't understand
He calls on a different phone-line
No one that he knows
An out of focus acquaintance
Speaking in a silent parlance "Remember me", breaks the silence
A recurring line again
He's looking for something
Can't see that he's stranded
He's just moving/going somewhere
He just can't stand this feeling no more
He feels the blood run through his veins
Tries to get up, be young again
His face in the bathroom mirror
Someone looks at him
His undisputed kind of self-love
Weaker than it used to be like "Don't forget me", breaks the silence
A different life begins
He's looking for something
Can't see that he's stranded
He's just moving/going somewhere
He just can't stand this feeling no more
Looks in the mirror, feels the snag
Packs his bag and picks a map "Don't forget me", seems inapt
He doesn't want to know "Don't forget me"
He's looking for something
Can't see that he's stranded
He's just moving/going somewhere
He just can't stand this feeling no more
He's waiting for something
Becoming a vision
He's just moving/going somewhere
He just can't stand this feeling no more.
- Liv Kristine
sinceramente? isso não é crescer. nem te digo o que é crescer. não é rendermo-nos. não é reduzir batimentos cardíacos a uma expressão social. não é abrir mão do que é óbvio, evidente, do que nos entra pelos olhos dentro, a troco de um sossego banal, de um gastar prazeiroso dos dias que podem ser, caso optes pela verdade, difíceis. não é isso. é isto. se quero dizer com tal que me acho melhor, superior, mais certo? sim, claro. alguém tem de. não o fazes? bom, e como queres que te entenda se ao chegares À velhice te lamentares pelos dias perdidos, pelos gritos sustidos? eu? não. eu não, desculpa. ou antes, não, não te peço desculpa. a opção é tua. como? se não me vou integrar? se haverá problemas? creio serem inevitáveis. sim, cá estarei, e tu? ah. é pena.
23.3.05
Aubade
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
- Philip Larkin
(este é a pensar nos energúmenos que me secam os dias, agarrados a artifícios zelotas e autocráticos aos quais se agarram para não dar em loucos com as verdades do mundo)
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
- Philip Larkin
(este é a pensar nos energúmenos que me secam os dias, agarrados a artifícios zelotas e autocráticos aos quais se agarram para não dar em loucos com as verdades do mundo)
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