32 Les meves cites

Cant espiritual Si el món ja és tan formós, Senyor, si es mira amb la pau vostra a dintre de l’ull nostre, què més ens podeu da’ en una altra vida? Per’xò estic tan gelós dels ulls i el rostre i el cos que m’heu donat, Senyor, i el cor que s’hi mou sempre … …

Continue reading “Cant Espiritual. Maragall”

When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings, Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say, ‘He was a man who used to notice such things’? If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid’s silent blink, The dewfall-hawk comes …

Continue reading “Afterwards. Thomas Hardy”

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the …

Continue reading “Funeral blues. Auden”

Qui ets tu, que has omplert el meu cor de la teva absència? (en una postal que hom es podia endur a l’església de St.François a Lausanne) Pär Lagerkvist “If you believe in god and no god exists then your belief is an even greater wonder. Then it is really something inconceivably great. Why should …

Continue reading “Pär Lagerkvist. L’absència de Déu.”

Ray Bradbury. The Martian Chronicles. 1950 “I’ve always wanted to see a Martian,” said Michael. “Where are they, Dad? You promised.” “There they are,” said Dad, and he shifted Michael on his shoulder and pointed straight down. The Martians were there. Timothy began to shiver. The Martians were there—in the canal—reflected in the water. Timothy …

Continue reading “Ray Bradbury. The Martians were there”

Déu I tu, què vols? Jo Doncs jo sols vull —ei, si pot ser—: Un poc de fam i un xic de pa. Un poc de fred i un poc de foc. Un xic de son i un poc de llit. Un xic de set i un poc de vi i un poc de llet. …

Continue reading “Tirallonga dels monosíl·labs. Joan Oliver”

(for Oliver Sacks) Spring this year in Austria started off benign,the heavens lucid, the air stable, the aboutsane to all feeders, vegetate or bestial:the deathless minerals looked pleased with their regime,where what is not forbidden is compulsory. Shadows of course there are, Porn-Ads, with-it clergy,and hubby next door has taken to the bottle,but You have …

Continue reading “Talking to myself. Auden.”

Le roman retrace la vie d’un immeuble situé au numéro 11 de la rue (imaginaire) Simon-Crubellier, dans le 17e arrondissement de Paris, entre 1875 et 1975. Il évoque ses habitants, les objets qui y reposent et les histoires qui directement ou indirectement l’ont animé.

But unfortunately it can only travel into the future at a rate of one second per second, which seems slow to the physicists and to the grant committees and even to me. But I manage to get there, time after time, to the next moment and to the next. Thing is, I can’t turn it …

Continue reading “I Have a Time Machine. Brenda Shaughnessy”