tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13049932415900543672024-03-21T16:12:21.274+00:00books, not gunsJota.Pêhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893340582916939864noreply@blogger.comBlogger9125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304993241590054367.post-22344835112622367482010-12-29T12:59:00.003+00:002010-12-29T13:04:05.503+00:00«je est un autre» (arthur rimbaud)<div align="center"><iframe class="youtube-player" title="YouTube video player" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/tezFbgFDwKw?rel=0" frameborder="0" width="480" type="text/html"></iframe><br /><br /><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0056663/"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Vivre sa vie</em></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> (1962)</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304993241590054367.post-87261012207332701192010-12-28T23:49:00.007+00:002010-12-29T12:58:09.997+00:00lit<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNHCmig88MQlGKqz6uitgE-cqylWY5EWbJthLeToO9O56nS03YPKjuebkMcopzNQExOmY9psgJnoNr3XFiZvnrd5aZOPKs8Wyd2CduXLgZyHwle6MkM7_4TgzVy0tKXn1ZUPuOPXv0pHI/s1600/01.+The+Dreamers+%25282003%2529.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555885040253439618" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNHCmig88MQlGKqz6uitgE-cqylWY5EWbJthLeToO9O56nS03YPKjuebkMcopzNQExOmY9psgJnoNr3XFiZvnrd5aZOPKs8Wyd2CduXLgZyHwle6MkM7_4TgzVy0tKXn1ZUPuOPXv0pHI/s320/01.+The+Dreamers+%25282003%2529.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><em> <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0309987/">The dreamers</a></em> (2003) </span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0IIj3ntrzNagZh3WrIqZFjA9QGjc_l8pgRJp-oSGRVXPR-NQMDQa4EApwLWONEtsHALwczThjPCYcUBtSTk5SRs__NPUntW3C7FbkWu-T7-SzROXSKpi6B07PM0sUTlkjUsO2M4VeGf0/s1600/02.+Dans+Paris+%25282006%2529+1.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555884980041936418" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0IIj3ntrzNagZh3WrIqZFjA9QGjc_l8pgRJp-oSGRVXPR-NQMDQa4EApwLWONEtsHALwczThjPCYcUBtSTk5SRs__NPUntW3C7FbkWu-T7-SzROXSKpi6B07PM0sUTlkjUsO2M4VeGf0/s320/02.+Dans+Paris+%25282006%2529+1.jpg" /></a><em> </em><span style="font-size:85%;"><em><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0769508/">Dans Paris</a></em> (2006)</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisY2BrIBceAYY8U4BKKXidve7dvSQQY0tIMj1MOZCRb9ApaUsbzP5Jz46VZic9atwzCcefJbqQajRrqY1fr08ZBUFv-k3HRp_hVGd3RKFOZDSzfHLLG4AspzOODjDf_K920RmQcoSXiiE/s1600/03.+Dans+Paris+%25282006%2529+2.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555884908819735730" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisY2BrIBceAYY8U4BKKXidve7dvSQQY0tIMj1MOZCRb9ApaUsbzP5Jz46VZic9atwzCcefJbqQajRrqY1fr08ZBUFv-k3HRp_hVGd3RKFOZDSzfHLLG4AspzOODjDf_K920RmQcoSXiiE/s320/03.+Dans+Paris+%25282006%2529+2.jpg" /></a><em> </em><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Dans Paris</em> (2006)</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0BMPvASBykxIiBu36v8p3v6gIMG6NYdMfaUNKkLpClfplYO4hNeg0PhgmBLPk3R5oCC_TJk66OIh6o04ZNU-7zsndW5kOecuIshWs8jiA2Lfb6qDPKvTbMWsg7XK0X3fxxQDXAPuVpek/s1600/04.+Les+Chansons+D%2527amour+%25282007%2529.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555884853432000034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0BMPvASBykxIiBu36v8p3v6gIMG6NYdMfaUNKkLpClfplYO4hNeg0PhgmBLPk3R5oCC_TJk66OIh6o04ZNU-7zsndW5kOecuIshWs8jiA2Lfb6qDPKvTbMWsg7XK0X3fxxQDXAPuVpek/s320/04.+Les+Chansons+D%2527amour+%25282007%2529.jpg" /></a> <span style="font-size:85%;"><em><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0996605/">Les chansons d'amour</a></em> (2007)</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYUdQNJ7ng68MTZy9mkKXL_-ZwazjEF3fASrhmx3OZ70bKH9UiB2e0A6VX1joNX9tdzginenQg5NK-pPppApsSBYc27SKmFlA3qRLsLsDo8w7w1UL_3qTWRaPCsjnye2E7TYs7dr2Tupg/s1600/05.+Les+Amours+Imaginaires+%25282010%2529.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555884793528220482" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYUdQNJ7ng68MTZy9mkKXL_-ZwazjEF3fASrhmx3OZ70bKH9UiB2e0A6VX1joNX9tdzginenQg5NK-pPppApsSBYc27SKmFlA3qRLsLsDo8w7w1UL_3qTWRaPCsjnye2E7TYs7dr2Tupg/s320/05.+Les+Amours+Imaginaires+%25282010%2529.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><em><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1600524/">Les amours imaginaires</a></em> (2010)</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304993241590054367.post-32886328084400259872010-12-02T22:46:00.000+00:002010-12-02T22:46:05.713+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_arKRMKIGwV4/TPggek6nqOI/AAAAAAAABSs/14AIXMQvhXo/s1600/2007_dans_paris_003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="412" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_arKRMKIGwV4/TPggek6nqOI/AAAAAAAABSs/14AIXMQvhXo/s640/2007_dans_paris_003.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">♥</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Dans Paris, </i>2006, Cristophe Honoré <br />
<span id="main" style="visibility: visible;"><span id="search" style="visibility: visible;"><i></i></span></span></span>Ana da Cunhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548523783507869523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304993241590054367.post-21418373943993722832010-11-20T15:33:00.001+00:002010-11-20T15:33:28.420+00:00'cause books are gunsUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304993241590054367.post-28094099588889537182010-10-11T22:58:00.000+01:002010-10-11T22:58:30.405+01:00<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/s3HME4oDPNk?fs=1&hl=pt_PT"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/s3HME4oDPNk?fs=1&hl=pt_PT" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Bande à part</i>, 1964, Jean-Luc Godard</span>Ana da Cunhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548523783507869523noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304993241590054367.post-54028920416215412732010-10-05T14:10:00.002+01:002010-10-05T17:25:52.750+01:00<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify">Fingir que está tudo bem: o corpo rasgado e vestido<br />com roupa passada a ferro, rastos de chamas dentro<br />do corpo, gritos desesperados sob as conversas: fingir<br />que está tudo bem: olhas-me e só tu sabes: na rua onde<br />os nossos olhares se encontram é noite: as pessoas<br />não imaginam: são tão ridículas as pessoas, tão<br />desprezíveis: as pessoas falam e não imaginam: nós<br />olhamo-nos: fingir que está tudo bem: o sangue a ferver<br />sob a pele igual aos dias antes de tudo, tempestades de<br />medo nos lábios a sorrir: será que vou morrer?, pergunto<br />dentro de mim: será que vou morrer?, olhas-me e só tu sabes:<br />ferros em brasa, fogo, silêncio e chuva que não se pode dizer:<br />amor e morte: fingir que está tudo bem: ter de sorrir: um<br />oceano que nos queima, um incêndio que nos afoga.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">José Luís Peixoto</span> </div>Ana da Cunhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548523783507869523noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304993241590054367.post-15876619242131932102010-10-04T01:39:00.007+01:002010-10-05T17:48:29.476+01:00<p align="justify"><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/SqmA9WVlsLE?fs=1&hl=pt_PT&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/SqmA9WVlsLE?fs=1&hl=pt_PT&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br /><br />(1984)<br /><br /><em>14 de janeiro</em><br />todo o santo dia bateram à porta. não abri, não me apetecia ver pessoas, ninguém.<br />escrevi muito, de tarde e pela noite dentro.<br />curiosamente, hoje, ouve-se o mar como se estivesse dentro de casa. o vento deve estar de feição. a ressonância das vagas contra os rochedos sobressalta-me. desconfio que se disser mar em voz alta, o mar entra pela janela.<br />sou um homem privilegiado, ouço o mar ao entardecer, que mais posso desejar? e no entanto, não estou alegre nem apaixonado, nem me parece que esteja feliz. escrevo com um único fim: salvar o dia.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Al Berto, <em>O Medo</em></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304993241590054367.post-66397349625953340702010-10-03T08:30:00.005+01:002010-10-05T02:07:42.172+01:00<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 238px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523596597578749858" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRY25vYRNogmbX7o1Tev6KH8gYmUZL9gOIkPRjLqlBVV2Eew6I04a7pKlvC957jM1uOILqiEnYE9DJDBdmAHr-o5Z2MYEvfNLU5iDmXZRTvDcoIMuZUqOUDZq0gxhyphenhyphenULTdAT2pb6Jw7Rce/s320/Ama+como+a+estrada+come%C3%A7a.jpg" /><br /><br /><div align="center">"E há palavras nocturnas palavras gemidos<br />palavras que nos sobem ilegíveis à boca<br />palavras diamantes palavras nunca escritas<br />palavras impossíveis de escrever<br />por não termos connosco cordas de violinos<br />nem todo o sangue do mundo nem todo o amplexo do ar"</div><br /><div align="right"><span style="font-size:85%;">CESARINY, Mário<br />"You are welcome to Elsinore"<br />in <em>Pena Capital</em></span></div>Inês Ribeirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15919823916963674403noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1304993241590054367.post-87328850177726975612010-10-01T18:21:00.000+01:002010-10-02T18:44:29.095+01:00<a style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 1em; FLOAT: left; CLEAR: left; MARGIN-RIGHT: 1em" href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/HekmlS4ED5rPZMVGZnS5gL_g72Oq-Y2P2YmNXSmLycU?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_arKRMKIGwV4/TKdm0s-MgII/AAAAAAAABQ0/DoNP4JsjtAA/s640/dreamers.jpg" width="640" height="447" /></a><br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify">"I was one of the insatiables. The ones you'd always find sitting closest to the screen. Why do we sit so close? Maybe it was because we wanted to receive the images first. When they were still new, still fresh. Before they cleared the hurdles of the rows behind us. Before they'd been relayed back from row to row, spectator to spectator; until worn out, secondhand, the size of a postage stamp, it returned to the projectionist's cabin. Maybe, too, the screen was really a screen. It screened us... from the world."</div>Ana da Cunhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07548523783507869523noreply@blogger.com1