tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248394253628778722024-03-05T08:41:07.991+00:00"She sells seashells at the sea shore"...A Soup of Mixed Letters that All Together are Simply A Bunch of SoundsJorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.comBlogger54125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-43664125292487621772010-08-09T20:55:00.002+01:002010-08-09T21:17:24.508+01:00To You Forever<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">The lockets that connect,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">The heartss that meet,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">The trust that inspires,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">And the love that never dies.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">A spirit of yourself,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Comes upon your own self,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">As you make your own life,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">The path continues to grow.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Forever and ever,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">I will be with you,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">No matter what happens,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Or what people do,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Our connection,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Will never be destroyed.</span><br /></span><br />Celine DaSilvaJorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-33489581624694787752010-01-16T02:54:00.003+00:002010-01-16T02:59:48.733+00:00Quadrilha<div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;">João amava Teresa que amava Raimundo</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;">que amava Maria que amava Joaquim que amava Lili</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;">que não amava ninguém.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;">João foi para os Estados Unidos, Teresa para o convento,</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;">Raimundo morreu de desatre, Maria ficou para tia,</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;">Joaquim suicidou-se e Lili casou com J. Pinto Fernandes</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;">que não tinha entrado na história.</span></div><br /><div align="right"><span style="font-size:78%;">Carlos Drummond de Andrade, <em>Antologia Poética</em>, 2ª ed., Lisboa, Dom Quixote, 2002</span></div>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-40683503514320473122010-01-12T08:29:00.003+00:002010-01-12T08:33:56.081+00:00<div align="right"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#009900;">to my most admirable and all my friends. . .. . small things bring Big treasures</span></div><span style="color:#009900;"></span><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#990000;">Numa tarde de sol, lia-se uma história. Quando a dado momento surgiu a questão: </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#990000;">- 'O que é para ti uma história? </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#990000;">O polidor pedia à sua pedra preciosa para lhe escrever uma composição a responder à pergunta que surgiu. A pedra com todo seu encanto aprontou-se para escrever, mas antes, e por iniciativa própria, pediu ao polidor se podia escrever em verso. O polidor surpreendido deu-lhe autorização de imediato para escrever conforme lhe apetecesse. Assim, o resultado foi o seguinte: </span></div><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">O que é para ti uma história? </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Era uma vez. . .</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">uma história em Português,</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">que rima uma só vez.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">O que é para ti uma história? </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Uma história para mim é:</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Abrir asas para a imaginação,</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">cantar com um cão</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">um bocadinho da minha vida. </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Eu gosto de imaginar, </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">gosto de cantar.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Dançar,</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">e até rimar. </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Eu gosto de viver,</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">gosto de conviver,</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">gosto de escrever:</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">O que é para ti uma história? </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Eu gosto de imaginar,</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">gosto de fazer canções,</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">gosto de brincar,</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">e até de desenhar. </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Eu gosto de inventar histórias,</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">gosto de rimar poesias,</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">gosto de me divertir,</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">e até de cozinhar. </span></strong><br /><br /><div align="right"><span style="font-size:85%;">Catarina Colaço, 6º A - Escola Básica Integrada e Secundária Jean Piaget</span></div>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-34024859367370908062010-01-10T04:53:00.002+00:002010-01-10T04:56:25.485+00:00<div align="justify"><strong><span style="color:#009900;">"O poeta, por definição, transfigura, dá à circunstância um valor universal e permanente, tende a impersonalizar sentimentos e emoções."</span></strong></div><br /><div align="right"><span style="font-size:85%;">Jacinto do Prado Coelho, <em>Problemática da História Literária</em></span></div>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-40795720901191775642010-01-10T04:46:00.002+00:002010-01-10T04:53:29.330+00:00<div align="justify"><strong><span style="color:#009900;">"No conto tudo precisa de ser apontado num risco leve e sóbrio: das figuras deve-se ver apenas a linha flagrante e definadora que revela e fixa uma personalidade; dos sentimentos apenas o que caiba num olhar ou numa dessas palavras que escapa dos lábios e traz todo o ser; da paisagem somente os longes numa cor unida."</span></strong></div><br /><div align="right"><span style="font-size:85%;">Eça de Queirós, <em>Prefácio de Azulejos do Conde de Arnoso</em></span></div>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-89663047978595615182010-01-10T01:53:00.003+00:002010-01-10T04:57:59.123+00:00Viagem<div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>Aparelhei o barco da ilusão</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>E reforçei a fé do marinheiro.</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>Era longe o meu sonho, e traiçoeiro</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>O mar. . .</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>(Só nos é concedida</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>Esta vida</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>Que temos;</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>E é nela que é preciso</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>Procurar</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>O velho paraíso </strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>Que perdemos.)</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>Prestes, larguei a vela</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>E disse adeus ao cais, à paz tolhida.</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>Desmedida,</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>A revolta imensidão</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>Transforma dia a dia a embarcação</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>Numa errante e alada sepultura. . .</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>Mas corto as ondas sem desanimar.</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>Em qualquer aventura,</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>O que importa é partir, não é chegar.</strong></span></div><br /><div align="right"><span style="font-size:85%;">Miguel Torga, <em>Câmara Ardente</em></span></div>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-77611490858463052332010-01-02T03:59:00.005+00:002010-01-10T05:01:28.608+00:00Teaching English (Grammar) in Schools<div align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#009900;">'We know that grammar is important and that is why it is </span><span style="color:#009900;">a compulsory part of the national curriculum'</span></span><span style="font-size:180%;"> </span></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div align="right"><span style="font-size:85%;">(Dept. for Schools in England, May 2008) </span></div>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-78843503219832257802009-12-02T04:46:00.004+00:002009-12-02T04:55:40.641+00:00NEWS GOLDEN translation II<div align="right"><strong>Vamos eleger 7 Maravilhas Naturais</strong><br /><br /></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">A New 7 Wonders Portugal® arrancou em Novembro com uma iniciativa que visa eleger em 2010 as “7 Maravilhas Naturais de Portugal®”, antecipando desta forma a campanha mundial para eleger as “7 Maravilhas da Natureza®”, em 2011.<br />Sendo 2010 o Ano Internacional da Biodiversidade, este projecto vem reforçar a consciência ambientalista que cresce a nível global e pretende ser uma referência no contributo para a sustentabilidade ambiental no nosso país.<br />O projecto, que conta com o Alto Patrocínio do Governo Regional dos Açores, que se associa como palco para a Declaração Oficial das “7 Maravilhas Naturais de Portugal®” em Setembro de 2010, será o maior evento na área da sustentabilidade no nosso país e servirá como laboratório de uma iniciativa global que visa a preservação do ambiente. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="right"><strong><span style="color:#009900;"></span></strong></div><div align="right"><strong><span style="color:#009900;"></span></strong></div><div align="right"><strong><span style="color:#009900;">May we elect Seven Natural Wonders<br /><br /></div></span></strong><div align="justify"><strong><span style="color:#009900;">In November the New 7 Wonders Portugal began an initiative to elect in 2010 the “7 Natural Wonders of Portugal”, this way anticipating the worldwide campaign to elect the “7 Wonders of Nature”, in 2011.<br />Moreover, 2010 is the International Year of Biodiversity, this project reinforces the environmental awareness that grows at a global level, and intends to be a referential contribution for the environmental sustainability of our country.<br />This project, that relies on the High Sponsorship of the Regional Government of the Azores, which associates itself as the stage for the Official Declaration of the “7 Natural Wonders of Portugal”, in September 2010. It will be the prime event concerning the sustainability of our country, suiting afterwards as a laboratory of a worldwide initiative aiming the preservation of the environment. </span></strong></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="right"><span style="color:#009900;"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000000;">jorge orfão</span></div><div align="justify"><strong><br /><br /></strong></div></span>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-44863288338073927232009-11-30T04:46:00.002+00:002009-11-30T04:51:18.329+00:00NEWS GOLDEN translation I<p align="right"><strong>Portugal recomendado como “destino obrigatório” em 2010<br /></strong> </p><p align="justify">O guia “Lonely Planet’s Best in Travel 2010”, uma referência entre os principais guias de turismo internacionais, colocou Portugal como um dos destinos de visita obrigatória em 2010.<br />Entre os argumentos apresentados, o guia refere o país como uma sociedade de grandes tradições, com festas religiosas e populares, percorrida por uma vaga de modernidade que contamina as cidades, onde a revitalização urbana tem vindo a permitir que boutiques, galerias de arte e cafés surjam em edifícios antes degradados.<br />Portugal é ainda referido como estando comprometido com o desenvolvimento sustentável e na vanguarda da inovação, ao investir fortemente na energia limpa e participando na produção de veículos não poluentes.<br />Outra das transformações apontadas pelo guia diz respeito à gastronomia nacional, que levou nos últimos cinco anos, ao surgimento de restaurantes inovadores, onde se concebe e se serve o melhor da cozinha de fusão de nível internacional. Esta revolução estende-se também ao vinho, com os seus produtores a arrecadarem sucessivos reconhecimentos em concursos internacionais com os seus “vintages produzidos a partir de castas nativas”.<br />A finalizar, o guia sugere ao turista experiências que podem mesmo mudar a sua vida, tais como a prova dos vários Vinhos do Porto, um passeio pelas povoações graníticas nas remotas montanhas da Peneda-Gerês, ver um pôr-do-sol nos monumentos megalíticos junto a Évora ou passar por Lisboa para provar o inconfundível pastel de Belém.</p><p align="justify"> </p><p align="right"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>Portugal recommended as a ‘compulsory destination’ in 2010<br /><br /></strong></span><span style="color:#009900;"><strong></strong></span></p><p align="justify"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>“Lonely Planet’s Best in Travel 2010”, a reference amongst the main tourist international guides, placed Portugal as one of the compulsory destinations to be visited in 2010. After all the arguments presented, the guide refers to the country as a society with strong traditions, with religious and popular rites, followed by a wave of modernity that contaminates the cities, where the urban revitalization has been allowing boutiques, arte galleries and coffee shops open in buildings that before where degraded. Portugal is also seen as having a commitment with the sustainable development, and the innovation movement, highly investing on clean energy and participating in the production of ecologic vehicles. Another of the transformations pointed out by the guide concerns the national gastronomy, which during the last five years, raised innovation in restaurants, conceiving and serving high-class menu of international fusion cuisine. This huge turnaround also extends to the wine, with its producers grasping more and more international recognition in contests with their “vintages produced from the native grape varieties”.<br />To sum up, the guide suggests the tourist experiences that may change his/her life, for example, the tasting of various Port Wines, a stroll through the granitic villages on the remote mountains of Peneda-Gerês, watch the sunset at the megalithic monuments next to Évora, or a stop by Lisbon to taste the unmistakeable ‘pastel de Belém’.</strong></span> </p><p align="right"><span style="font-size:78%;">jorge orfão</span></p><p align="right"> </p>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-72647882346139053142009-10-25T20:24:00.003+00:002009-10-25T20:39:53.622+00:00'As Praias de Agnès'<object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/OZieKvngD0o&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/OZieKvngD0o&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br /><strong></strong><span style="font-weight: bold;">IPJ Viseu - 3 de Novembro</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">'Les Plages D'Agnès'</span>, de Agnès Varda, França, 2008, 110'<br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"><span style="font-size:100%;">Se abrissem as pessoas, encontrariam paisagens.<br /><br />A mim, se me abrissem, encontrariam praias.<br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;">Agnès Varda<br /></div>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-2124306718524846112009-10-15T00:24:00.006+01:002009-10-25T20:40:39.198+00:00'Imagine All The People'<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_5DfFc7XYGezrzp-NI83Ei43Zc9TB2uGec_pWHztrBqw6_d2oo_BvH2KdjD4PKfktrkYEuQkVmSXoX6WPuS_JFvbrh4ar0HukR9F1V0KJdEkxCEYrH6ACztSNJRbVYsw5CLXey8wY_UBv/s1600-h/beatles.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px; display: block; height: 200px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392602432741550706" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_5DfFc7XYGezrzp-NI83Ei43Zc9TB2uGec_pWHztrBqw6_d2oo_BvH2KdjD4PKfktrkYEuQkVmSXoX6WPuS_JFvbrh4ar0HukR9F1V0KJdEkxCEYrH6ACztSNJRbVYsw5CLXey8wY_UBv/s200/beatles.jpg" border="0" /></a><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">The Beatles<br />Destination Hamburg, the Early years<br /><br /><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><br /><div align="justify">"Este documentário sobre os Beatles, reune imagens sobre a mais famosa banda de todos os tempos, desde a sua formação inicial em Hamburgo, os momentos mais marcantes da carreira, até ascenderem ao estrelato mundial. (Em Inglês, sem legendas)". </div><br /><br /><div align="right">FNAC Viseu-14/10/2009<br />Obrigado Amigos.</div></span></strong></div>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-60562256702772464472009-07-23T17:49:00.005+01:002009-07-29T23:35:46.515+01:00Aristotle<p align="right"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000000;">Theory of Literature Exercise</span></strong></p><p align="justify"><span style="color:#009900;">Aristotle, considered to be one of the first literary critics, embraced the theory of literature in two main masterpieces that influenced the Western thinking during many centuries: “Rhetoric” and “Poetics”. During his time, writers argued that inspiration was believed to come from the Gods. But a problematic arose within this thought: if poets are inspired by the Gods, then they only write what the Gods tell them, so when poets claim that their work is no good, it is a sin to say that the Gods said no interesting things. Aristotle goes around this traditional thinking and treats literature as a noble and teachable art (‘art-teckne’). By this he also claims a matter of inspiration, but as human skills that can be improved and expanded.<br /></span><span style="color:#009900;">Aristotle was one of Plato’s disciples and they both lived in a country with a rich literary culture, in which literature had a big role in the public life of the Polis(Greek political and social order). Poetry in ancient Greece was central to education. Homer’s poetry, for example, was central to common things from everyday life – how to behave, how to receive guests at your home, etc. Although both Aristotle and Plato agreed about the didactic function of literature, Aristotle comes in conflict with his master’s beliefs. Plato was opposed to poets: his idea of an ideal society/republic would be without poets. However, poetry was a major issue to education. He condemns poetry because the muses possess the poet. Poetry is a way of surrounding our minds to other forces. He compares the function of poetry to a ‘relationship’. Sometimes we love people who are not good to us and the only solution is to let them go. In Plato’s sense the same happens to poetry: it is not good for our minds, so we have to get rid of it. For Plato poetry is an art of imitation about things of life, though simple things just live, for example, chairs and tables, which are on their turn, only imitation of the ideal objects that are at other levels. In this way, poetry simply deals with imitations of imitations. Plato doesn’t make any distinction between imitation and real, whereas Aristotle says that imitation and the object imitated are separated. </span><span style="color:#009900;">Aristotle defends, as well, that poetry is an imitative art, and that poets speak in the voices of others. He argues about the pleasure of the imitation itself within poetry, through such he points out to the representation. According to him, representation is something we have since childhood. Everyone enjoys it, that’s why we delight in looking at pictures. All the earliest forms of arts, like ancient paintings and drawings on rocks, seem to confirm the theory of imitation of Aristotle. These pictures represented successful real life facts meaning it was something they desired. This desire made such factual reality more likely possible. We delight ourselves looking at pictures because we can learn something with that representation and we prefer the picture to real things.<br />Imitation is seen by people as real representations of the real world. They are, in detail, accurate things from our lives. With this perspective Aristotle involves literature with an aesthetic dimension of representation: art can be naturally enjoyed. Aristotle’s “Poetics” revealed two forms of poetry: tragedy and comedy. Comedy, for instance, is a dramatic imitation of men worse than average; while tragedy imitates men slightly better than average. It is important to point out that only the portion of the book that focuses on tragedy has survived. Aristotle redefines three principles: mimesis (the representation), plot (the arrangement of poetry) and genre (literary kind), and centred on these three principles he gives us a definition of tragedy. According to him, tragedy is an imitation/representation using medium, object and manner, where pity and terror (the true catharsis) are the proper strong emotions natural of a tragedy. Aristotle presents six parts of a tragedy: plot, characters, diction, reasoning, spectacle, and song. Out of all six parts the plot is the most important and essential because without the plot there is no tragedy. The plot must be unit and complete in itself conceiving the construction of incidents and passage of time (beginning, middle, end). Therefore, the plot is not separable from the mimesis, the representation of a scene. </span><span style="color:#009900;">The plot for Aristotle introduces ‘causation’, which is when one thing happens due to a cause and so on (cause-effect relationship). This way the unity of the plot depends on events that happen because of earlier causes. Poetry’s function is not to relate things that have happened but things that may happen, in function with probability or possibility. It has to do with causation. For Aristotle the presentation of the world as it is does not correspond to a detailed characterization of its surface. He claims that the ones who focus on the world are not realistic, but idealistic because the world is an illusion. The poet gives access to reality. History only gives access to the surface of the world. This means history only represents all the things that have happened through time. Historians deal with what happened in particular times. Poets don’t, they deal with single actions that give a direct access to universal truths believed by Aristotle to be the ‘good and the beautiful’. The poetic plot for Aristotle is the narrative form of the conception model of the universe. A poet is a composer of a plot, rather than verses. Through a variety of techniques, the plot needs to be imagined, and even more important constructed, imitating directly the ideals of the world. </span></p>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-16623952280472730672009-06-25T18:19:00.003+01:002009-06-26T00:55:09.999+01:00The DuMMy Auxiliary<div align="right"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#009900;"><strong>Introduction to Modern English Exercise</strong></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#009900;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#009900;">The auxiliary verbs ‘be’, ‘have’, and ‘do’ are used with a main verb to form tenses, negatives, and questions. Charles Barber points out four syntactical main functions, through which he considers that auxiliaries are used before ‘not’ when a sentence is made negative; used before the subject of a sentence to form questions; used in echo-repetitions; when stressed used to assert emphasis to the truth of sentences’ ideological feature as a whole. The auxiliary ‘do’, is considered the ‘dummy auxiliary’, because according to Barber, ‘it performs the four main functions of an auxiliary, but empty of meaning’. This means that in verbal phrases ‘do’ is used when no other auxiliary is present.<br /><br />The use of the auxiliary ‘do’ remotes back to Old English, not used as a dummy auxiliary rather had a causative sense. Barber explains, the causative sense in the sentence: </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#009900;">‘He did them a castle.’ as meaning in PdE ‘He caused a castle to be built.’ </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#009900;">‘Do’ in the later case expresses cause, and doesn’t function as an auxiliary verb. This was mainly found in translations from the Latin, whereas by Shakespeare’s time its usage died completely, considered uncommon in Middle English. Barber argues that if we say 'he built a castle there', the verb tense ‘built’ already shows cause. In spoken language, people started to equate 'did build' with 'built', contributing for the development of the non-causative use of ‘do’.<br /><br />Moreover, since the thirteenth century South-Western dialects, initially through poetry spreading rapidly to prose, the modern usage of ‘do’ most commonly grew. During the sixteenth century, ‘do’ becomes semantically an empty auxiliary, merely being a stylistic variant and appropriate mainly for negation. By the seventeenth century Scots-English influenced the southern General dialect. Terttu Nevalainen suggests that such dialect contact was due to the arrival of the Scottish court in London at the succession of King James in 1603, as such contributed for its present use of the auxiliary ‘do’.<br /><br />To conclude, we know that in Present-day English (PdE) it is used to make negative and question forms from sentences that have a verb in the present simple or past simple. We can also use ‘do’ as a main verb with the auxiliary ‘do’, just as we can use the auxiliary ‘do’ with ‘have’ as a main verb. We only use ‘do’ in affirmative sentences for emphasis or contrast. We never use the auxiliary ‘do’ with ‘be’ except in the imperative.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#009900;"></span></div><div align="right"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#009900;">Bibliography and References:</span></div><div align="right"><span style="color:#009900;"></span></div>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-64717572722101792542009-03-10T17:43:00.009+00:002009-07-29T23:33:44.230+01:00Elizabeth Mosier TranslationMy father and I are in the habit now of speaking through others: first Mother, then Boo, now Beulah.<br />"Beulah told me I'd find you in here," Dad says, opening the door just wide enough to stick his head into Boo's old room. He finds me standing on a ladder, holding the book he authored in one hand and, with the other, painting stars on the ceiling.<br />"It's supposed to be a surprise," I complain to the dog, playfully throwing the brush at her.<br />"Beulah hates surprises," Dad says, as the dog opens the door and leads the way in.<br />She's only seven years old. Boo would have been seventeen.<br />"What do you think?" I ask.<br />"It sure makes the room seem bigger," Dad says.<br />"I hope so." I say.<br />We still live in the same house Boo and I grew up in, where we shared a room until I moved out to the couch in the living room. The house was always too small but now, with just the two of us living here, the walls seem to swell.<br />"Come down and let me see what you've done."<br />I'm home from college for the spring semester. The last thing I wanted was to come back to Phoenix and my father. If anyone asks I say it is a very brief visit, just to clear out Boo's room.<br /><div align="right"><strong>Elizabeth Mosier, <em>Insomnia</em></strong></div><div align="right"><strong><em></em></strong></div><div align="right"></div><div align="justify">Eu e o meu pai temos agora o hábito de falar por intermédio dos outros: primeiro a mãe, depois o Boo, agora o Beulah.<br />“Beulah disse me que te encontraria aqui dentro,” diz o pai, abrindo a porta o suficiente para espreitar dentro do velho quarto de Boo. Ele encontra-me em cima do escadote, segurando o livro que ele escreveu numa mão e, com a outra, pintando estrelas no tecto.<br />“É suposto ser uma surpresa,” Resmungo eu com a cadela, atirando-lhe com a escova na brincadeira.<br />“Beulah detesta surpresas,” diz o pai, enquanto a cadela abre a porta e conduz o caminho para dentro.<br />Ela tem apenas sete anos de idade. Boo teria dezassete.<br />“O que pensas?” Perguntei eu.<br />“De certeza que faz o quarto parecer maior,” diz o pai.<br />“Eu espero que sim,” disse eu.<br />Nós ainda vivemos na mesma casa onde eu e o Boo crescemos, onde partilhávamos um quarto até eu ter mudado para o sofá da sala de estar. A casa foi sempre muito pequena mas agora, só com nós os dois a viver aqui, as paredes parecem ter crescido.<br />“Desce para baixo e deixa-me ver o que fizeste.”<br />Estou em casa durante o segundo semestre do colégio. A última coisa que eu queria era voltar para Phoenix e para o meu pai. Se alguém perguntar, eu digo que é uma visita muito breve, só para tirar as coisas do quarto do Boo. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="right"><strong>Jorge Correia Orfão</strong></div><div align="right"><em></em></div><div align="right"></div>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-82232161264918627862009-02-11T04:57:00.007+00:002009-02-11T23:49:06.710+00:00Oscar Wilde Translation<div align="justify">"I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?" said Lord Henry that evening, as Basil Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol where dinner had been set for three.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">"No, Harry", answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the waiter. "What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope?" They don't intrest me. There is hardly a single person in the Government worth painting. (...).</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">"Dorian Gray is engaged to be married," said Lord Henry, watching him as he spoke.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">Hallward started, and then frowned. "Dorian engaged to be married!" he cried. "Impossible!"</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">"It is perfectly true."</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">"To whom?"</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">"To some little actress or other."</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">"Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear Basil."</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">"Marriage is not really a thing that one can do now and then, Harry."</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">"Except in America", replied Lord Henry, calmly. "But I didn't say he was married. I said he was engaged to be married. There is a great difference. I have a distinct remembrance of being married but I have no recollection at all of being engaged. I am inclined to think I never was engaged."</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">"But think Dorian's birth, and position, and wealth. It would be absurd for him to marry so much beneath him."</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">"If you want to make him marry this girl tell him that, Basil. He is sure to do it, then. Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it is always from the noblest motives."</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">"I hope the girl is good, Harry. I don't want to see Dorian tied to some vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his intellect."</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">"Oh, she is better than good - she is beautiful," murmured Lord Henry, sipping a glass of Port. "Dorian says she is beautiful; and he is not often wrong about things of that kind. Your portrait of him has improved his appreciation of the personal appearance of other people. It has had that excellent effect, amongst others. We are going to see her tonight, if Dorian doesn't forget his appointment." </div><br /><br /><div align="right"><strong>Adapted from Oscar Wilde, <em>The Picture Of Dorian Gray</em></strong></div><div align="justify"><strong><em></em></strong></div><div align="justify">“Suponho que já ouviste a notícia, Basil?” disse Lord Henry naquele final de tarde, enquanto Basil Hallward era conduzido a uma salinha privada no Bristol, onde a mesa de jantar estava posta para três.<br />“Não, Harry”, respondeu o artista, dando o seu chapéu e casaco ao empregado de mesa. “O que é? Nada sobre políticas, espero?” Elas não me interessam. Não há sequer uma única pessoa no Governo que valha a pena pintar. (…).<br />“Dorian Gray está comprometido para casar,” disse Lord Henry, olhando para ele enquanto falava.<br />Hallward sobresaltou-se, e depois franziu. “Dorian Gray comprometido para casar!” suspirou ele. “Impossível!”<br />“É perfeitamente verdade.”<br />“Com quem?”<br />“Com uma actriz qualquer ou assim.”<br />“Dorian é demasiado esperto para não fazer tontices de vez em quando, meu querido Basil.”<br />“Casamento não é bem algo que se faça de vez em quando, Harry”<br />“Excepto na América”, respondeu Lord Henry, calmamente. “Mas eu não disse que ele estava casado. Eu disse que estava comprometido para casar. Há uma grande diferença. Eu tenho uma vaga ideia de estar casado, mas não tenho qualquer recordação em estar comprometido. Estou inclinado a pensar que eu nunca estive comprometido. “Mas pensa no nascimento, e na posição, e na saúde de Dorian. Seria um absurdo ele casar tão inferior a ele.”<br />“Se queres que ele case com esta rapariga diz-lhe isso, Basil. Ele fá-lo-á, então. Sempre que um homem faz algo completamente estúpido, advém sempre dos motivos mais nobres.”<br />“Eu espero que seja boa moça, Harry. Não quero ver o Dorian amarado a qualquer criatura baixa, quem poderá denegrir a natureza dele e arruinar a sua intelectualidade.”<br />“Oh, ela é a melhor das melhores – ela é linda,” murmurou Lord Henry, bebendo um pequeno gole do copo do Porto. “Dorian disse que ela é bonita; e ele normalmente não se engana acerca de assuntos desse género. O teu retrato dele tem melhorado a apreciação dele da aparência pessoal sobre as outras pessoas. Tem tido esse excelente efeito entre as pessoas. Nós vamos vê-la esta noite, caso o Dorian não se esqueça da sua marcação.”</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="right"><strong>Jorge Correia Orfão</strong></div>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-15099406145023856142009-02-06T19:26:00.000+00:002009-02-06T19:28:11.739+00:00Najat El Hachmi Review<div align="justify"><strong><span style="color:#009900;">La novela L'últim patriarca, con la que Najat El Hachmi (Nador, Marruecos, 1979) ganó el XXVIII Premi de les Lletres Catalanes Ramon Llull 2008 [...] narra los enfrentamientos entre un inmigrantemarroquí y su hija adolescente por sus diferentes maneras de concebir eintegrarse en la realidad que les rodea en Cataluña.Según explicó El Hachmi el día en que ganó el premio, la obra refleja los"contrastes" entre padre e hija que se ven "amplificados" por el cambio cultural que han sufrido al pasar de vivir en Marruecos a hacerlo en una capital comarcal catalana. La hija no sólo "se tiene que enfrentar" a su padre -que tiene "un peso específico" en su vida-, sino que intenta encontrar su "libertad personal" y su "lugar en el mundo".El protagonista, Mimoun Driouch, es un inmigrante marroquí que pasó de seralbañil a pequeño constructor en una capital de comarca y que, tras distanciarse durante años de su familia, pide el reagrupamiento familiar para vivir con su esposa e hijos en Cataluña. Su "doble moral" la sufre su hija -cuyo nombre no se cita en ningún momento- cuando llega a la adolescencia.</span></strong></div>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-22042218790924717292008-12-06T15:59:00.010+00:002009-02-06T19:33:09.208+00:00Stella Gibbons Translation<div align="justify">Flora felt extremely sleepy all of a sudden. She decided to go and sit by the fire in her room and read until mealtime. So she told Mr Mybug she hoped he would have a pleasant walk. She added that Rennet had had a fairly boring life, on the whole, and that she would probably appreciate a little fun.<br />Mr Mybug said he quite understood. He also attempted to take Flora's hand, but she did not let him.<br />"We're friends, aren't we?" he asked.<br />"Certainly," said Flora, pleasantly. She did not inform him that she was not in the habit of thinking of persons whom she had known for five weeks as her friends.<br />"We might dine together in London some time?"<br />"That would be delightful," agreed Flora, thinking how nasty and boring it would be.<br />"There's a quality in you..." said Mr Mybug. "I should like to write a novel about you and call it Virginal."<br />"Do, if it passes the time for you," said Flora; and now I must go and write some letters. Good-bye."<br />On her way to her room, Flora passed Rennet coming downstairs, dressed to go out. She wondered how Rennet had managed to obtain permission from Aunt Ada Doom to do so, but Rennet did not wait to be questioned.<br /><strong><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></strong></div><div align="right"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Stella Gibbons</span></strong></div><div align="right"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></strong></div><div align="justify"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></strong></div><div align="justify"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></strong> </div><div align="justify">Flora sentiu-se extremamente cansada de um momento para outro. Decidiu ir sentar-se ao lume no quarto dela e ler até à hora de jantar. Por isso, disse ao Sr. Mybug que esperava que ele tivesse um bom passeio. Ela adiantou que a Rennet tem tido, em geral, uma vida bastante aborrecida, e que provavelmente apreciaria um pouco de diversão.<br />O Sr. Mybug disse que até entendia. Tentou também pegar na mão de Flora, mas ela não o deixou.<br />“Nós somos amigos, não somos?” ele perguntou.<br />“Com certeza,” disse Flora, com todo o gosto. Ela não informou que não era hábito dela pensar das pessoas que conhece apenas há cinco semanas como suas amigas.<br />“Podíamos jantar juntos qualquer dia em Londres?”<br />“Isso seria uma delícia,” concordou a Flora, pensando o quanto nojento e enfadonho seria.<br />“Isso é uma qualidade em ti…” disse Sr. Mybug. “Eu gostaria de escrever um romance acerca de ti e chamá-lo Virginal.”<br />“Fá-lo. Se isso lhe faz passar o tempo,” disse Flora; e agora terei que ir escrever umas cartas. Adeus.”<br />A caminho do quarto a Flora passou pela Rennet que descia, vestida para sair. Ela curiosamente pensava como teria ela conseguido obter a autorização da Tia Ada Doom para o fazer, mas a Rennet não esperou para ser questionada. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="right"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Jorge Orfão</span></strong></div>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-43344385689805224602008-12-02T19:01:00.000+00:002008-12-02T19:12:27.577+00:00El espíritu de la colmena, Víctor Erice (1973)<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/8z7jKzxJXfc&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/8z7jKzxJXfc&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-82238407934134809072008-12-02T18:35:00.009+00:002008-12-16T20:33:00.156+00:00Spanish National Cinema<div align="justify"><strong><em>What do the setting and the mise-en-scène in El espíritu de la colmena/The Spirit of the Beehive (V. Erice, 1973) tell us about the political situation in the epoch in which the film was made?</em></strong><br /><br />Since early nineteenth century, studies on culture have been ambiguous across Europe. The notion of culture has relied a lot on world history and politics. Spain, because of Francoism, is a perfect example on how the development of its culture has been influenced by government power, being placed on a scale between reality and fiction. Spanish dictatorship kept the country closed up for many years because of censorship, that puts a stop to free expression of intellectuals such as filmmakers. The film El espíritu de la colmena, directed by Víctor Aras Erice with the collaboration of the producer Elías Querejera, is a remarkable portrait of that epoch of Spain: Franco after the Civil War, and the effects it had amongst the people of the country.<br /></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">The film takes us back to the year 1940, the year right after the Spanish civil war. The director shows in a subtle artistic way his perspective of Spanish society during Franco’s dictatorship. The film was produced in 1973, when Franco was an old and weak man, about to hand over the government power to his allied, Almirante Carrero Blanco. Blanco was killed that same year by the ETA, which shocked the entire nation’s population. Political tensions were emerging around Spain, as well as the economy was on its lowest rates. Spain was definitely going through deep changes, while the people were starting to face the reality of their country. The film is built up in this context, Erice through the eyes of a child, Ana, played by Ana Torrent, shows what went on during the post-civil war years. The fact the film is introduced like a fairy tale, Erase una vez/ Once upon a time, and despite it can be seen as a way to mislead censorship, it invokes the idea of a story that should not be forgotten.<br /></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">Slightly reporting back to a couple of the scenes from El espíritu de la colmena, we are likely to find symbolic features that characterize the post-civil war years in Spain. Such as the first scene of the mother, Teresa, who while the pueblo is enjoying the new and well announced film on screen in the village, she is writing a letter apparently addressed to a special loved man, which can lead us into doubt because during the whole of the film, the director tells us very little about the characters. What is interesting to point out is that she addresses this man in an uncomfortable nostalgic way, making us think that he had something to do with government matters, therefore, his distance is most probably due to the fact he went into exile to escape political imprisonment or even someone already held a prisoner in one of Franco’s concentration camps. She remits to the years of the civil war, talking about a great loss and about a morbid dark atmosphere spread around the country. Spain was going through years of economic repression and social exclusion, where the Regime ideology was to promote mass unification through issues on cultural nationalism. The idea of homogeneity was being encouraged in a country truly recognized by its rich cultural diversity. During this scene of the mother, we see the way she expresses herself while writing this letter. She has a melancholic attitude showing us her preoccupation on what was going on around at the moment, just as how the lack of information about what will happen provokes the sense of a quite fear. The authority had brought censorship to the country, enforcing silence in all communities using manipulative techniques. Another scene that tells us much about the people’s situation during these harsh years of indelicate violence is the first shot of the train, when the mother takes her letter to the mailbox. It is in my opinion, one of the most poetic moments of the film. The smoky environment of the railroad station, when the train stops, and the way Teresa stands watching the train leave, brings to our thoughts to true context during that epoch. As the train goes by, we see through Teresa’s eyes, the people who are travelling: these are Spanish representations of its natives. A better observation of this scene, can make us have a feeling, by the look of such representations that desperate, hopeless, restless, and tired emotions were being felt around the reality of Francoism.<br /></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">Víctor Erice proves that he is part of a new generation in filmmaking, inspired by neo-realism, and the nouvelle vague movements to represent the authenticity of Spanishness through a firmly national cinema. This seems to be a possible explanation for the long-takes, and the fact that the majority of the scenes we encounter in the film are shot outdoors, just as the use of non-actors to play the narrative. It’s not accurate to consider that its not on purpose the director uses the real names of his characters. Moreover, the silent scenes, the sense of lost dialogues, in the same way, the faded and shadowed colours we see according to the set of lights used in all the mise-en-scene, clearly are metaphors of what was like living in Spain during the post-civil war years. Erice follows the politique des auteurs tradition, as a consequence of his studies at the Escuela Oficial de Cine, under the ideals of José María Garcia Escudero, who before had claimed that a new image of Spain should be produced in order to proceed with the country’s internationalization. It is notorious the urge to escape from the folkloric images of Spain transfigured in films like Berlanga’s Bienvenido, Mr. Marshall, in the same way, the urgent anxiety to construct a brighter perspective of Spanish identity. El espíritu de la colmena, which insights <em>the representation of the nation to the nation,</em> as its director once said, can well be identified with this new idea of <em>Spanishness,</em> when a closer look at its mise-en-scene is considered. The cinematographic technique used by the director proves to us that things are changing in respect of the construction of national identity.<br /></div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:85%;">Bibliography:</span></div><span style="font-size:85%;">Graham, H. and Labanyi, J. (eds.) Spanish Cultural Studies: An Introduction, Oxford: Oxford University Press.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-size:85%;">Jordan, B. (2002) Spanish Culture and Society: The Essential Glossary, London: Arnold Press.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Kinder, M. (1993) Blood Cinema: The Reconstruction of National Identity in Spain, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Ros, X de, (1999) “Innocence Lost: Sounds and Silence in El espíritu de la colmena’ Bulletin of Spanish Studies, 76, 1<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Triana Toribio, N. (2003) Spanish National Cinema, London: Routledge.</span>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-23512533771541637812008-11-22T21:17:00.002+00:002008-11-22T21:19:09.836+00:00<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#009900;">"A Linguagem do coração é universal, só é preciso sensibilidade para entendê-la"</span></strong></div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><div align="right">Charles Pinot Duclos</div>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-1295859569769383232008-11-20T18:57:00.013+00:002008-11-22T22:22:50.152+00:00Grace Metalious Translation<div align="justify">David shrugged. "You won't like it, Allison. I'm sure you won't"</div><div align="justify">"Maybe not, David, but I've got to find out for myself. I want every experience that's offered me - or just about."</div><div align="justify">"I'm only thinking of you," David said. "Wait until they start ripping your book to pieces. You'll feel differently then. You won't be able to stand it. Nobody could."</div><div align="justify">"I don't have your sensitive, artistic soul," said Allison. "As far as I'm concerned, all I want for <em>Samuel's Castle</em> is another forty weeks on its lists. And after what they paid me for the picture rights, they can do anything they damned well please with it."</div><div align="justify">"I just don't want you to be hurt," said David quietly, and Allison was suddenly ashamed.</div><div align="justify">"I know it, David," she said contritely. "But I have to find out for myself."</div><div align="justify">"Let me hear from you," said David.</div><div align="justify">"Yes," said Allison. I'll 'phone you. With the studio paying my hotel bills, I'll be able to do it with a clear conscience."</div><div align="justify">David smiled. "You've changed a lot, Allison. But basically you're still the little girl from Peyton Place, still keeping your conscience clear. I don't think you could change that part of you if you submitted to surgery."</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="right"><strong>Grace Metalious</strong></div><div align="right"></div><div align="justify">David encolheu os ombros. “Tu não vais gostar, Allison. Tenho a certeza que não.”<br />“Talvez não, David, mas eu tenho que descobrir isso por mim própria. Eu quero todas as experiências que me são oferecidas – ou quase todas.”<br />“Eu só estou a pensar em ti,” disse David. “Espera até eles começarem a rasgar o teu livro em pedaços. Depois irás sentir-te diferente. Não vais conseguir aguentá-lo. Ninguém consegue.”<br />“Eu não tenho a tua alma sensível e artística,” disse Allison. “No que me diz respeito, só estou interessada em ter o Samuel’s Castle mais quarenta semanas nas listas deles. E depois daquilo que me pagaram pelos direitos de autor, podem fazer o que raios quiserem com ele.” </div><div align="justify">"Eu só não quero que te magoes," disse David calmamente, e a Allison subitamente ficou envergonhada.</div><div align="justify">"Eu sei disso, David," ela disse pesarosamente. "Mas eu tenho que descobrir por mim própria."<br />“Vai dando notícias tuas,” disse David.<br />“Sim,” disse Allison. “Eu telefono-te. Com o estúdio a pagar as minhas contas do hotel, eu poderei fazê-lo de consciência tranquila.”<br />David sorriu. “Mudaste tanto, Allison. Mas basicamente ainda és a menina pequenina de Peyton Place, ainda a manter a consciência tranquila. Não me parece que conseguirias mudar essa parte de ti se te submetesses a cirurgia.”<br /></div><div align="right"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Jorge Correia Orfão</span></strong></div>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-1308394197337587682008-11-20T18:35:00.006+00:002009-06-23T04:09:41.817+01:00D.H. Lawrence Translation<div align="justify">There was a letter from Hilda on the breakfast tray. "Father is going to London this week, and I shall call for you on Thursday week, June 17th. You must be ready so that we can go at once. I don't want to waste time at Wragby, it's an awful place. I shall probably stay the night at Redford with the Colemans, I should be with your for lunch Thursady. Then we could start at tea-time, sand sleep perhaps in Grantham. It is no use our spending an evening with Clifford. If he hates you going, it would be no pleasure to him."</div><div align="justify">So! She was being pushed round on the chess board again. Clifford hated her going, but it was only because he didn't feel safe in her absence. Her presence, for some reason, made him feel safe, and free to do the things he was occupied with. He was a great deal at the pits, and wrestling in spirit with the almost hopeless problems of getting out his coal in the most economical fashion, and then selling it when he'd got it out. He knew he ought to find some way of using it, or converting it, so that he needn't sell it, or needn't have the chagrin of failing to sell it. But if he made electric power, could he sell that or use it? And to convert into oil was as yet too costly and too elaborate. To keep industry alive there must be more industry, like a madness. </div><div align="right"><strong>D.H. Lawrence</strong></div><div align="right"></div><div align="justify">Estava uma carta da Hilda na bandeja do pequeno-almoço. “Esta semana o pai vai a Londres, e eu chamarei por ti na Quinta-feira, 17 de Junho. Deverás de estar pronto para irmos logo. Não quero perder tempo no Wragby, é um sítio horrível. Eu provavelmente passarei a noite no Retford com a família Colemans, por isso deverei de estar contigo à hora de almoço de Quinta. Podemos depois começar à hora do chá, e talvez dormir em Grantham. Não há necessidade em fazer serão com o Clifford. Se a ele não lhe agrada que vás, não será nenhum prazer para ele.<br />Portanto! Estava ela a ser de novo empurrada às voltas na mesa de xadrez. Clifford detestava que ela fosse, mas simplesmente porque ele não se sentia seguro na sua ausência. Por qualquer motivo a presença dela fazia-o sentir seguro, e com o à vontade de fazer coisas que o ocupavam. Ele era de grande importância nas minas de carvão, e numa luta interior com os quase desesperados problemas em retirar o seu carvão na mais prestigiosa economia, e depois de retirado, vendê-lo. Ele sabia que tinha de encontrar qualquer forma para o usar, ou convertê-lo, para não precisar de vendê-lo, nem precisar de sentir a dor de fracassar em vendê-lo. Mas, se ele produzisse energia eléctrica, poderia ele vender isso ou usá-lo? E para converter em petróleo era até aqui demasiado dispendioso e demasiado elaborado. Para manter a indústria viva deverá de haver mais indústria, como uma loucura.<br /><br /></div><div align="right"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Jorge Correia Orfão</strong> </span></div><div align="right"></div><div align="right"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong><span style="color:#009900;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Estava uma carta da Hilda na bandeja do pequeno-almoço. “Esta semana o pai vai a Londres, e eu irei buscar-te na Quinta-feira a uma semana, 17 de Junho. Deverás de estar pronto para irmos logo. Não quero perder tempo no Wragby, é um sítio horrível. Eu provavelmente passarei a noite no Retford com a família Colemans, por isso deverei de estar contigo à hora de almoço de Quinta. Podemos depois partir à hora do chá, e talvez dormir em Grantham. Não há necessidade em fazer serão com o Clifford. Se a ele não lhe agrada que vás, não será nenhum prazer para ele.<br />Portanto! Estava ela a ser de novo empurrada às voltas na mesa de xadrez. Clifford detestava que ela fosse, mas simplesmente porque ele não se sentia seguro na sua ausência. Por qualquer motivo a presença dela fazia-o sentir seguro, e com o à vontade de fazer coisas que o ocupavam. Ele ia com frequência às minas de carvão, e numa luta interior com os quase desesperados problemas em retirar o seu carvão na mais prestigiosa economia, e depois de retirado, vendê-lo. Ele sabia que tinha de encontrar qualquer forma para o usar, ou convertê-lo, para não precisar de vendê-lo, nem precisar de sentir a dor de fracassar em vendê-lo. Mas, se ele produzisse energia eléctrica, poderia ele vender isso ou usá-lo? E para converter em petróleo era até aqui demasiado dispendioso e demasiado elaborado. Para manter a indústria viva deverá de haver mais indústria, como uma loucura.<br /></span></span></strong></span></div><div align="right"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000000;">Jorge Correia Orfão</span></strong></div><div align="right"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000000;">(reviewed by: Hillary Owen)</span></strong></div><div align="right"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-67136834378112183402008-10-27T21:52:00.002+00:002008-10-27T21:55:11.026+00:00"Language is a Virus From Outer Space", Laurie AndersonSimplesmente fantástico...this contemporary artist inspired by William S. Bourroughs<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/4FeyGTmw0I0&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/4FeyGTmw0I0&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-62278293183379149082008-10-21T19:52:00.011+01:002009-06-23T04:08:56.018+01:00Trevor Huddleston's Translation<div align="justify">Sophiatown was a slum. Those of us who have lived there would never wish to deny that. We have seen with our own eyes the heroism of so many of our Christian people in their environment. It would be treason to them to deny that Sophiatown was a slum. But slum conditions can be removed without the expropriation of a whole area. Indeed the greatest experts in town-planning would agree that only in the last resort should you uproot people from the place they know as home: for in such uprooting you destroy not only the fabric of their houses, you destroy a living organism - the community itself. Sophiatown, then, could have been replannned and rebuilt on the same site: a model African suburb. It could have been, but for the pressure of three things. First, the pressure of white opinion and the political force it represented; secondly, the existence of freehole tenure, and the treat of permanence which it implied; thirdly, that which underlies every event of any racial significance in South Africa: the assumption that white "civilisation" is threatened by the very existence of an African community in any way similar to itself. The African in the kraal is in his right place: so is the African kitchen. But the African in a "European" suburb, in "European" house which he himself owns and is proud of: he is a menace: he must be removed.</div><div align="right"><strong>Trevor Huddleston</strong></div><div align="right"></div><div align="right"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">Sophiatown é um bairro de lata. Nós que vivemos lá nunca pensaríamos em negar isso. Temos constatado com os nossos próprios olhos o heroísmo do nosso próprio povo cristão inserido no meio ambiente deles. Seria uma deslealdade, eles negarem o facto que Sophiatown é uma “favela”. No entanto, as condições vividas neste tipo de bairros podem ser retiradas sem a expropriação dum bairro inteiro. Na verdade, os melhores profissionais em urbanismo estariam de acordo, só em última hipótese desenraizar os habitantes do bairro considerado o seu lar: pois tal desenraizamento destrói não só a essência das suas casas, como também se acaba com um organismo vivo – uma comunidade inteira. Sophiatown, portanto, poderia ser requalificada e reconstruída no mesmo sítio: um modelo suburbano Africano. Poderia ser, caso não levantasse a pressão a três pormenores: Primeiro, a pressão da opinião dos caucasianos e a força que representaria politicamente; segundo, a existência da propriedade ténue, e da ameaça de permanência que tal implicaria; terceiro, reforça qualquer evento racial significativo na América do Sul: a assumpção que a “civilização” do homem branco é ameaçada pela existência de quaisquer semelhanças com a comunidade africana. A condição de africano dentro de uma cabana está no lugar certo: tal como o africano dentro da cozinha. Mas o africano dentro de um subúrbio “europeu”, dentro de um lar “europeu”, propriedade dele próprio: ele torna-se uma ameaça: ele deverá ser removido. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="right"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Jorge Correia Orfão</span></strong></div><div align="right"></div><div align="justify"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#009900;">Sophiatown é um bairro de lata. Nós que vivemos lá nunca pensaríamos em negar isso. Temos constatado com os nossos próprios olhos o heroísmo do nosso próprio povo cristão inserido no meio ambiente deles. Seria uma deslealdade pura, eles negarem o facto que Sophiatown fosse uma “favela”. No entanto, as condições vividas neste tipo de bairros podem ser retiradas sem a expropriação dum bairro inteiro. Na verdade, os melhores profissionais em urbanismo estariam de acordo, só em última hipótese desenraizar os habitantes do bairro considerado o seu lar: pois tal desenraizamento destrói não só a essência das suas casas, como também se acaba com um organismo vivo – uma comunidade inteira. Sophiatown, portanto, poderia ter sido requalificada e reconstruída no mesmo sítio: um modelo suburbano Africano. Poderia ter sido, caso não levantasse a pressão a três pormenores: Primeiro, a pressão da opinião dos caucasianos e a força que representaria politicamente; segundo, a existência da posse ténue, e da ameaça de permanência que tal implicaria; terceiro, subjaz qualquer evento racial significativo na África do Sul: a assumpção que a “civilização” do homem branco é ameaçada pela existência de quaisquer semelhanças com a comunidade africana. A condição de africano dentro de um curral está no lugar certo: tal como o africano dentro da cozinha. Mas o africano dentro de um subúrbio “europeu”, dentro de um lar “europeu”, propriedade dele próprio do qual se orgulha: ele torna-se uma ameaça: ele deverá ser removido. </span></strong></div><p align="right"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000000;">Jorge Correia Orfão</span></strong></p><p align="right"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">(r<span style="color:#000000;">eviewed by: Hilary Owen)</span></span></strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#009900;"></p><div align="justify"><br /><br /></div></span><div align="right"></div><div align="right"></div>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624839425362877872.post-6724233561682368732008-10-15T02:03:00.023+01:002009-06-23T04:08:10.760+01:00Maria Ondina Braga's Translation<div align="justify">"Há no meu bairro um relojoeiro, homem de idade, alto, magro, de cabeleira branca revoltada e bigodes crestados e pendentes.</div><div align="justify">Vejo todos os dias o vulto do relojoeiro, à luz da lâmpada, na cave da calçada que vira para o cemitério. Pergunto-lhe as horas. Resposta infalivel:</div><div align="justify">- Horas de viver!</div><div align="justify">Sorri um sorriso fechado pelo cachimbo ao canto da boca, carrega no botão de uma caixinha a seu lado, e a música irrompe.</div><div align="justify">- É bonito mas estou com pressa.</div><div align="justify">- Horas de viver! Oiça só até ao fim esta musiquinha. São violinos! </div><div align="justify">Às vezes cismo como será que ao relojoeiro não falta trabalho? Sítio tão afastado da estrada, ele sozinho, velho, e nem uma tabuleta a assinalar-lhe a arte. A verdade, contudo, é que nunca o vi desocupado. de manhã à noite de cabeça curvada, monóculo comprido, mãos quase tão brancas como os cabelos, leves e lentas, o homen disseca ventres de relógios minúsculos, retoca algarismos romanos em antigos quadrantes, atarraxa molas, equilibra pesos. E também nunca lhe vi clientes. Chego a fantasiar que ele trabalha para os mortos ou para os deuses. Mas, se os relógios medem tempo...</div><div align="justify">Misterioso o velhote. A Loja um museu. Por todo lado relógios: de cuco, despertadores, de parede, de pulso, de bolso, e até de sol, e até de areia. Todos, porém, parados e cobertos de pó."</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="right"><strong></strong></div><div align="right"><strong>Maria Ondina Braga</strong></div><strong></strong><br /><strong>English Translation: dedicated to someone special, <em>a special warm thank you to the Blue Prince</em><br /></strong><div align="justify">In my neighbourhood there is a watchmaker, he is an elder man, tall, slim, with a white twigged hair wig, and wiggled moustache.<br />Everyday, I see the watchmaker’s figure, in the light of the street lamps, down the end of the road that turns towards the cemetery. I ask him for time. He responds infallibly:<br />- It’s time to live!<br />I smiled a closed smile through the pipe at the corner of my mouth, the watchmaker presses the button of a small box that was next to him, and music pops up.<br />- It’s lovely but I am in a rush.<br />- It’s time to live! Just listen to this music till the end. Its violins!<br />Sometimes I wonder why the watchmaker always has work to do. It’s a place so distant from the road, all by himself, an old fellow, and not a single board sign indicating his art. However the truth is I never saw him unoccupied. From morning till dawn with his head curved down, long monocle, hands as white as his hair, light and slow, the man dissects the insides of tiny watches, retouches the roman numerals in ancient dials, anthraxes gadgets, and sorts out balances. And also I have never seen a client around. I find myself fantasizing that he works for the dead or for the gods. But, if clocks measure time…<br />Mysterious the old man. The store a museum. There are clocks everywhere:<br />cuckoo-clock, alarm clocks, wall clocks, wrist clocks, pocket clocks, and even sundial, and even sand clocks.<br />Yet , all of them, were still and covered with dust.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="right"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Jorge Correia Orfão</span></strong></div><div align="right"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></strong></div><div align="justify"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#009900;">In my neighbourhood there is a watchmaker, he is a tall, thin elder man, with a white twigged hair, and a drooping moustache.<br />Everyday, I see the watchmaker’s figure, in the light of the street lamps, down in the cellar below the road that turns towards the cemetery. I ask him for the time. He responds infallibly:<br />- It’s time to live!<br />He smiles a closed smile through the pipe at the corner of his mouth, the watchmaker presses the button on a small box that is next to him, and music busts up.<br />- It’s lovely but I am in a rush.<br />- It’s time to live! Just listen to this music till the end. Its violins!<br />Sometimes I wonder how the watchmaker always has work to do. It’s a place so distant from the road, all by himself, an old fellow, and not a single sign board indicating his art. However the truth is I never saw him unoccupied. From morning till dawn with his head bent down, long monocle, hands as white as his hair, light and slow, the man dissects the insides of tiny watches, retouches the roman numerals on ancient dials, tightens springs, and balances weights. And also I have never seen a customer either. I find myself fantasizing that he works for the dead or for the gods. But, if clocks tell time…<br />Mysterious the old man. The store a museum. There are clocks everywhere: cuckoo-clocks, alarm clocks, wall clocks, wrist watches, pocket watches, and even sundials, and hour glasses. Yet, all of them were stopped and covered with dust.</span></strong></div><div align="justify"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#009900;"></span></strong></div><div align="right"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000000;"><strong>Jorge Correia Orfão</strong></span></div><div align="right"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">(reviewed by:Hilary Owen)</span></strong></div>Jorge Correiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04832529630874935384noreply@blogger.com0