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Artigos da categoria “Livros e Poesia

Wrong

Publicado em 03/08/2022

We are constantly processing ambiguous information, and then our brain narrows it down a variety of responses to one. We’re often wrong about other people because we incorrectly project meaning on to them. From our brain point of view, fellow human beings are nothing more than sources of highly complex, meaningless sensory information. And yet they are “objects” we have the greatest interest in, passion for, and engagement with. But they continually befuddle us.

—Beau Lotto, Deviate, Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2018

Nota para o próprio: Este livro anda em volta da tese que que diz que nada tem significado em si próprio, até o que vemos é 90% formado no cérebro e apenas 10% entra pelos olhos dentro. Não é uma perspectiva muito animadora e acredito que seja um assunto que tem sido estudado até à exaustão. Que conheço pessoas que atribuem um significado — e intencionalidade — a virtualmente tudo o que os outros dizem ou fazem e que desse modo erram permanentemente, é um facto.
Entre pessoas mais normais, parece-me que antes de projectarmos (o nosso) significado, o interlocutor disse ou fez algo que em si próprio tem uma razão e um significado, projectado pelo próprio. Que seja difícil perceber à partida qual, admito que sim obviamente — bastaria lembrar-me da arte e das discussões estéreis como são praticamente todas sobre arte, em que doutos projectos de artista e curadores, atribuem a mais variada casta de intenções ao verdadeiro artista, que na primeira oportunidade dirá que não, não teve nenhuma — mas daí a dizer que em si próprio nada tem significado nenhum além do que nós lhe atribuímos, é esticar demasiado um conceito que em boa verdade, não estou a perceber.

To Read in the Morning and at Night

Publicado em 06/07/2022

To read in the morning and at night
My love
Has told me
That he needs me.

That’s why
I take good care of myself
Watch out where I’m going and
Fear that any drop of rain
Might kill me.


Morgens und abends zu lesen
Der, den ich liebe
Hat mir gesagt
Daß er mich braucht.

Darum
Gebe ich auf mich acht
Sehe auf meinen Weg und
Fürchte von jedem Regentropfen
Daß er mich erschlagen könnte.
—Bertold Brecht

Less

Publicado em 23/06/2022

I was reminded of an experiment that several of the addiction researchers I interviewed had told me about — the so-called rat park experiment. It’s well known in the field of drug abuse research that rats in a cage given access to drugs of various kinds will quickly addict themselves, pressing little levers for the drug on offer in preference to food, often to the point of death. Much less well known, however, is the fact that if the cage is “enriched” with opportunities for play, interaction with other rats, and exposure to nature, the same rats will utterly ignore the drugs and so never become addicted. The rat park experiments lend support to the idea that the propensity to addiction might have less to do with genes or chemistry than with one’s personal history and environment.

—Michael Pollan, How to Change Your Mind, Allen Lane, 2018

The Addict

Publicado em 14/06/2022

Sleepmonger,
deathmonger,
with capsules in my palms each night,
eight at a time from sweet pharmaceutical bottles
I make arrangements for a pint-sized journey.
I’m the queen of this condition.
I’m an expert on making the trip
and now they say I’m an addict.
Now they ask why.
WHY!

Don’t they know that I promised to die!
I’m keping in practice.
I’m merely staying in shape.
The pills are a mother, but better,
every color and as good as sour balls.
I’m on a diet from death.

Yes, I admit
it has gotten to be a bit of a habit-
blows eight at a time, socked in the eye,
hauled away by the pink, the orange,
the green and the white goodnights.
I’m becoming something of a chemical
mixture.
that’s it!

My supply
of tablets
has got to last for years and years.
I like them more than I like me.
It’s a kind of marriage.
It’s a kind of war where I plant bombs inside
of myself.

Yes
I try
to kill myself in small amounts,
an innocuous occupatin.
Actually I’m hung up on it.
But remember I don’t make too much noise.
And frankly no one has to lug me out
and I don’t stand there in my winding sheet.
I’m a little buttercup in my yellow nightie
eating my eight loaves in a row
and in a certain order as in
the laying on of hands
or the black sacrament.

It’s a ceremony
but like any other sport
it’s full of rules.
It’s like a musical tennis match where
my mouth keeps catching the ball.
Then I lie on; my altar
elevated by the eight chemical kisses.

What a lay me down this is
with two pink, two orange,
two green, two white goodnights.
Fee-fi-fo-fum-
Now I’m borrowed.
Now I’m numb.

—Anne Sexton