domingo, 26 de abril de 2009


Bueno xente que le este bloguiño de deus... como podedes comprobar este blogue cada vez tira máis cara ao filolóxico e menos cara ao persoal, non sei se por derivación ou que... pero o caso é que vai por aí.

Isto pode facer que ao entrar neste deleznable blogue os meus queridos lectores non angloparlantes sufran de pesadelos e cansazo, preguiza e xenreira, maldecimentos e ira, morte e destrución.

Este post é para tranquilizarvos. Non pasa nada, tentarei seguir combinando a filoloxía co frikismo máis puro e duro, a piradura de olla, e a reflexión persoal. Non me vou dedicar unicamente a subir fragmentos e citas de grandes da literatura inglesa. Escribirei. Non vos preocupedes. Be calm. Étiez tranquilles! Don't worry be happy.

Aperta a todos os meus lectores, que aínda que non deben ser moitos, se lles quere.

miércoles, 22 de abril de 2009

April... (T.S.Eliot)

I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade
10 And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
20 Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
30 I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Frisch weht der Wind
Der heimat zu
Mein Irisch kind,
Wo weilest du?
"You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;"
"They called me the hyacinth girl."
--Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
40 Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Öd' und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Has a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor.
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
50 The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something that he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself;
One must be so careful these days.

60 Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet,
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying, "Stetson!
70 You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
You! hypocrite lecteur!--mon semblable!--mon frère!"


domingo, 12 de abril de 2009

Pequenos placeres da vida

Os domingos pola mañá, Vilaboa perde 30 anos e deixa de ser un suburbio para volver a ser a vila pequena que era.
Ir polo pan e ver pouca xente pola rúa, case ningún coche... que che atendan, e volver para a casa comendo un anaco de pan e sentindo como o sol che acariña a cara...

hai momentos que quererías que se alongasen todo o posible!

sábado, 11 de abril de 2009

As cinco diferencias...

Kai Tek



Eu comezo coa primeira:

O aeroporto de Kai Tek foi pechado en 1998.
Esta web apoia á iniciativa dun dominio galego propio (.gal) en Internet