Posted by: Jussara

 Photo by Ni Petrov (FLICKR)

The morning is the hardest time. It is hard enough anywhere for a [wo]man to begin the day’s work in darkness; where I am it is doubly difficult. One may be a long time realizing it, but cold and darkness deplete the body gradually; the mind turns sluggish; and the nervous system slows up in its responses. This morning I had to admit to myself that I was lonely. Try as I may, I find I can’t take my loneliness casually; it is too big. But I must not dwell on it. Otherwise I am undone.

Richard Byrd  |  “Alone


Posted by: Jussara

But even so, every now and then I would feel a violent stab of loneliness. The very water I drink, the very air I breathe, would feel like long, sharp needles. The pages of a book in my hands would take on the threatening metallic gleam of razor blades. I could hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at four o’clock in the morning.

Haruki Murakami  |  The Wind-up Bird Chronicle

Os contornos do meu futuro pensamento começavam a delinear-se; o problema central viria a ser a língua. Em primeiro lugar, obviamente, porque amo a língua. Amo sua beleza, sua riqueza, seu mistério e seu encanto. Só sou verdadeiramente quando falo, escrevo, leio ou quando ela sussurra dentro de mim, querendo articular-se. Mas também porque ela é forma simbólica, morada do Ser que vela e revela, vereda pela qual me ligo aos outros, campo de imortalidade aere perennius, matéria e instrumento da arte. Ela é meu compromisso, através dela concebo minha realidade e por ela deslizo rumo ao seu horizonte e fundamento, o silêncio do indizível. Ela é minha forma de religiosidade. É, quiçá, também a forma pela qual me perco.

Vilém Flusser  |  Língua e Realidade

(Jussara – segunda, 1h45)

…Damien Rice singing live at BBC 4 Sessions


(Charlotte Bronte)

The human heart has hidden treasures,
In secret kept, in silence sealed;
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
Whose charms were broken if revealed.
And days may pass in gay confusion,
And nights in rosy riot fly,
While, lost in Fame’s or Wealth’s illusion,
The memory of the Past may die.

But, there are hours of lonely musing,
Such as in evening silence come,
When, soft as birds their pinions closing,
The heart’s best feelings gather home.
Then in our souls there seems to languish
A tender grief that is not woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish,
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.

And feelings, once as strong as passions,
Float softly back to ­a faded dream;
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
The tale of others’ sufferings seem.
Oh! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
How longs it for that time to be,
When, through the mist of years receding,
Its woes but live in reverie!

And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
On evening shade and loneliness;
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,
Feel no untold and strange distress­
Only a deeper impulse given
By lonely hour and darkened room,
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven,
Seeking a life and world to come.