As if you could outdance me!

Já que toquei no assunto literatura 'neo-mórmon',
deixo aqui uma sátira muito boa do filme Crepúsculo hahaha



abraços!

LEI XXII

Em alguns momentos, eu folheio um livro que comprei há mais ou menos cinco anos com o nome de "As 48 Leis de Poder".

Não é um livro obscuro ou 'cult'. Acho que até chegou a figurar nas listas dos mais vendidos por um tempo, mas eu nunca consegui terminá-lo. Ele fica na estante indefinidamente, me esperando, com sua capa laranja e com as letras douradas, zombando da minha inebriada consciência moral.

Não, eu não consigo ler esse livro. Eu acho ele moralmente repreensível em todas as maneiras possíveis. Ele superficializa questões fundamentais. Ele é uma auto-ajuda com pitadas de Dostoyevski e aforismas de mestres da luta chineses.

Mesmo assim, paradoxalmente, eu recomendo a leitura e a não-leitura periódica do mesmo.

Afinal, qualquer coisa moralmente repreensível ainda é melhor do que a babaquice neo-mórmon que é bestseller atualmente, como "A Cabana" ou vampiros viadinhos que tem nojinho de sangue.
-
LEI XXII
TRANSFORME A FRAQUEZA EM PODER

"Voltaire vivia exilado em Londres numa época em que estava no auge ser contra os franceses. Um dia, caminhando pelas ruas, ele se viu cercado por uma multidão irada:
“Enforquem-no, enforquem o francês”, gritavam.

Voltaire calmamente se dirigiu a turba dizendo o seguinte:
"Ingleses! Desejam me matar porque sou francês. Já não fui punido o suficiente por não ter nascido inglês?”

A multidão aplaudiu as suas palavras sensatas e o escoltaram de volta aos seus alojamentos."

The Little, Brown
Book Of Anecdotes, Clifton Fadiman Ed. 1985"
-
Mas lembrem-se: assim como todo livro de capa laranja, ele não é para ser levado muito a sério.

The Adventures of Tom Bombadil

"There was an old dwarf in a dark cave,
to silver and gold his fingers clave;
with hammer and tongs and anvil-stone
he worked his hand to the hard bone.

and coins he made, and strings of rings,
and thought to buy the power of kings.
But his eyes grew dim and his ears dull
and the skin yellow on his old skull;
through his bony claw with pale shin
the stony jewels slipped unseen.
No feet he heard, though the earth quaked,
when the young dragon his thirst slaked,
and the stream smoked at his dark door.
The flames hissed on the dank floor,
and he died alone in the red fire;
his bones were ashes in the hot mire.

There was an old dragon under grey stone;
his red eyes blinked as he lay alone.
His joy was dead and his youth spent,
he was knobbed and wrinkled, and his limbs bent
in the long years to his gold chained;
in his heart´s furnace the fire waned.
To his belly´s slime gems stuck thick,
silver and gold he would snuff and lick:
he knew the place of the least ring
beneath the shadow of his black wing.
Of thieves he thought on his hard bed,
and dreamed that on their flesh he fed,
their bones crushed, and their blood drank:
his ears dropped and his breath sank.
Mail-rings rang. He heard them not.
A voice echoed in his deep grot:
a young warrior with a bright sword
called him forth to defend his hoard.
His teeth were knives, and of horn his hide,
but iron tore him, and his flame died.

There was an old king on a high throne:
his white beard lay on knees of bone;
his mouth savoured neither meat nor drink,
nor his ears song: he could only think
of his huge chest with carven lid
where pale gems and gold lay hid
in secret treasury in the dark ground;
its strong doors were iron-nound.
The sword of his thanes were dull with rust,
his glory fallen, his rude unjust,
his halls hollow, and his bowers cold,
but king he was of elvish gold.
He heard not the horns in the mountain-pass
he smelt not the blood on the trodden grass,
but his halls were burned, his kingdom lost;
in a cold pit his bones were tossed.

There is an old hoard in a dark rock,
forgotten behind doors none can unlock;
that grim gate no man can pass.
On the mound grows the green grass;
there sheep feed and the larks soar,
and the wind blows from the sea-shore.
The old hoard the Night shall keep,
while earth awaits and the Elves sleep."

J.R.R Tolkien

O Triste Fim de Jack, O Coelho.

Insônia no YT

aháa, finalmente em streaming!

Curta metragem "Insônia"

Direção - Rafael Ceribelli.
Produção - Fábio Nagai.
Assistente de Produção - Adriano Jr.

Elenco -

Rafael 'Grog' Silvestre
Thiago 'Banha' Campos
Ronaldo Matos
Adriano Jr.