terça-feira, 7 de outubro de 2014

"A literatura é a mais nobre das profissões.,,,,,,Edgar Allan Poe em uma carta

Foto: IMÁGENES ANTIGUAS Librería e Imprenta E. Legros. Paris, 1925.
A  literatura é a mais nobre das profissões. Na verdade, é sobre o único digno de um homem. Pela minha parte, não há nenhuma
me seduzindo do caminho."
  Foto: CURIOSIDADES Galletas “literarias” con imágenes y fragmentos de Edgar Allan Poe.
- Edgar Allan Poe em uma carta a Frederick W. Thomas (1849/02/14) Foto: "Literature is the most noble of professions. In fact, it is about the only one fit for a man. For my own part, there is no seducing me from the path." -- Edgar Allan Poe in a letter to Frederick W. Thomas (1849-02-14) Edgar Allan Poe’s gift for the macabre–his genius in finding the strangeness lurking at the heart of things–was so extraordinary that he exerted a major influence on Baudelaire and French symbolism, on Freudian analysis, and also on the detective novel and the Hollywood movie. His psychologically profound stories of encounters with the marvelous, the uncanny, and the dreadful represent–in contrast to the optimism of writers like Emerson and Whitman–the other, darker side of the nineteenth-century American sensibility. Poe died in Baltimore, Maryland, on this day in 1849 (aged 40).
  Dom de Edgar Allan Poe para o macabro-seu gênio em encontrar a estranheza à espreita no coração das coisas, era tão extraordinária que Ele exerceu uma grande influência sobre
Foto: #NationalPoetryDay "Chant d'automne" I Bientôt nous plongerons dans les froides ténèbres; Adieu, vive clarté de nos étés trop courts! J'entends déjà tomber avec des chocs funèbres Le bois retentissant sur le pavé des cours. Tout l'hiver va rentrer dans mon être: colère, Haine, frissons, horreur, labeur dur et forcé, Et, comme le soleil dans son enfer polaire, Mon coeur ne sera plus qu'un bloc rouge et glacé. J'écoute en frémissant chaque bûche qui tombe L'échafaud qu'on bâtit n'a pas d'écho plus sourd. Mon esprit est pareil à la tour qui succombe Sous les coups du bélier infatigable et lourd. II me semble, bercé par ce choc monotone, Qu'on cloue en grande hâte un cercueil quelque part. Pour qui? — C'était hier l'été; voici l'automne! Ce bruit mystérieux sonne comme un départ. II J'aime de vos longs yeux la lumière verdâtre, Douce beauté, mais tout aujourd'hui m'est amer, Et rien, ni votre amour, ni le boudoir, ni l'âtre, Ne me vaut le soleil rayonnant sur la mer. Et pourtant aimez-moi, tendre coeur! soyez mère, Même pour un ingrat, même pour un méchant; Amante ou soeur, soyez la douceur éphémère D'un glorieux automne ou d'un soleil couchant. Courte tâche! La tombe attend; elle est avide! Ah! laissez-moi, mon front posé sur vos genoux, Goûter, en regrettant l'été blanc et torride, De l'arrière-saison le rayon jaune et doux! * "Song of Autumn" by Charles Baudelaire I Soon we shall plunge into the cold darkness; Farewell, vivid brightness of our short-lived summers! Already I hear the dismal sound of firewood Falling with a clatter on the courtyard pavements. All winter will possess my being: wrath, Hate, horror, shivering, hard, forced labor, And, like the sun in his polar Hades, My heart will be no more than a frozen red block. All atremble I listen to each falling log; The building of a scaffold has no duller sound. My spirit resembles the tower which crumbles Under the tireless blows of the battering ram. It seems to me, lulled by these monotonous shocks, That somewhere they're nailing a coffin, in great haste. For whom? — Yesterday was summer; here is autumn That mysterious noise sounds like a departure. II I love the greenish light of your long eyes, Sweet beauty, but today all to me is bitter; Nothing, neither your love, your boudoir, nor your hearth Is worth as much as the sunlight on the sea. Yet, love me, tender heart! be a mother, Even to an ingrate, even to a scapegrace; Mistress or sister, be the fleeting sweetness Of a gorgeous autumn or of a setting sun. Short task! The tomb awaits; it is avid! Ah! let me, with my head bowed on your knees, Taste the sweet, yellow rays of the end of autumn, While I mourn for the white, torrid summer! — Translated by William Aggeler
Baudelaire e do simbolismo francês, em análise freudiana, e também sobre o romance policial
o filme de Hollywood . Seus psicologicamente profundas histórias de encontros com o maravilhoso, o inquietante eo terrível Representar, em contraste com o otimismo de escritores como Emerson e Whitman-do outro lado, mais escura da sensibilidade americana do século XIX.
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