terça-feira, 9 de outubro de 2007

Crítica Literária de Ruben P. Ferreira a: "A Tabuada do Tempo", de Cristóvão de Aguiar, na Revista Os Meus Livros, N.º 56, de 06-Outubro-2007.

The Arithmetic Table of Time



This metapoem (Miguel Torga’s Prize in 2006) on the daily life of a man of belles-letres leads the reader into the meanders that originate the writing itself and its themes. The modesty, humaneness, childhood, friends, travelling digressions, anxieties, depressions, fears, preferences, flatulencies of the body (of the soul), the absence of the sun, the humidity, affections, his children, in a mixture of very pleasant and joined chronologies in a daily report of one year, which is much comprehensive as well as recomforting.
If in some periods one understands that that year may be 1996, in others the years fly away mingled with numerous references to past epochs, up to the moment of the formation of the convictions and of the first poems, or to the more recent melancholy attacks, amidst lectures in the Faculty. It is a diagram of the days and nights which is kept up in an essentially nostalgic register, at times revealing solved anguishes as time goes by or never. Anguishes for ever. A Time marked by the Author’s internal chronology, by the exposure implemented in the incapacity of becoming autonomous, in the ability of creating a work of art as never before. A time of oblivion combined with the effort, at times abstract, of wording that it is already understood (hidden) in the understanding of himself, of other people and the world.

Ruben P. Ferreira (Trad.)


3 comentários:

Mateso disse...

The Arithmetic Table of Time... a poem or rather a short life tale?
Agradeço a visita no meu cantinho, e agora que conheci o seu ,virei mais vezes ,pois que é lugar previligeado.



APO (Bem-Trapilho) disse...

obrigada pela visita! volte sempre!

xistosa disse...

totoko shisoma hiro shima yoma !!!!

Cyrano de Bergerac

Cyrano de Bergerac
Eugénio Macedo - 1995


A Cristóvão de Aguiar, junto
do qual este poema começou a nascer.

Atlântico até onde chega o olhar.
E o resto é lava
e flores.
Não há palavra
com tanto mar
como a palavra Açores.

Manuel Alegre
Pico 27.07.2006