Guide Elegia da solidào (Portuguese Edition)

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Just as in the prologue, another love story is about to unfold, a tragic triangle involving the lovely Portuguese heiress Aurora Ana Moreira , her recent Gatsby-like husband Ivo Muller and a seductive adventurer with a Clark Gable mustache named Gian Luca Ventura Carloto Cotta.

Surrounded by servants who work in the fields on the family farm and accompany her on big game hunts, Aurora seems to have everything.

When Ventura arrives with his friend Mario, who studied for the priesthood and now runs a successful pop band, both Aurora and Gian Luca lose their heads, with dire consequences. Young Cotta slips in an extra moral dimension as the carefree lover who discovers he has a conscience. Venue: Berlin Film Festival competition , Feb. O filme pode ser uma das grandes surpresas do Festival de Cinema de Berlim.


A empregada de uma de suas vizinhas estava irada, pois achava que a vizinha se metia demais na vida de sua patroa. O trabalho com o elenco foi feito de maneira diferente nas duas partes do filme. Foi um desafio que funcionou muito bem. Her next door neighbour is Miss Pilar Teresa Madruga , a compassionate and caring catholic who finds herself caring for Aurora as her mental state starts to show signs of deteriorating. When Aurora is admitted to hospital, Pilar is assigned the task of finding a long lost companion of hers, an Italian man with an outlandish tale of love against adversity set within the shadows of Mount Tabu in Africa.

It results in a film that radiates a warmth that perfectly compliments its heartbreaking story. Paulo, Folha de S. Chega ao detalhe de cronometrar o tempo e imitar os passos de uma testemunha que alega ter ouvido o crime e visto o menino escapulindo. Trata-se de uma exaustiva guerra de nervos.


Deixa-se seduzir pelo passo a passo, pelo fato alavancado, pelo dado exposto, pela prova autopsiada. Em cena, eles fumam nervosamente, transpiram, trocam insultos, perdem a compostura, se enfurecem, andam estressados de um lado ao outro. Edgar Olimpio de Souza. Fone: Em cartaz por tempo indeterminado. Comentario no site Aplauso Brasil.

Blog no WordPress. Curtir isso: Curtir Carregando Carta Capital 0. Film Reviews. You'll always end up in this city. Don't hope for things elsewhere:. Now that you've wasted your life here, in this small corner,.

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We could interpret this poem as being about the payback inevitable for the pompously self-deceiving. Know thyself, Socrates taught, for not knowing is costly. And yet, when a girlfriend of mine watched her husband of 30 years drive off in a fancy sports car to "find himself," she took comfort in those words of Cavafy's set down more than a century ago. They fit perfectly on a postcard, which she mailed off to aforementioned husband -- which proves the usefulness of poetry, if not its higher-mindedness. Cavafy's poem "The City" can be found in "C.

Cavafy: Collected Poems, Princeton Univ. Translation copyright by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. The naked civil servant CP Cavafy's life was an enigma, but his poems about ancient Alexandria and his longings for a 'Hellenic kind of pleasure' offer insights into a passionate nature Duncan Sprott Saturday August 14, The Guardian I was 18 when I heard David Hockney on the radio, talking about his Cavafy etchings, inspired by a modern Greek poet from Alexandria.

I didn't know the name of Cavafy, but he sounded exotic, intriguing. He had a passion for the Greek and Roman past.

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He also had a passion for young men. He wasn't afraid to write about sex; his poems sounded oozingly erotic. I rushed out and bought the Complete Poems and read all night. I liked "Kaisarion", about the fate of the doomed son of Cleopatra, and "Footsteps", about the Furies swarming upstairs to nobble the Emperor Nero for murdering his mother.

I loved the way Cavafy personalised history, making it seem as if the Battle of Magnesia took place last Tuesday. I loved his languid repetitions, his melancholy voice, his sad poems about beautiful dead boys, and the frisson in his poems about live ones. Cavafy became, then, my own forbidden pleasure.

Constantine P Cavafy was born in Alexandria in , the ninth son of a prosperous merchant who died young, leaving the family in financial difficulties. From the age of nine to 16, he lived in England. Thus his love of English, though his first language was Greek which he spoke with a slight Oxford accent. Later he spent three years in Constantinople, but after he was 22 Cavafy never left Alexandria. For 30 years he worked as a provisional clerk in the Ministry of Irrigation Third Circle , translating documents and dealing with correspondence.

Cavafy lived above a brothel in the Rue Lepsius - about which he said, "Where could I live better? Below, the brothel caters for the flesh. And there is the church which forgives sin.

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And there is the hospital where we die. In his spare time he wrote his poems, trawling the history of the Hellenic world for subject matter - Athens, Rome, Antioch, Rhodes, Beirut, Byzantium - but always returning to write of the glorious Greco-Roman past of Alexandria. After his mother's bedtime, the young Cavafy had his adventures, picking up Greek boys in the Quartier Attarine, pursuing brief encounters with strangers.

Often he recycled his experiences, turning his beautiful boys, his furtive embraces, into poetry: always he kept up this parallel outpouring of subtly erotic poems about the Alexandria of his own time. Cavafy wrote about 70 poems a year, but ripped most of them up. Some he put in a drawer and worked at for as long as 15 years.

He never published a word, but distributed individual sheets among a circle of trusted friends. Always he revised and polished, never calling a poem finished, not even the ones he had printed. In middle age he dyed his hair, and asked for the wrinkles to be left out of his portrait. Later, throat cancer reduced him to a whisper.

Constantine P. Cavafis

After a tracheotomy he lost his voice altogether and had to communicate by way of pencilled notes. On his 70th birthday in he wrote a full stop and drew a circle around it. That afternoon he was buried. Cavafy's life remains something of an enigma, and it's all the more fascinating for that. But the solution to the enigma lies, quite clearly, in his poems. Thirty years after first reading Cavafy, by some quirk of fate I am writing about ancient Alexandria myself, and the Greek dynasty of the Ptolemies, who built the city - so that I am treading on Cavafy's ground.

For a long time I refused to come here - feeling it was enough to conjure up the past inside my head. When I did at last set out for the real Alexandria, it was with Cavafy in my pocket. Alexandria has, of course, changed in the 71 years since Cavafy's death, but it still feels like his city. The street markets and flaking 19th-century apartment blocks have not been swept away. Deep underground lies the buried city of the Macedonian Greeks and, somewhere, the lost tomb of Alexander the Great.

Being here is like walking about inside Cavafy's poems. Another Greek poet, George Seferis, wrote that Cavafy's life was uninteresting, that outside the poems he doesn't exist.

But I find his quiet life very interesting. There is a terrible poignancy about a man who lived for poetry yet never offered a volume of poems for sale in his lifetime. More poignant still is the shipwreck that is his private life.

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Cavafy addresses nobody as beloved. There is no you in his work. Instead he hoards up the fragments of his ephemeral loves, keeps his memories alive, tries to defeat time. Cavafy's homosexuality made him what he was. Sometimes he hides it, often he fights against it, but gradually he reveals his true self. He dislikes keeping secret what he feels is natural. He wants to be open about his longing for "deviate, sensual delight", his lust for handsome young men.