I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair. I hate the way you drive my car. I hate it when you stare. I hate your big dumb combat boots, and the way you read my mind. I hate you so much it makes me sick; it even makes me rhyme. I hate it, I hate the way you’re always right. I hate it when you lie. I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry. I hate it that you’re not around, and the fact that you didn’t call. But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.
Por vezes a verdade é a pior mentira. Não que não seja verdade, mas é tão inverosímil que passa por mentira.
É que ontem aconteceu isto assim assim de maneiras que fiquei sem telemóvel. Ninguém, com um mínimo de bom senso, viria aqui escrever que o seu cão tinha agarrado no telemóvel como se fosse mais uma bola de ténis… mas menos resistente. Não. Simplesmente aconteceu isto assim assim… e fiquei sem telemóvel.
(E o melhor é ver o filme. É que, passa-se isto assim assim de maneiras que usurpei as palavras deles.)
I knew a man Bojangles and he’ll dance for you
in worn out shoes.
Silver hair, a ragged shirt and baggy pants,
he would do the old soft shoe.
He would jump so high – jump so high, then lightly touch down.
He told me of a time he worked with, With the Minstrel shows,
travelling throughout the south,
Spoke with tears for fifteen years how his, how his dog and him
they would travel about
But his dog up and died. Dog up and died, after twenty years he still grieves
He said, “I dance now at every chance in honky tonks
for my drinks and tips.
But most of the time I, spend behind these county bars
you see son I, I drinks a bit.”
Then he shook his head. Oh Lord when he shook his head,
I could swear I heard someone say please, please
That’s Mister Bo-ojangles. Call him Mister Bo-ojangles.
Mister Bo-ojangles, come back and dance. And dance. And dance – Please dance
Mister Bo-ojang-gles, Mister Bojangles
Mister Bojangles, come back and dance. And dance. And dance. Please dance.
Robbie Williams – Mr. Bojangles
Bobby Brown – Performing Mr. Bojangles
Bill “Bojangles” Robinson–Step Dance–Swanee River (1932) Continue Reading »
Ted Striker: My orders came through. My squadron ships out tomorrow. We’re bombing the storage depots at Daiquiri at 1800 hours. We’re coming in from the north, below their radar. Elaine Dickinson: When will you be back? Ted Striker: I can’t tell you that. It’s classified.
(a mtv, no top dos melhores filmes de comédia de todos os tempos, atribuiu ao aeroplano o primeiro)
[as the plane prepares to take off] Hanging Lady: Nervous? Ted Striker: Yes. Hanging Lady: First time? Ted Striker: No, I’ve been nervous lots of times.
Jesse: Do you believe in reincarnation? Celine: Yeah. Yeah, it’s interesting. Jesse: Yeah, right. Well, most people, you know, a lot of people talk about past lives and things like that, you know? And even if they don’t believe it in some specific way, you know, people have some kind of notion of an eternal soul, right? Celine: Yeah. Jesse: OK, well this was my thought: 50,000 years ago, there are not even a million people on the planet. 10,000 years ago, there’s, like, two million people on the planet. Now there’s between five and six billion people on the planet, right? Now, if we all have our own, like, individual, unique soul, right, where do they all come from? You know, are modern souls only a fraction of the original souls? ‘Cause if they are, that represents a 5,000 to 1 split of each soul in the last 50,000 years, which is, like, a blip in the Earth’s time. You know, so at best we’re like these tiny fractions of people, you know, walking…I mean, is that why we’re so scattered? You know, is that why we’re all so specialized? Celine: I don’t know. Wait a minute, I’m not sure…I don’t… Jesse: Yeah, hang on, hang on. It’s a, it’s a totally scattered thought. It…which is kind of why it makes sense.
Francesca: Robert, please. You don’t understand, no-one does. When a woman makes the choice to marry, to have children; in one way her life begins but in another way it stops. You build a life of details. You become a mother, a wife and you stop and stay steady so that your children can move. And when they leave they take your life of details with them. And then you’re expected move again only you don’t remember what moves you because no-one has asked in so long. Not even yourself. You never in your life think that love like this can happen to you.
Robert Kincaid: But now that you have it…
Francesca: I want to keep it forever. I want to love you the way I do now the rest of my life. Don’t you understand… we’ll lose it if we leave. I can’t make an entire life disappear to start a new one. All I can do is try to hold onto to both. Help me. Help me not lose loving you.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.
Lord Byron
(de trás para a frente… começa no .3
há pontes que não nos atrevemos a passar.
devíamos.)
I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair. I hate the way you drive my car. I hate it when you stare. I hate your big dumb combat boots, and the way you read my mind. I hate you so much it makes me sick; it even makes me rhyme. I hate it, I hate the way you’re always right. I hate it when you lie. I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry. I hate it that you’re not around, and the fact that you didn’t call. But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.
Por vezes a verdade é a pior mentira. Não que não seja verdade, mas é tão inverosímil que passa por mentira.
