Livros & Coisas: setembro 2011

segunda-feira, 12 de setembro de 2011

QUERES COMENTAR?

O fim é o princípio. Uma página que se vira. Somos a tinta fresca em folha áspera. A capa dura. Aquilo que procura. Somos a História. Desde sempre. O terramoto de 55 e a revolução de 74. Somos todos os nomes. As pessoas do Pessoa. Alexandre Herculano e Ramalho Ortigão. O mundo na mão. Ponto de encontro. De quem pensa. De quem faz pensar. Temos a pele enrugada de acontecimento. As páginas são nossas. E o pó que descansa na capa também. Sabemos falar de guerra e paz, explorar a origem das espécies e dizer qual a causa das coisas. Somos o que temos. A tradição e a vocação. A atenção. A opinião. A história de dor e amor. Somos o nome do escritor. A mão do leitor. Somos livros.

Texto promocional da livraria Bertrand.

THE JOY OF READING - Leitura em Língua Inglesa

GIVING THANKS

“Thank you, Mother Earth. Thank you, Father Sky. Thank you for this day.”

This is what my father says, every morning, standing in the field near our house.

Like his Indian friends – singers and storytellers – Dad believes that the things of nature are a gift. And that in return, we must give something back. We must give thanks.

He gives thanks to the frogs and the crickets singing down by the creek – and to all the tiny beings with six or eight legs, weaving their tiny stories close to the earth.

He says “Thank you” to chanterelles, the wild mushrooms that smell like pumpkins.

He says “Thank you” to the trees that wave their arms and spin their leaves in the breeze.

He says “Thank you, Fox”, at a glimpse in the tall grass – the pointy ears, the bushy tail dancing.

He says “Thank you” to the deer who have passed this way, their tracks like two fingers pressed in the dirt, pointing toward water.

He gives thanks to the quail who flare up and scatter and rejoin.

He says “Thank you, Jackrabbit,” as it zigs and zags and jumps in leaps twenty-five feet through the air, racing a shadow.

He says “Thank you, Hawk,” as it circles high in the sky and cries scree! scree! before it dives.

He says “Thank you, Grandfather Sun,” as it begins to sink beyond the hills. “Thank you for this day.”

And he says, “Thank you, Grandmother Moon, for coming this way.”

To me, it’s a little embarrassing to say thanks to trees and things. But Dad says it becomes a habit; it makes you feel good.

“Thank you, stars,” I say as we near home.

And the stars come out, one by one, as if from hiding.