The Raven – Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
” ‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door;

Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,.
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,

Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
” ‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door.

This it is, and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you.” Here I opened wide the door;—

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,
Lenore?, This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,

“Lenore!” Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before,
“Surely,” said I, “surely, that is something at my window lattice.
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.

” ‘Tis the wind, and nothing more.”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore.
Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore.”

Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered;
Till I scarcely more than muttered,”Other friends have flown before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”

Then the bird said,”Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,—
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore

Of “Never—nevermore.”

But the raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;,
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore,
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking, “Nevermore.”

Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o’er

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath
Sent thee respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!”

Quoth the raven, “Nevermore!”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!–prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted–
On this home by horror haunted–tell me truly, I implore:
Is there–is there balm in Gilead?–tell me–tell me I implore!”

Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil–prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us–by that God we both adore–
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?

Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting–
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming.
And the lamplight o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted— nevermore!

[Edgar Allan Poe - The Raven, 1845]

Memnoch The Devil – Anne Rice

“Mortals tumble through life, from cradle to grave. Once in a century or two perhaps, one crosses the path of a being like Dora. An elegant intelligence and concept of goodness, precisely, and the other thing Roger had struggled to describe, the magnetism which had not burst free as yet from the tangle of faith and scripture.”

“There came a swirl of black feathers, sleek and shining,and then I was falling; I wouldn’t scream, I didn’t give a damn, I wouldn’t. Falling.
Plummeting. As if through a depth that only nightmare can fathom. An emptiness so perfect we can’t conceive of it. And falling fast.
Only the Light remained. The Light obliterated everything visible and was so beautiful suddenly that I lost all sense of my own limbs or parts or organs or whatever I am created of. I had no shape or weight. Only the momentum of my fall continued to terrify, as though gravity remained to ensure utter ruin. (…)
Slowly I felt the floor beneath me. The slightly rough surface of the carpet. Scent of dust, wax, my home. I knew we were in the same room.
(…)I lay there on my back, staring at the ceiling, my chest bursting with pain.”

“Well, let me tell you, Your Royal Highness of Darkness, I’m not helping you with anything! I don’t serve you!”
“I think I can change your mind,” he said calmly. “I think you will come to understand things very well from my point of view.”
I felt a sudden sagging, a complete exhaustion, and a despair.
Typical.
I rolled over on my face and tucked my arm under my head and started crying like a child. I was perishing from exhaustion. I was worn and miserable and I loved crying. I couldn’t do anything else. I gave in to it fully. I felt that profound release of the utterly grief-stricken. I didn’t give a damn who saw or heard. I cried and cried.
Do you know what I think about crying? I think some people have to learn to do it. But once you learn, once you know how to really cry, there’s nothing quite like it. I feel sorry for those who don’t know the trick. It’s like whistling or singing.
Whatever the case, I was too miserable to take much consolation just from feeling good for a moment in a welter of shudders and salted, bloodstained tears.”

“(…) A faint perfume of Dora rose from my clothes, my chest against which she’d lain, blood sweetness. Dora. I should never have left Dora in such distress. Dear God, I was bound to look out for the sanity of Dora! Damn.”

“I sighed. “You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?”
He was taken aback. He laughed. His face was marvelously friendly, rather than neutral.
“No, of course not,” he said in a low voice, as if careful not to unbalance me any further. “Lestat, I’ve been waiting for someone like you for centuries. No, I’m afraid I’m not going to leave you alone. But I don’t want you to be miserable. What can I do to calm you? (…)
“And how in hell will we proceed?”
“I’ll tell you everything,” he said with a slight shrug, his hands open, “and then you’ll understand why I have to win.”

“I’m that bad, am I?” I whispered, lips trembling. I was going to bawl again. “In all the world, with all the things humans have done, all the unspeakable horrors men have visited on other men, the unthinkable suffering of women and children worldwide at the hands of mankind, and I’m that bad! You want me! David was too good, I suppose. He didn’t become as consummately evil as you thought he would. Is that it?”
“No, of course not that bad,” he said soothingly. “That’s the very point.” He gave a little sigh again.”

“You know,” he said, “you always have had a conscience! That’s precisely what I’m after, don’t you see? Conscience, reason, purpose, dedication. Good Lord, I couldn’t have overlooked you. And I’ll tell you something. It was as though you sent for me.”
“Never.”
“Come on, think of all the challenges you’ve flung out to the Devil.”
“That was poetry, or doggerel, depending on one’s point of view.”
“Not so. (…)
(…) And then your adventure with the Body Thief. Coming into flesh again, having that chance, and rejecting it for what you were before. You know your friend Gretchen is a saint in the jungles, don’t you?”
“Yes. I’ve seen mentions of it in the papers. I know.”
Gretchen, my nun, my love when I’d been so briefly mortal, had never spoken one word since the night she fled from me into her missionary chapel and fell on her knees before the crucifix. (…) That had been the end of Gretchen.
Although it suddenly struck me for the very first time, in the middle of all this: maybe Gretchen really was with Christ!
“No, I don’t nelieve it, I said coldly. “Gretchen lost her mind; she’s fixed in a state of hysteria and it’s my fault. (…)”
“I didn’t place any judgment upon the incident,” he said. “If we can go back to what I was saying. I was saying that you did everything but ask me to come! You challenged every form of authority, you sought every experience. You’ve buried yourself alive twice, and once tried to rise into the very sun to make yourself a cinder. What was left for you-but to call on me? It is as if you yourself said it: ‘Memnoch, what more can I do now?’”

“You and Descartes,” he said. “You and Kant.”
“Don’t lump me with others,” I said. “I am the Vampire Lestat, the one and only.”
“You’re telling me,” he said.
“How many of us are there now, vampires, I mean, in the whole world? I’m not speaking now of other immortals and monsters and evil spirits and things, whatever you are, for instance, but vampires? There aren’t a hundred, and none of them is quite like me. Lestat.”
“I completely agree. I want you. I want you for my helper.”
“Doesn’t it gall you that don’t really respect you, believe in you, or fear you, not even after all this? That we’re in my flat and I’m making fun of you? I don’t think Satan would put up with this sort of thing. I don’t usually put up with it; I’ve compared myself to you, you know. Lucifer, Son of Morning. I have told my detractors and inquisitors that I was the Devil or that if I ever happened upon Satan himself I’d set him to rout.”

“How could you be so mistaken? You find the self-inflicted suffering of my conscience amusing? You think I like evil? That I think about evil when I look at something beautiful like Dora’s face!”
“No, I don’t think you life evil,” he said. “Any more than do I.”
“You don’t like evil,” I repeated, narrowing my eyes.
“Loathe it. And if you don’t help me, if you let God keep doing things His way, I tell you evil-which is nothing really-just might destroy the world.”
“It’s God’s will,” I asked slowly, “that the world be destroyed?”
“Who knows?” he asked coldly. “But I don’t think God would lift a finger to stop it from happening. I don’t will it, that I know. But my ways are the right ways, and the ways of God are bloody and wasteful and exceedingly dangerous. You know they are. You have to help me. I am winning, I told you. But this century has been damn near unendurable for us all.”
“So you are telling me that you’re not evil….”
“Exactly. Remember what your friend David asked of you? He asked you if in my presence you had sensed evil, and you had to answer that you had not.”
“The Devil is a famous liar.”
“My enemies are famous detractors. Neither God nor I tell lies per se. But look, I don’t expect for a moment that you should accept me on faith. I didn’t come here to convince you of things through conversation. I’ll take you to Hell and to Heaven, if you like, you can talk to God for as long as He allows, and you desire. (…) Only there’s no point if I cannot count upon your willing intent to see the truth, your willing desire to turn your life from aimlessness and meaninglessness into a crucial battle for the fate of the world.”

“I want a full night to think it over.”
“You don’t believe me. You want a sign.”
“No, I am beginning to believe you,” I said. “That’s why I have to think. I have to weigh all of this.”
“I’m here to answer any question, to show you anything now.”
“Then leave me alone for two nights. Tonight and tomorrow night. That’s a simple enough request, isn’t it? Leave me alone.”
He was obviously disappointed, maybe even a little suspicious. But I meant every word of it. I couldn’t say anything but what I had said. I new the truth as I spoke it, so fast were thought and word wedded in my mind.
“Is it possible to deceive you?” I asked.
“Of course,” he answered. “I rely upon my gifts such as they are, just as you rely on yours. I have my limits. You have yours. You can be deceived. So can I.”
“What about God?”
“Ach!” he said with disgust. “If you only knew how irrelevant that question is. You cannot imagine how much I need you. I’m tired,” he said with a faint rise of emotion. “God is… beyond being deceived, that much I can say with charity. I’ll give you tonight and tomorrow night. I won’t bother you, stalk you, as you put it. But may I ask what you mean to do?
“Why? Either I have the two nights or I don’t!”
“You’re known to be unpredictable,” he said. He smiled broadly. It was very pleasant.”

“Dora,” I said. “I have to go back to Dora.”
“Why?”
“I refuse to explain further.”
Again, he was surprised by my answer.
“Well, (…) Why not explain something as simple as that? I only meant to ask you how deeply you intended to commit yourself, how much you planned to reveal to this woman. (…) That is, how will it be with this woman, after you’ve come with me?”
I said nothing.
He sighed. “All right, I’ve waited for your like for centuries. What is another two nights, such as the case may be. We are speaking of only tomorrow night, really, aren’t we? At the sunset of the following evening, after that I shall come for you.”
“Right.”
“I’ll give you a little gift that will help you believe in me. It’s not so simple to me to fix you level of understanding. You’re full of paradox and conflict. Let me give you something unusual.”
“Agreed.”

“(…) Now let me ask you one last question. You are the Devil. Yes. But you’re not evil? Why?”
“Absolutely irrelevant question. Or let me put it a little more mysteriously. It’s completely unnecessary for me to be evil. You’ll see. Oh, this is so frustrating for me because you have so much to see.”
“But you’re opposed to God!”
“Oh, absolutely, a total adversary! Lestat, when you see everything that I have to show you, and hear all that I have to say, when you’ve spoken with God and better see it from His perspective, and from my point of view, you will join me as His adversary. I’m sure you will.”
He stood up from the chair. “I’m going now. Should I help you up off the floor?”
“Irrelevant and unnecessary,” I said crossly. “I’m going to miss you.” The words surprised me as they came out.
“I know,” he answered.
“I have all tomorrow night,” I said. “Remember.”
“Don’t you realize,” he answered, “that if you come with me now there is no night and day?”
“Oh, that’s very tempting,” I said. “But that’s what Devils do so well. Tempt. I need to think about this, and consult others for advice.”
“Consult others?” He seemed genuinely surprised.
“I’m not going off with the Devil without telling anyone,” I said. “You’re the Devil! Goddamn it, why should I trust the Devil? That’s absurd! You’re playing by rules, somebody’s rules. Everybody always is. And I don’t know the rules. Well. You gave me the choice, and this is my choice. Two full nights, and not before then. Leave me alone all that time! Give me your oath.”
“Why?” he asked politely, as if dealing with an ornery child. “So you won’t have to fear the sound of my footsteps?”
“Possibly.”
“What good is an oath on this if you don’t accept the truth of all the rest that I’ve said?” He shook his head as if I were being foolishly human.
“Can you swear an oath or not?”
“You have my oath,” he said, laying his hand on his heart, or where his heart should have been, “With complete sincerity, of course.”
“Thank you, I feel much better,” I said.”

[Anne Rice - Memnoch The Devil, 1995]

As Intermitências da Morte – Saramago

“(…), Ninguém hesitaria na resposta, Sim, mas, ao contrário do que se julga, não são tanto as respostas que me importam, senhor primeiro-ministro, mas as perguntas, obviamente refiro-me às nossas, observe como elas costumam ter, ao mesmo tempo, um objectivo à vista e uma intenção que vai escondida atrás, se as fazemos não é apenas para que nos respondam o que nesse momento necessitamos que os interpelados escutem da sua própria boca, é também para que se vá preparando o caminho às futuras respostas, Mais ou menos como na política, eminência, Assim é, mas a vantagem da igreja é que, embora às vezes o não pareça, ao gerir o que está no alto, governa o que está em baixo.“

“(…), Que irá fazer a igreja se nunca mais ninguém morrer, Nunca mais é demasiado tempo, mesmo tratando-se da morte, senhor primeiro-ministro, Creio que não me respondeu, eminência, Devolvo-lhe a pergunta, que vai fazer o estado se nunca mais ninguém morrer, O estado tentará sobreviver, ainda que eu muito duvide de que o venha a conseguir, mas a igreja, A igreja, senhor primeiro-ministro, habituou-se de tal maneira às respostas eternas que não posso imaginá-la a dar outras, Ainda que a realidade as contradiga, Desde o princípio que nós não temos feito outra cousa que contradizer a realidade, e aqui estamos, Que irá dizer o papa, Se eu o fosse, perdoe-me deus a estulta vaidade de pensar-me tal, mandaria pôr imediatamente em circulação uma nova tese, a da morte adiada, Sem mais explicações, À igreja nunca se lhe pediu que explicasse fosse o que fosse, a nossa outra especialidade, além da balística, tem sido neutralizar, pela fé, o espírito curioso, (…)”

“(…), Não se esqueça, senhor primeiro-ministro, de que fora das fronteiras do nosso país se continua a morrer com toda a normalidade, e isso é um bom sinal, Questão de ponto de vista, eminência, talvez lá de fora nos estejam a olhar como um oásis, um jardim, um novo paraíso, Ou um inferno, se forem inteligentes, (…)”

“Nem tudo é festa, porém, ao lado de uns quantos que riem, sempre haverá outros que chorem, e às vezes, como no presente caso, pelas mesmas razões.”

[José Saramago - As Intermitências da Morte, 2005]

do_Ob Los Hermanos – Sapato Novo.mp3

Livro das Previsões

“Saberemos cada vez menos o que é um ser humano.”

[Livro das Previsões]

O Evangelho Segundo Jesus Cristo – Saramago

“(…), é o único a quem o futuro concederá a honra da maiúscula inicial, os mais nunca passarão de crucificados menores. É ele, finalmente, este para quem apenas olham José de Arimateia e Maria Madalena, este que faz corar o sol e a lua, este que ainda agora louvou o Bom Ladrão e desprezou o Mau, por não compreender que não há nenhuma diferença entre um e outro, ou, se diferença há, não é essa, pois o Bem e o Mal não existem em si mesmos, cada um deles é somente a ausência do outro.“

“(…) Vai-se embora, não fica até ao fim, fez o que podia para aliviar as securas mortais dos três condenados, e não fez diferença entre Jesus e os Ladrões, pela simples razão de que tudo isto são coisas da terra, que vão ficar na terra, e delas se faz a única história possível.”

“(…), José olhava-se a si mesmo como se fosse acompanhando, a distância, a lenta ocupação do seu corpo por uma alma que aos poucos estivesse regressando, igual a fios de água que, avançando sinuosos pelos caminhos das regueiras, penetrassem a terra até às mais fundas raízes, transportando a seiva, depois, pelo interior dos caules e das folhas. E por ver quão trabalhoso era este regresso, olhando a mulher, a seu lado, teve um pensamento que o perturbou, que ela, ali adormecida, era verdadeiramente um corpo sem alma, que a alma não está presente no corpo que dorme, (…)”

“(…), O que é que em nós sonha o que sonhamos, Porventura os sonhos são as lembranças que a alma tem do corpo, pensou a seguir, e isto era uma resposta.”

“(…) Depois, deixando descer devagar as pálpebras, esquecido já de pensamentos, desprendido da alma, abandonou-se ao sono que voltava.”

“(…), em verdade há coisas que o próprio Deus não entende, embora as tivesse criado. Tendo pois saído para o pátio, Deus não pôde ouvir o som agónico, como um estertor, que saiu da boca do varão no instante da crise, e menos ainda o levíssimo gemido que a mulher não foi capaz de reprimir. Apenas um minuto, ou nem tanto, repousou José sobre o corpo de Maria. Enquanto ela puxava para baixo a túnica e se cobria com o lençol, tapando depois a cara com o antebraço, ele, de pé no meio da casa, de mãos levantadas, olhando o tecto, pronunciou aquela sobre todas terrível bênção, aos homens reservada, Louvado sejas tu, Senhor, nosso Deus, rei do universo, por não me teres feito mulher. Ora, a estas alturas, Deus já nem no pátio devia estar, pois não tremeram as paredes da casa, não desabaram, nem a terra se abriu. Apenas, pela primeira vez, se ouviu Maria, e humildemente dizia, como de mulheres se espera que seja sempre a voz, Louvado sejas tu, Senhor, que me fizeste conforme a tua vontade, ora, entre estas palavras e as outras, conhecidas e aclamadas, não há diferença nenhuma, repare-se, Eis a escrava do Senhor, faça-se em mim segundo a tua palavra, está patente que quem disse isto podia, afinal, ter dito aquilo. (…)”

[José Saramago - O Evangelho Segundo Jesus Cristo, 1991]

dO_ob Sharleen Spiteri – Don’t Keep Me Waiting.mp3

New meaning for this blog

I’ve decided to make this a collection of quotes I’ll be (or have been) gathering throughout my readings.

This is supposed to be a haven for later ideas and/or musings of mine. Anyone who ends up here, be welcomed! This is also supposed to be a haven of poetry and life in its more perfect form.

Here I am again

This is new. The other blog went somewhere more appropriate and this one is gonna be the realm where English will prevail.

I’m leaving LJ for good, so this is gonna be my new way of communicating to the world.

Well, I hope you enjoy your stay here because I know I am! =)