the silly feminist princess

karingana ua karingana... there was a girl who wanted to know more about feminism, before deciding to tag herself as one. but the thin, delicate border between what she wanted to learn and what she was and perhaps would like to be(come) was systematically disregarded by those with whom she spoke about her desire to understand the concept. just wanting to know was enough to transform her into a bra-burning green f-frog, with semiaquatic hairy limbs for leaping. In a cutting edge 2010 snow-white British fairytale, she rebelled against the prince, Mr. DesireToKnow, (a Hungarian version of the French Chevalier) and decided to refuse the promise of his kiss. she remained a princess for ever and ever and never won a post-doc scholarship in her life, blaming it all on the crisis.

famously pessimistic

pessimistic nation indeed... everytime i call home, i'm offered a list of people who died during the week.

Lá fora o eco de "Novas Cartas Portuguesas" foi enorme

Finalmente, aqui fica o artigo do Ipsilon sobre o impacto internacional das Novas Cartas Portuguesas. Querida Raquel, parabéns pelo trabalho!

drinking to forget (in cambridge and lisbon)

I briefly met someone yesterday evening who supported Britain’s decision to look for the famous weapons of mass destruction, as a diplomat in Washington. He looked weary, with his glass of white wine in one hand, and his wife in the other. He kept saying he took full responsibility. It was, i guess, his way of saying game over. But ending the game is not easy. This morning our former British diplomat will click on the newspaper link and read about "the 100th British serviceman" to die this year in Afghanistan.

"Serviceman"... I recently learned that in America soldiers are defined as "aid workers".

Reading the Portuguese newspaper is also fascinating these days - it gives you the feeling that we should all stop worrying and love the shield. Which, trocado por miúdos, could mean many things, namely: we should all stop worrying and love yet another document signed by the big guys in... Lisbon.

The return of Novas Cartas Portuguesas

Ípsilon, the literary supplement of Portuguese newspaper Público, is out this week celebrating the launch of the (much needed, much awaited) new annotated edition of Novas Cartas Portuguesas, organised by Ana Luísa Amaral. It includes a number of interviews and articles on the Three Marias, Quem me dera um quiosque...

To the French Chevalier

Tu as esté trahy, et tu m'as trahie par des espérances trompeuses.

"Considère, mon amour, como não há nada que a minha voz não abra, como eu sou a bruxa da palavra. There's a box with real bones in my cell. They look repugnant, of course. Yet I find myself flirting with them even as i write you this letter. For a long time I have been living very much aware of the bones under my desk. Everytime I touch the box with the tip of my naked foot, it opens a little until by daybreak it is completely, perversely open. I have never looked at the bones inside but I can imagine them. I write about them (and not to you). I have recently started imagining how they smell and whether the cell is smelling of them. I wonder if you ever noticed this smell when you came to visit me. They are always on my mind. I have similar bones inside my writing hand, and they make me hold this pen like this, writing my restless desire against the page that you will never touch. For the moment, my own bones are coated. (Why do you neglect this soft coat?) As I write this letter urging you to come back, I travel through my coat to warm myself, allowing the uncoated bones to witness my silent refusal to be yours. Tu as esté trahy, et tu m'as trahie. Mai il y a des choses a vous dire. j'ai quelque chose a vous montrer. Considère, mon amour, le retour.

mariana