Criei em mim varias personalidades.
Crio personalidades constantemente.
Cada sonho meu é imediatamente,
Logo ao aparecer sonhado, encarnado numa outra pessoa,
Que passa a sonhá-lo, e eu não.

Para criar, destruí-me;
Tanto me exteriorizei dentro de mim,
Que dentro de mim não existo senão exteriormente.
Sou a cena viva onde passam varios actores
Representando varias peças.

Se eu morrer novo,
Sem poder publicar livro nenhum,
Sem ver a cara que têm os meus versos em letra impressa,
Peço que, se se quiserem ralar por minha causa,
Que não se ralem.
Se assim aconteceu, assim está certo.

Mesmo que os meus versos nunca sejam impressos,
Eles lá terão a sua beleza, se forem belos.
Mas eles não podem ser belos e ficar por imprimir,
Porque as raízes podem estar debaixo da terra
Mas as flores florescem ao ar livre e à vista.
Tem que ser assim por força. Nada o pode impedir.

Se eu morrer muito novo, oiçam isto:
Nunca fui senão uma criança que brincava.
Fui gentio como o sol e a água,
De uma religião universal que só os homens não têm.
Fui feliz porque não pedi cousa nenhuma,
Nem procurei achar nada,
Nem achei que houvesse mais explicação
Que a palavra explicação não ter sentido nenhum.

Não desejei senão estar ao sol ou à chuva—
Ao sol quando havia sol
E à chuva quando estava chovendo (E nunca a outra cousa),
Sentir calor e frio e vento,
E não ir mais longe.

Uma vez amei, julguei que me amariam,
Mas não fui amado.
Não fui amado pela única grande razão—
Porque não tinha que ser.

Consolei-me voltando ao sol e à chuva,
E sentando-me outra vez à porta de casa.
Os campos, afinal, não são tão verdes para os que são amados
Como para os que o não são.
Sentir é estar distraído.

I read the news today oh boy
About a lucky man who made the grade
And though the news was rather sad
Well I just had to laugh
I saw the photograph

He blew his mind out in a car
He didn't notice that the lights had changed
A crowd of people stood and stared
They'd seen his face before
Nobody was really sure if he was from the House of Lords.

Here's to you, Nicola and Bart
Rest forever here in our hearts
The last and final moment is yours
That agony is your triumph

Seu Jorge, as Pelé dos Santos, translated, adapted, and performed eleven David Bowie songs for us in Portuguese. He sang on the decks of our ship, the Belafonte, while we where running at full steam on the open sea; he sang from the stage of an opera house in Naples; he sang on our studio sets at Cinecitta; and he played one song sitting on the roof of a lighthouse we had built next to a medieval castle. I tried to understand the Portuguese. Thinking on the lyrics in English, I asked, "Jorge, which word means 'cigarrette'?" because none of them sounded anything like it. He nodded and said something very poetic about friendship and hope and the future — but no 'cigarrette'. I took a minute and thought about this, and then I said "OK, but every once in a while add in a 'Rebel Rebel', will you?" I never read any complete translations, but in the end I am convinced that Jorge's words — and unquestionably his beautiful performances— captured the spirit of David Bowie's. Exactly what we were looking for.

Think of all the animals you've ever heard about
like rhinoc'ruses and tigers cats and mink
There are lots of funny animals in all this world
But have you ever seen a panther that is pink?

Think!

A panther that is positively pink,

Well here he is, the pink panther,
The rinky-dink panther,
Isn't he a panther ever so pink?
He really is a groovy cat,
and what a gentleman, a scholar, what an acrobat!

He's in the pink - the pink panther
The rinky-dink panther,
and it's as plain as your nose,
that he's the one and only, truly original,
Panther-pink (panther) from head to toes!

Aunque no llegaba a los extremos de esas personas que son incapaces de describir ninguna acción aislándola de una actividad general —esa clase de gente que para decirte que han entrado en una casa tienen también que explicarte que se limpiaron los zapatos, golpearon con el picaporte, empujaron la puerta y entraron, y la puerta se cerró detrás de ellos—, Mayol había pasado a pertenecer —tal vez influenciado por mis palabras de la noche anterior cuando le dije que la vida de alguien no existía si no era narrada y fijada en un papel— a esa clase de individuos que creen que cada escena de su vida es un gran acontecimiento del que hay que narrar una gran parte de los pensamientos, palabras y acciones que contiene.

Smautf has calculated hat in 1978 there would be two thousand one hundred eighty-seven new members of the sect of The Three Free Men, and, assuming none of the older disciples dies, a total of three thousand two hundred and seventy-seven keepers of the faith. Then things would go much faster; by 2017, the nineteenth generation would run a more than a thousand million people. In 2020, the entire planet, and well beyond, would have been converted.

From this, we made a deduction which is quite certainly the ultimate truth of jigsaw puzzles: despite appearances, puzzling is not a solitary game: every move the puzzler makes, the puzzle-maker has made before; every piece the puzzler picks up, and picks up again, and studies and strokes, every combination he tries, and tries a second time, every blunder and every insight, each hope and each discouragement have all been designed, calculated, and decided by the other.

En la plenitud del sueño, se despertó. Eran las cinco de la madrugada, abandonó el hotel. Dejándose llevar por su excepcional capacidad para hundirse, sintió que él era la Atlantida misma y que, en el breve tiempo de una noche, temblaba entre terremotos e inundaciones y, dejando atrás la sardana extraña, iniciaba su último descenso y, en una inmersión muy vertical, se hundía en su propio vértigo y llegaba el país donde las cosas no tienen nombre y donde no hay dioses, no hay hombres, no hay mundo, sólo el abismo del fondo.

—Al fin— murmuró Mayol.

Equivocar el camino
es llegar a la nieve
y llegar a la nieve
es pacer durante veinte siglos las hierbas de los cementerios.

Equivocar el camino
es llegar a la mujer,
la mujer que no teme la luz,
la mujer que mata dos gallos en un segundo,
y luz que no teme a los gallos
y los gallos que no saben cantar sobre la nieve.

Pero si la nieve se equivoca de corazón
puede llegar el viento Austro
y como el aire no hace caso de los gemidos
tendremos que pacer otra vez las hierbas de los cementerios.

Yo vi dos dolorosas espigas de cera
que enterraban un paisaje de volcanes
y vi dos niños locos que empujaban llorando las pupilas de un asesino.

Pero el dos no ha sido nunca un número
porque es una angustia y su sombra,
porque es la guitarra donde el amor se desespera,
porque es la demostración de otro infinito que no es suyo
y es las murallas del muerto
y el castigo de la nueva resurrección sin finales.
Los muertos odian el número dos,
pero el número dos adormece a las mujeres
y como la mujer teme la luz
la luz tiembla delante de los gallos
y los gallos sólo saben volar sobre la nieve
tendremos que pacer sin descanso las hierbas de los cementerios

Hanuman: mono/grama del lenguaje, de su dinamismo y de su incesante producción de invenciones fonéticas y semánticas. Ideograma del poeta, señor/servidor de la metamorfosis universal: simio imitador, artista de las repeticiones, es el animal aristotélico que copia del natural pero asimismo es la semilla semántica, la semilla-bomba enterrada en el subsuelo verbal y que nunca se convertirá en la planta que espera su sembrador, sino en la otra, siempre otra. Los frutos sexuales y las flores carnivoras de la alteridad brotan del tallo único de la identidad.

Immediately after making the statement, Royal realized that it was true.

Light and day is more than you'll say

Because all
My feelings are more
Than i can let by
Or not
More than you've got
Just follow the day

Follow the day and reach for the sun!

You don't see me flyin to the red
One more you're done
Just follow the seasons and find the time
Reach for the bright side
You don't see me flyin to the red
One more you're nuts
Just follow the day
Follow the day and reach for the sun

Just follow the day
Follow the day and reach for the sun!

Geometry is a large subfield of mathematics, but also a label for a certain mindset of a practising mathematician. The same can be told about Algebra (understood here broadly, as the language of mathematics, as opposed to its content, and so including Logic.) A natural or acquired predilection towards geometric or algebraic thinking and respective mental objects is often expressed in strong pronouncements, like Hermann Weyl's exorcising "the devil of abstract algebra" who allegedly struggles with "the angel of geometry" for the soul of each mathematical theory. (One is reminded of an even more sweeping truth: "L'enfer — c'est les autres".)

Actually, the most fascinating thing about algebra and geometry is the way they struggle to help each other to emerge from the chaos of non-being, from those dark depths of subconscious where all roots of intellectual creativity reside. What one "sees" geometrically must be conveyed to others in words and symbols. If the resulting text can never be a perfect vehicle for the private and personal vision, the vision itself can never achieve maturity without being subject to the test of written speech. The latter is, after all, the basis of the social existence of mathematics.

A skillful use of the interpretative algebraic language possesses also a definite therapeutic quality. It allows one to fight the obsession which often accompanies contemplation of enigmatic Rorschach's blots of one's imagination.

When a significant new unit of meaning (technically, a mathematical definition or a mathematical fact) emerges from such a struggle, the mathematical community spends some time elaborating all conceivable implications of this discovery. (As an example, imagine the development of the idea of a continuous function, or a Riemannian metric, or a structure sheaf.) Interiorized, these implications prepare new firm ground for further flights of imagination, and more often than not reveal the limitations of the initial formalization of the geometric intuition. Gradually the discrepancy between the limited scope of this unit of meaning and our newly educated and enhanced geometric vision becomes glaring, and the cycle repeats itself.

Entre los adjetivos de sus críticos destaquemos los siguientes: paleonazi, tarado, abanderado de la burguesía, títere del capitalismo, agente de la CIA, poetastro de intenciones cretinizantes, plagiario de Eguren, plagiario de Salazar Bondy, plagiario de de Saint-John Perse (acusacion ésta sostenida por un jovencisimo poeta de San Marcos y que a su vez desató otra polémica entre seguidores y detractores de Saint-John Perse en el ámbito universitario), esbirro de las cloacas, profeta de baratillo, violador de la lengua española, versificador de intenciones satánicas, producto de la educación de provincia, rastacuero, cholo alucinado, etc, etc.

Current theories on the creation of the Universe state that, if it was created at all and didn't just start, as it were, unofficially, it came into being between ten and twenty thousand million years ago. By the same token the earth itself is generally supposed to be about four and a half thousand million years old.

These dates are incorrect.

Medieval Jewish scholars put the date of the Creation at 3760 b.c. Greek Orthodox theologians put Creation as far back as 5508 b.c.

These suggestions are also incorrect.

Archbishop James Usher (1580-1656) published Anales Veteris et Novi Testamenti in 1654, which suggested that the Heaven and the Earth were created in 4004 b.c. One of his aides took the calculation further, and was able to announce triumphantly that the Earth was created on Sunday the 21st of October, 4004 b.c., at exactly 9:00 a.m., because God liked to get work done early in the morning while he was feeling fresh.

This too was incorrect. By almost a quarter of an hour.

(...) la Guerrero, a esa hora, se parece sobre todas las cosas a un cementerio, pero no a un cementerio de 1974, ni a un cementerio de 1968, ni a un cementerio de 1975, sino a un cementerio del año 2666, un cementerio olvidado debajo del párpado muerto o nonato, las acuosidades desapacionadas de un ojo que por querer olvidar algo ha terminado por olvidarlo todo.

I never loved those arrogant boxes, but now I miss the rascals, icons of a more innocent age. If not for all the tragedy and death, I could think of the attack as some sort of radical architectural critisism. I mean, it's not like I love the way my nose looks... I just don't want somebody ramming a plane into it.

Y después se desata la tormenta de mierda.