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Lago no Jardim Botânico
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There's this man at a certain bookstore in Lisbon.
He's about my age, tall, dark hair and blue eyes, like an irish. He's not very handsome. He's just ... different.
He belongs in that bookstore. I bet he doesn't know that. But I can see all the words of all the books he's ever read swimming in his blue eyes, as if they were two blue movie screens.
He’s one of them. He is a book.
There's this man at a certain bookstore in Lisbon.
He's about my age, tall, dark hair and blue eyes, like an irish. He's not very handsome. He's just ... different.
He belongs in that bookstore. I bet he doesn't know that. But I can see all the words of all the books he's ever read swimming in his blue eyes, as if they were two blue movie screens.
He’s one of them. He is a book.
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Some people are books.
I am an old english gothic novel. Possibly Charlote Brontë's Jane Eyre. Full of broken hearts, lost love, pain, suffering and hardships and long dresses sweaping floors filled with green and yellow and red dead fallen leaves, twirling in rough winds.
He is a Paul Auster book. Weird, dislocated, disconnected from reality, strange and attractive.
I bought a poet's book that day. He put it into a plastic bag and added a book mark with a poem written by that poet.
He is a Paul Auster book. Weird, dislocated, disconnected from reality, strange and attractive.
I bought a poet's book that day. He put it into a plastic bag and added a book mark with a poem written by that poet.
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The poem said:
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Quando era criança
Vivi, sem saber,
Só para hoje ter
Aquela lembrança.
É hoje que sinto
Aquilo que fui
Minha vida flui,
Feita do que minto.
Mas nesta prisão,
Livro único, leio
O sorriso alheio
De quem fui então.
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Quando era criança
Vivi, sem saber,
Só para hoje ter
Aquela lembrança.
É hoje que sinto
Aquilo que fui
Minha vida flui,
Feita do que minto.
Mas nesta prisão,
Livro único, leio
O sorriso alheio
De quem fui então.
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Fernando Pessoa
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When I left, our eyes locked. We didn't smile. But they did. His Paul Auster's blue eyes and my Charlote Brontë's brown eyes.
Books have a way of recognizing one another, even if their owners don't.
1 comentário:
Os livros são seres vivos. Alimentam-se do toque das mãos para nos beijarem às escuras acendendo luzes na alma.
Adorei .)
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