Rebecca, sobre Horacio Quiroga e tanto mais:

E sou de novo Alicia.
Mas pensando bem, Lady Usher e the young girl em O Retrato Oval, também. Pessoas, Fernando, sou. Ineficiente e retrógrada, no sentido mais astrológico possível. Carrego em mim todos os conhecimentos do mundo que não servem pro que preciso concretizar, a todo momento. Venho denunciar-me, como Gato Negro. E repudiar a sina que confirmo e represento, relendo Sylvia Plath.
Rimbaud hoje não, que não estou pra hiena autoproclemada e não nasci sob o Sol de Leão.
Mas Morrison, Morrison hoje cai bem.

Editors, em Munich:

"People are fragile things
you should know by now
be careful what you put them through
people are frgile things
you should know by now
you'll speak when you're spoken to"

Horacio Quiroga, em O Travesseiro de Plumas:

"Durante o dia, sua doença não avançava, mas de manhã ela amanhecia lívida, quase em síncope. Parecia que unicamente à noite a sua vida se fosse em novas asas de sangue. Tinha sempre ao acordar a sensação de sentir-se derrubada na cama com um milhão de quilos por cima."

Sylvia Plath, em Elm:

"Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, the big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin white, like arsenic.

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand,a hand of wires.
(...)
I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity."

Shakespeare, Sonnet LXXXVI:

"Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,

Bound for the prize of all too precious you,

That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,

Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?

Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write

Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?

No, neither he, nor his compeers by night

Giving him aid, my verse astonished.

He, nor that affable familiar ghost

Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,

As victors of my silence cannot boast;

I was not sick of any fear from thence:

But when your countenance filled up his line,

Then lacked I matter; that enfeebled mine."

E. A. Poe, em Berenice:

"Misery is manifold. The wretchedness of earth is multiform. Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbow, its hues are as various as the hues of that arch,—as distinct too, yet as intimately blended. Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbow! How is it that from beauty I have derived a type of unloveliness?—from the covenant of peace a simile of sorrow? But as, in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so, in fact, out of joy is sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day, or the agonies which are have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been."

Ricardo Reis, [Ouvi contar que outrora, quando a Pérsia]:

"O amor cansa, porque é a sério e busca,

A ciência nunca encontra,

E a vida passa e dói porque o conhece..."