“O Gondoleiro do Amor” by Castro Alves (in Portuguese)

Barcarola

Dama negra

Teus olhos são negros, negros,

Como as noites sem luar...

São ardentes, são profundos,

Como o negrume do mar;

Sobre o barco dos amores,

Da vida boiando à flor,

Douram teus olhos a fronte

Do Gondoleiro do amor.

Tua voz é a cavatina

Dos palácios de Sorrento,

Quando a praia beija a vaga,

Quando a vaga beija o vento;

E como em noites de Itália,

Ama um canto o pecador,

Bebe a harmonia em teus cantos

O Gondoleiro do amor.

Teu sorriso é uma aurora,

Que o horizonte enrubesceu,

— Rosa aberta com biquinho

Das aves rubras do céu.

Nas tempestades da vida

Das rajadas no furor,

Foi-se a noite, tem auroras

O Gondoleiro do amor.

Teu seio é vaga dourada

Ao tíbio clarão da lua,

Que, ao murmúrio das volúpias,

Arqueja, palpita nua;

Como é doce, em pensamento,

Do teu colo no langor

Vogar, naufragar, perder-se

O Gondoleiro do amor!? ...

Teu amor na treva é — um astro,

No silêncio uma canção,

É brisa — nas calmarias,

É abrigo — no tufão;

Por isso eu te amo, querida,

Quer no prazer, quer na dor,...

Rosa! Canto! Sombra! Estrela!

Do Gondoleiro do amor.

Recife, janeiro de 1867.

"Jack and the Beanstalk" by Joseph Jacobs (in English)

There was once upon a time a poor widow who had an only son named Jack, and a cow named Milky-white. And all they had to live on was the milk the cow gave every morning, which they carried to the market and sold. But one morning Milky-white gave no milk and they didn’t know what to do.

            "What shall we do, what shall we do?" said the widow, wringing her hands.

            "Cheer up, mother, I’ll go and get work somewhere," said Jack.

            "We’ve tried that before, and nobody would take you," said his mother; "we must sell Milky-white and with the money, start shop, or something."

            "All right, mother," says Jack; "it’s market-day today, and I’ll soon sell Milky-white, and then we’ll see what we can do."

So he took the cow’s halter in his hand, and off he started. He hadn’t gone far when he met a funny-looking old man, who said to him: "Good morning, Jack."

            "Good morning to you," said Jack, and wondered how he knew his name.

            "Well, Jack, and where are you off to?" said the man.

            "I’m going to market to sell our cow here."

            "Oh, you look the proper sort of chap to sell cows," said the man; "I wonder if you know how many beans make five."

            "Two in each hand and one in your mouth," says Jack, as sharp as a needle.

            "Right you are," said the man, "and here they are, the very beans themselves," he went on, pulling out of his pocket a number of strange-looking beans. "As you are so sharp," says he, "I don’t mind doing a swop with you — your cow for these beans."

            "Walker!" says Jack; "wouldn’t you like it?"

            "Ah! you don’t know what these beans are," said the man; "if you plant them overnight, by morning they grow right up to the sky."

            "Really?" says Jack; "you don’t say so."

            "Yes, that is so, and if it doesn’t turn out to be true you can have your cow back."

            "Right," says Jack, and hands him over Milky-white’s halter and pockets the beans.

            Back goes Jack home, and as he hadn’t gone very far it wasn’t dusk by the time he got to his door.

            "Back already, Jack?" said his mother; "I see you haven’t got Milky-white, so you’ve sold her. How much did you get for her?"

            "You’ll never guess, mother," says Jack.

            "No, you don’t say so. Good boy! Five pounds, ten, fifteen, no, it can’t be twenty."

            "I told you you couldn’t guess. What do you say to these beans; they’re magical, plant them overnight and —"

            "What!" says Jack’s mother, "have you been such a fool, such a dolt, such an idiot, as to give away my Milky-white, the best milker in the parish, and prime beef to boot, for a set of paltry beans? Take that! Take that! Take that! And as for your precious beans here they go out of the window. And now off with you to bed. Not a sup shall you drink, and not a bit shall you swallow this very night."

            So Jack went upstairs to his little room in the attic, and sad and sorry he was, to be sure, as much for his mother’s sake, as for the loss of his supper.

            At last he dropped off to sleep.

            When he woke up, the room looked so funny. The sun was shining into part of it, and yet all the rest was quite dark and shady. So Jack jumped up and dressed himself and went to the window. And what do you think he saw? Why, the beans his mother had thrown out of the window into the garden had sprung up into a big beanstalk which went up and up and up till it reached the sky. So the man spoke truth after all.

            The beanstalk grew up quite close past Jack’s window, so all he had to do was to open it and give a jump on to the beanstalk which ran up just like a big plaited ladder. So Jack climbed, and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed till at last he reached the sky. And when he got there he found a long broad road going as straight as a dart. So he walked along and he walked along and he walked along till he came to a great big tall house, and on the doorstep there was a great big tall woman.

            "Good morning, mum," says Jack, quite polite-like. "Could you be so kind as to give me some breakfast?" For he hadn’t had anything to eat, you know, the night before and was as hungry as a hunter.

            "It’s breakfast you want, is it?" says the great big tall woman, "it’s breakfast you’ll be if you don’t move off from here. My man is an ogre and there’s nothing he likes better than boys broiled on toast. You’d better be moving on or he’ll soon be coming."

            "Oh! please, mum, do give me something to eat, mum. I’ve had nothing to eat since yesterday morning, really and truly, mum," says Jack. "I may as well be broiled as die of hunger."

            Well, the ogre’s wife wasn't such a bad sort after all. So she took Jack into the kitchen, and gave him a hunk of bread and cheese and a jug of milk. But Jack hadn’t half finished these when thump! thump! thump! the whole house began to tremble with the noise of someone coming.

            "Goodness gracious me! It’s my old man," said the ogre’s wife, "what on earth shall I do? Come along quick and jump in here." And she bundled Jack into the oven just as the ogre came in.

            He was a big one, to be sure. At his belt he had three calves strung up by the heels, and he unhooked them and threw them down on the table and said: "Here, wife, broil me a couple of these for breakfast. Ah! what’s this I smell?

                   Fee-fi-fo-fum,

                   I smell the blood of an Englishman,

                   Be he alive, or be he dead,

                   I’ll have his bones to grind my bread."

"Nonsense, dear," said his wife, "you’ re dreaming. Or perhaps you smell the scraps of that little boy you liked so much for yesterday’s dinner. Here, you go and have a wash and tidy up, and by the time you come back your breakfast’ll be ready for you."

            So off the ogre went, and Jack was just going to jump out of the oven and run away when the woman told him not. "Wait till he’s asleep," says she; "he always has a snooze after breakfast."

            Well, the ogre had his breakfast, and after that he goes to a big chest and takes out of it a couple of bags of gold, and sits down counting them till at last his head began to nod and he began to snore till the whole house shook again.

            Then Jack crept out on tiptoe from his oven, and as he was passing the ogre he took one of the bags of gold under his arm, and off he pelters till he came to the beanstalk, and then he threw down the bag of gold, which, of course, fell into his mother’s garden, and then he climbed down and climbed down till at last he got home and told his mother and showed her the gold and said: "Well, mother, wasn’t I right about the beans? They are really magical, you see."

            So they lived on the bag of gold for some time, but at last they came to the end of that so Jack made up his mind to try his luck once more up at the top of the beanstalk. So one fine morning he rose up early, and got on to the beanstalk, and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed till at last he got on the road again and came the great big tall house he had been to before. There, sure enough, was the great tall woman a-standing on the doorstep.

            "Good morning, mum," says Jack, as bold as brass, "could you be so good as to give me something to eat?"

            "Go away, my boy," said the big, tall woman, "or else my man will eat you up for breakfast. But aren’t you the youngster who came here once before? Do you know, that very day my man missed one of his bags of gold."

            "That’s strange, mum," said Jack, "I dare say I could tell you something about that but I’m so hungry I can’t speak till I’ve had something to eat."

            Well, the big tall woman was that curious that she took him in and gave him something to eat. But he had scarcely begun munching it as slowly as he could when thump! thump! they heard the giant’s footstep, and his wife hid Jack away in the oven.

            All happened as it did before. In came the ogre as he did before, said: "Fee-fi-fo-fum," and had his breakfast off three broiled oxen. Then he said: "Wife, bring me the hen that lays the golden eggs." So she brought it, and the ogre said: "Lay," and it laid an egg all of gold. And then the ogre began to nod his head, and to snore till the house shook.

            Then Jack crept out of the oven on tiptoe and caught hold of the golden hen, and was off before you could say "Jack Robinson." But this time the hen gave a cackle which woke the ogre, and just as Jack got out of the house he heard him calling:

            "Wife, wife, what have you done with my golden hen?"

            And the wife said: "Why, my dear?"

            But that was all Jack heard, for he rushed off to the beanstalk and climbed down like a house on fire. And when he got home he showed his mother the wonderful hen, and said "Lay" to it; and it laid a golden egg every time he said 'Lay."

            Well, Jack was not content, and it wasn’t long before he determined to have another try at his luck up there at the top of the beanstalk. So one fine morning, he rose up early, and went on to the beanstalk, and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed till he got to the top. But this time he knew better than to go straight to the ogre’s house. And when he got near it, he waited behind a bush till he saw the ogre’s wife come out with a pail to get some water, and then he crept into the house and got into the copper. He hadn’t been there long when he heard thump! thump! thump! as before, and in came the ogre and his wife.

            "Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman," cried out the ogre. "I smell him, wife, I smell him."

            "Do you, my dearie?" says the ogre’s wife. "Then if it’s that little rogue that stole your gold and the hen that laid the golden eggs he’s sure to have got into the oven." And they both rushed to the oven. But Jack wasn’t there, luckily, and the ogre’s wife said: "There you are again with your fee-fi-fo-fum. Why, of course, it’s the laddie you caught last night that I’ve broiled for your breakfast. How forgetful I am, and how careless you are not to know the difference between live un and a dead un."

            So the ogre sat down to the breakfast and ate it, but every now and then he would mutter: "Well, I could have sworn —" and he’d get up and search the larder and the cupboards, and everything, only, luckily, he didn’t think of the copper.

            After breakfast was over, the ogre called out: "Wife, wife, bring me my golden harp." So she brought it and put it on the table before him. Then he said: "Sing!" and the golden harp sang most beautifully. And it went on singing till the ogre fell asleep, and commenced to snore like thunder.

            Then Jack lifted up the copper-lid very quietly and got down like a mouse and crept on hands and knees till he came to the table when he got up and caught hold of the golden harp and dashed with it towards the door. But the harp called out quite loud: "Master! Master!" and the ogre woke up just in time to see Jack running off with his harp.

            Jack ran as fast as he could, and the ogre came rushing after, and would soon have caught him only Jack had a start and dodged him a bit and knew where he was going. When he got to the beanstalk the ogre was not more than twenty yards away when suddenly he saw Jack disappear like, and when he came to the end of the road he saw Jack underneath climbing down for dear life. Well, the ogre didn’t like trusting himself to such a ladder, and he stood and waited, so Jack got another start. But just then the harp cried out: "Master! Master!" and the ogre swung himself down on to the beanstalk, which shook with his weight. Down climbs Jack, and after him climbed the ogre. By this time Jack had climbed down and climbed down and climbed down till he was very nearly home. So he called out: "Mother! Mother! bring me an axe, bring me an axe." And his mother came rushing out with the axe in her hand, but when she came to the beanstalk she stood stock still with fright, for there she saw the ogre just coming down below the clouds.

            But Jack jumped down and got hold of the axe and gave a chop at the beanstalk which cut it half in two. The ogre felt the beanstalk shake and quiver so he stopped to see what was the matter. Then Jack gave another chop with the axe, and the beanstalk was cut in two and began to topple over. Then the ogre fell down and broke his crown, and the beanstalk came toppling after.

            Then Jack showed his mother his golden harp, and what with showing that and selling the golden eggs, Jack and his mother became very rich, and he married a great princess, and they lived happy ever after.

"I Played With Fire" by Unknown Writer (in English)

art by Alex Toth and Mike Pepe - Boy Loves Girl #43 - Lev Gleason Publications, February 1954.

 

"Alla Bandiera Rossa" by Pier Paolo Pasolini

Per chi conosce solo il tuo colore,
bandiera rossa,
tu devi realmente esistere, perché lui
esista:
chi era coperto di croste è coperto di
piaghe,
il bracciante diventa mendicante,
il napoletano calabrese, il calabrese
africano,
l'analfabeta una bufala o un cane.
Chi conosceva appena il tuo colore,
bandiera rossa,
sta per non conoscerti più, neanche coi
sensi:
tu che già vanti tante glorie borghesi e
operaie,
ridiventa straccio, e il più povero ti
sventoli.

"Francisca Santos das Flores" by Dorival Caymmi (in Portuguese)

Francisca Santos das Flores

É dona dos meus amores

Mas não sabia de nada

Francisca Santos das Flores

Que não sabia das dores

Que seu amado amargava

Das longas noites passadas

A contemplar as sacadas

Da casa da sua amada

Na condição de amante

De amada que não sabia

Que tantos males causava

Mas certo dia acabou-se

A timidez que o impedia

E o pobre falou de amores

Pondo de lado temores

E nesse dia ela ouvia

Francisca Santos das Flores

Dona Chica-ca-ca

Dimirou-se se

De que houvesse um amor tão grande assim

Dona Chica-ca-ca

Dimirou-se se

De que houvesse um amor tão grande assim

Dona Chica-ca-ca

Dimirou-se se

De que houvesse um amor tão grande assim

"Francisca Santos das Flores" sung by Dorival Caymmi.

“A Diagnosis of Death” by Ambrose Bierce (in English)

'I am not so superstitious as some of your physicians - men of science, as you are pleased to be called,' said Hawver, replying to an accusation that had not been made. 'Some of you - only a few, I confess - believe in the immortality of the soul, and in apparitions which you have not the honesty to call ghosts. I go no further than a conviction that the living are sometimes seen where they are not, but have been - where they have lived so long, perhaps so intensely, as to have left their impress on everything about them. I know, indeed, that one's environment may be so affected by one's personality as to yield, long afterward, an image of one's self to the eyes of another. Doubtless the impressing personality has to be the right kind of personality as the perceiving eyes have to be the right kind of eyes - mine, for example.'

            'Yes, the right kind of eyes, conveying sensations to the wrong kind of brains,' said Dr. Frayley, smiling.

            'Thank you; one likes to have an expectation gratified; that is about the reply that I supposed you would have the civility to make.'

            'Pardon me. But you say that you know. That is a good deal to say, don't you think? Perhaps you will not mind the trouble of saying how you learned.'

            'You will call it an hallucination,' Hawver said, 'but that does not matter.' And he told the story.

            'Last summer I went, as you know, to pass the hot weather term in the town of Meridian. The relative at whose house I had intended to stay was ill, so I sought other quarters. After some difficulty I succeeded in renting a vacant dwelling that had been occupied by an eccentric doctor of the name of Mannering, who had gone away years before, no one knew where, not even his agent. He had built the house himself and had lived in it with an old servant for about ten years. His practice, never very extensive, had after a few years been given up entirely. Not only so, but he had withdrawn himself almost altogether from social life and become a recluse. I was told by the village doctor, about the only person with whom he held any relations, that during his retirement he had devoted himself to a single line of study, the result of which he had expounded in a book that did not commend itself to the approval of his professional brethren, who, indeed, considered him not entirely sane. I have not seen the book and cannot now recall the title of it, but I am told that it expounded a rather startling theory. He held that it was possible in the case of many a person in good health to forecast his death with precision, several months in advance of the event. The limit, I think, was eighteen months. There were local tales of his having exerted his powers of prognosis, or perhaps you would say diagnosis; and it was said that in every instance the person whose friends he had warned had died suddenly at the appointed time, and from no assignable cause. All this, however, has nothing to do with what I have to tell; I thought it might amuse a physician.

            'The house was furnished, just as he had lived in it. It was a rather gloomy dwelling for one who was neither a recluse nor a student, and I think it gave something of its character to me - perhaps some of its former occupant's character; for always I felt in it a certain melancholy that was not in my natural disposition, nor, I think, due to loneliness. I had no servants that slept in the house, but I have always been, as you know, rather fond of my own society, being much addicted to reading, though little to study. Whatever was the cause, the effect was dejection and a sense of impending evil; this was especially so in Dr. Mannering's study, although that room was the lightest and most airy in the house. The doctor's life-size portrait in oil hung in that room, and seemed completely to dominate it. There was nothing unusual in the picture; the man was evidently rather good looking, about fifty years old, with iron-grey hair, a smooth-shaven face and dark, serious eyes. Something in the picture always drew and held my attention. The man's appearance became familiar to me, and rather "haunted" me.

            'One evening I was passing through this room to my bedroom, with a lamp - there is no gas in Meridian. I stopped as usual before the portrait, which seemed in the lamplight to have a new expression, not easily named, but distinctly uncanny. It interested but did not disturb me. I moved the lamp from one side to the other and observed the effects of the altered light. While so engaged I felt an impulse to turn round. As I did so I saw a man moving across the room directly toward me! As soon as he came near enough for the lamplight to illuminate the face I saw that it was Dr. Mannering himself; it was as if the portrait were walking!

            '"I beg your pardon," I said, somewhat coldly, "but if you knocked I did not hear."

            'He passed me, within an arm's length, lifted his right forefinger, as in warning, and without a word went on out of the room, though I observed his exit no more than I had observed his entrance.

            'Of course, I need not tell you that this was what you will call a hallucination and I call an apparition. That room had only two doors, of which one was locked; the other led into a bedroom, from which there was no exit. My feeling on realizing this is not an important part of the incident.

            'Doubtless this seems to you a very commonplace "ghost story" - one constructed on the regular lines laid down by the old masters of the art. If that were so I should not have related it, even if it were true. The man was not dead; I met him to-day in Union Street. He passed me in a crowd.'

            Hawver had finished his story and both men were silent. Dr. Frayley absently drummed on the table with his fingers.

            'Did he say anything to-day?' he asked - 'anything from which you inferred that he was not dead?'

            Hawver stared and did not reply.

            'Perhaps,' continued Frayley,' he made a sign, a gesture - lifted a finger, as in warning. It's a trick he had - a habit when saying something serious - announcing the result of a diagnosis, for example.'

            'Yes, he did - just as his apparition had done. But, good God! did you ever know him?'

            Hawver was apparently growing nervous.

            'I knew him. I have read his book, as will every physician some day. It is one of the most striking and important of the century's contributions to medical science. Yes, I knew him; I attended him in an illness three years ago. He died.'

            Hawver sprang from his chair, manifestly disturbed. He strode forward and back across the room; then approached his friend, and in a voice not altogether steady, said: 'Doctor, have you anything to say to me - as a physician? '

            'No, Hawver; you are the healthiest man I ever knew. As a friend I advise you to go to your room. You play the violin like an angel. Play it; play something light and lively. Get this cursed bad business off your mind.'

            The next day Hawver was found dead in his room, the violin at his neck, the bow upon the string, his music open before him at Chopin's Funeral March.