- Ştii să faci harta marilor noastre speranţe?
- Da, din baloane colorate.
La fiecare vânt puternic
Mai zboară câte un balon.
(la lectie)
Tot plâng o lacrimă
Care nu vrea să pice,
Oricâtă opintire.
(lacrima)
Când se dă leacul unei boli
Toţi cei care au pierit de acea boală
Ar trebui sa învie
Şi să-şi trăiască în continuare
Restul de zile
Până la îmbolnăvirea de o altă boaşă
Al cărei leac n+a fost încă descoperit
(leac)
Ne spălăm cu clăbucul tău, soare,
Săpunul nostru fundamental,
Pus la îndemână
Pe poliţa cerului.
Întindem mereu braţele spre tine
Şi ne frecăm bine cu lumină,
De ne dor oasele de-atâta fericire./
Deocamdată nu ştim de unde să luăm
Şi cele mai bune prosoape -
Şi ne ştergem pe faţă cu moartea.
(matinala)
Ai intrat în inspiraţia mea de astăzi
Ca un microb frumos,
Şi sunt fericit
Fiindcă îmi place aerul tandru
Din jurul tău.
Acum îmi vei circula nestingherită
În Univers,
Şi în fiecare zi îmi vei trimite
Câte-o stare sufletească
În loc de scrisoare.
Cred că uneori voi fi trist
Ca un elefant otrăvit de un fluture,
Şi te-aş da afară
Dar nu voi şti unde să te găsesc:
Tu îmi vei fi când într-o mână,
Când într-un ochi, ori pe frunte,
Când într-un gând.
(microb frumos)
Nu mai faceam minuni sistematic,
Imi placeau minunile ocazionale.
Ajutam o zebra sa-si intre in dungi,
Indreptam un batran de sale.
Unii credeau ca-mi pierdusem puterea
Aceea grozava si minunata
Si ma incercau cu invierea,
Omorandu-ma scurt, dintr-o bucata.
(minune-i si moartea)
M-ai privit in ochi
Dar ce sa vezi?
In emisfera mea
Tocmai se facuse noapte.
(ne cunoastem)
Nu mai finisez nimicul
Cu-a mea viata trecatoare.
Sa ma scol in zori de zi
Sa-i dau lustru cu o floare?
Sa ma finiseze el.
El, in moartea ce nu trece,
Descantandu-mi vesnic floarea
C-un izvor de apa rece.
(nimicul)
Uneori ma apuca din senin
O pofta grozava de injurat.
Dumnezeii tai de viata
De tinerete
De batranete
De fericire
De iubire
De casatorie
De ideal.
(nudism)
Eu eram şi unul şi celălalt:
Am privit în fântâna sufletului
Şi m-am văzut rătăcind
Între obtuz şi isoscel.
Am avut totuşi curajul
Să trag o perdea între mine şi eu.
O perdea mare, împădurită.
Şi cerul s-a umplut deodată de cozi de păun.
Cine ştie, poate că erau stele?/
Apoi mi-am luat din cui
Paloşul versului şi am plecat
Pe străzile oraşului
Să râcâi
Umbra pomilor de pe trotuare.
Ca să fie mai multă lumină.
(o noapte ca o piatra despletita)
Ochii mi se măresc tot mai mult,
Ca două cercuri de apă,
Mi-au acoperit toată fruntea
Şi jumătate din piept.
În curând vor fi tot atât de mari
Ca şi mine.
Mai mari decât mine,
Mult mai mari decât mine:
Eu nu voi fi decât un punct negru
În mijlocul lor.
(ochii)
Opreşte!
A răcnit sufletul,
Opreşte să mă dau jos!
Sunt sătul de-atâtea corvezi,
De-atâtea determinări, obligaţii şi legi,
Eu am fost făcut să fiu liber.
- Nu pot să mă opresc,
I-a răspuns pământul,
(Pământul din mine),
Dă-te jos din mers,
Dacă-ţi dă mâna
Şi fă-o chiar acum,
Când eu o să virez
Spre scârbă şi tină.
Dă-te jos în cer,
Prietene de-o viaţă,
Te iau când revin.
(opreste)
Uneori noaptea -
târziu după miezul nopţii
şi numai miercurea -
îi revenea vederea.
Era ca şi cum
ar fi răsărit brusc o stea,
numai şi numai pentru el:
o lumină mare, dulce, catifelată,
o candelă ca pentru prunci,
o lumină cum ar fi aureola din jurul sânului sfânt.
O lumină extraordinară!
Ştia că nu va dura mult.
Şi ca să aibă o mărturie,
lua creta pusă la-ndemână,
se ducea drept la perete
şi scria pe el: " Văzut".
Mergea apoi la uşă şi scria pe ea:
" Văzută".
La fereastră: " Văzută".
Pe cuier: " Văzut".
Pe duşumea: " Văzută".
Bifa ca la un inventar aprig
obiectele din odaia orbirii sale.
Chiar pe mâna în care ţinea de obicei toiagul
cu care pipăia, scrijelea febril:
" Azi pe data de cutare am zărit clar
această mână"
apoi se culca, ostenit.
În zilele următoare
era un orb normal, un orb fericit,
pentru că toate lucrurile printre care
bâjbâia
le ştia văzute.
Şi continua să fie un orb fericit, fericit
până când se ştergea creta.
(orbul)
Pana la un punct
Somnul e regenerare,
Daca-l depasesti -
E putrezire.
(pana la un punct)
miercuri, 8 septembrie 2010
vineri, 16 iulie 2010
the little prince
In the course of this life I have had a great many encounters with a great many people who have been
concerned with matters of consequence. I have lived a great deal among grown-ups. I have seen them
intimately, close at hand. And that hasn't much improved my opinion of them.
When a mystery is too overpowering, one dare not disobey. Absurd as it might seem to me, a thousand
miles from any human habitation and in danger of death, I took out of my pocket a sheet of paper and my
fountain-pen.
And the little prince broke into a lovely peal of laughter, which irritated me very much. I like my
misfortunes to be taken seriously.
"That doesn't matter. Where I live, everything is so small!"
And, with perhaps a hint of sadness, he added:
"Straight ahead of him, nobody can go very far . . ."
If I have told you these details about the asteroid, and made a note of its number for you, it is on account of
the grown-ups and their ways. When you tell them that you have made a new friend, they never ask you
any questions about essential matters. They never say to you, "What does his voice sound like? What
games does he love best? Does he collect butterflies?" Instead, they demand: "How old is he? How many
brothers has he? How much does he weigh? How much money does his father make?" Only from these
figures do they think they have learned anything about him.
If you were to say to the grown-ups: "I saw a beautiful house made of rosy brick, with geraniums in the
windows and doves on the roof," they would not be able to get any idea of that house at all. You would
have to say to them: "I saw a house that cost $20,000." Then they would exclaim: "Oh, what a pretty house
that is!"
If I try to
describe him here, it is to make sure that I shall not forget him. To forget a friend is sad. Not every one has
had a friend. And if I forget him, I may become like the grown-ups who are no longer interested in
anything but figures . . .
My friend never explained anything to me. He thought, perhaps, that I was like himself. But I, alas,
do not know how to see sheep through the walls of boxes. Perhaps I am a little like the grown-ups. I have
had to grow old.
And if the planet is too small, and the baobabs are too many, they split it in pieces . . .
"It is a question of discipline," the little prince said to me later on. "When you've finished your own toilet in
the morning, then it is time to attend to the toilet of your planet, just so, with the greatest care. You must
see to it that you pull up regularly all the baobabs, at the very first moment when they can be distinguished
from the rosebushes which they resemble so closely in their earliest youth. It is very tedious work," the
little prince added, "but very easy."
Oh, little prince! Bit by bit I came to understand the secrets of your sad little life . . . For a long time you
had found your only entertainment in the quiet pleasure of looking at the sunset. I
"One day," you said to me, "I saw the sunset forty-four times!"
Flowers are weak creatures. They are naïve. They reassure themselves as best they
can. They believe that their thorns are terrible weapons . . ."
"I know a planet where there is a certain red-faced gentleman. He has never smelled a flower. He has never
looked at a star. He has never loved any one. He has never done anything in his life but add up figures. And
all day he says over and over, just like you: 'I am busy with matters of consequence!' And that makes him
swell up with pride. But he is not a man--he is a mushroom!"
"The flowers have been growing thorns for millions of years. For millions of years the sheep have been
eating them just the same. And is it not a matter of consequence to try to understand why the flowers go to
so much trouble to grow thorns which are never of any use to them? Is the warfare between the sheep and
the flowers not important? Is this not of more consequence than a fat red-faced gentleman's sums? And if I
know--I, myself--one flower which is unique in the world, which grows nowhere but on my planet, but
which one little sheep can destroy in a single
It is such a secret place, the land of tears.
"I ought not to have listened to her," he confided to me one day. "One never ought to listen to the flowers.
One should simply look at them and breathe their fragrance. Mine perfumed all my planet. But I did not
know how to take pleasure in all her grace. This tale of claws, which disturbed me so much, should only
have filled my heart with tenderness and pity."
"The fact is that I did not know how to understand anything! I ought to have judged by deeds and not by
words. She cast her fragrance and her radiance over me. I ought never to have run away from her . . . I
ought to have guessed all the affection that lay behind her poor little stratagems. Flowers are so
inconsistent! But I was too young to know how to love her . . ."
The little prince also pulled up, with a certain sense of dejection, the last little shoots of the baobabs. He
believed that he would never want to return. But on this last morning all these familiar tasks seemed very
precious to him. And when he watered the flower for the last time, and prepared to place her under the
shelter of her glass globe, he realized that he was very close to tears.
"I have been silly," she said to him, at last. "I ask your forgiveness. Try to be happy . . ."
Of course I love you," the flower said to him. "It is my fault that you have not known it all the while. That
is of no importance. But you--you have been just as foolish as I. Try to be happy . . . Let the glass globe be.
I don't want it any more."
He did not know how the world is simplified for kings. To them, all men are subjects.
"If I ordered a general," he would say, by way of example, "if I ordered a general to change himself into a
sea bird, and if the general did not obey me, that would not be the fault of the general. It would be my
fault."
"Exactly. One must require from each one the duty which each one can perform," the king went on.
"Accepted authority rests first of all on reason. If you ordered your people to go and throw themselves into
the sea, they would rise up in revolution. I have the right to require obedience because my orders are
reasonable."
"Then you shall judge yourself," the king answered. "that is the most difficult thing of all. It is much more
difficult to judge oneself than to judge others. If you succeed in judging yourself rightly, then you are
indeed a man of true wisdom."
"I have good reason to believe that somewhere on my planet there is an old
rat. I hear him at night. You can judge this old rat. From time to time you will condemn him to death. Thus
his life will depend on your justice. But you will pardon him on each occasion; for he must be treated
thriftily. He is the only one we have."
"It may well be that this man is absurd. But he is not so absurd as the king, the conceited man, the
businessman, and the tippler. For at least his work has some meaning. When he lights his street lamp, it is
as if he brought one more star to life, or one flower. When he puts out his lamp, he sends the flower, or the
star, to sleep. That is a beautiful occupation. And since it is beautiful, it is truly useful."
"That is very funny! A day lasts only one minute, here where you live!"
What the little prince did not dare confess was that he was sorry most of all to leave this planet, because it
was blest every day with 1440 sunsets!
concerned with matters of consequence. I have lived a great deal among grown-ups. I have seen them
intimately, close at hand. And that hasn't much improved my opinion of them.
When a mystery is too overpowering, one dare not disobey. Absurd as it might seem to me, a thousand
miles from any human habitation and in danger of death, I took out of my pocket a sheet of paper and my
fountain-pen.
And the little prince broke into a lovely peal of laughter, which irritated me very much. I like my
misfortunes to be taken seriously.
"That doesn't matter. Where I live, everything is so small!"
And, with perhaps a hint of sadness, he added:
"Straight ahead of him, nobody can go very far . . ."
If I have told you these details about the asteroid, and made a note of its number for you, it is on account of
the grown-ups and their ways. When you tell them that you have made a new friend, they never ask you
any questions about essential matters. They never say to you, "What does his voice sound like? What
games does he love best? Does he collect butterflies?" Instead, they demand: "How old is he? How many
brothers has he? How much does he weigh? How much money does his father make?" Only from these
figures do they think they have learned anything about him.
If you were to say to the grown-ups: "I saw a beautiful house made of rosy brick, with geraniums in the
windows and doves on the roof," they would not be able to get any idea of that house at all. You would
have to say to them: "I saw a house that cost $20,000." Then they would exclaim: "Oh, what a pretty house
that is!"
If I try to
describe him here, it is to make sure that I shall not forget him. To forget a friend is sad. Not every one has
had a friend. And if I forget him, I may become like the grown-ups who are no longer interested in
anything but figures . . .
My friend never explained anything to me. He thought, perhaps, that I was like himself. But I, alas,
do not know how to see sheep through the walls of boxes. Perhaps I am a little like the grown-ups. I have
had to grow old.
And if the planet is too small, and the baobabs are too many, they split it in pieces . . .
"It is a question of discipline," the little prince said to me later on. "When you've finished your own toilet in
the morning, then it is time to attend to the toilet of your planet, just so, with the greatest care. You must
see to it that you pull up regularly all the baobabs, at the very first moment when they can be distinguished
from the rosebushes which they resemble so closely in their earliest youth. It is very tedious work," the
little prince added, "but very easy."
Oh, little prince! Bit by bit I came to understand the secrets of your sad little life . . . For a long time you
had found your only entertainment in the quiet pleasure of looking at the sunset. I
"One day," you said to me, "I saw the sunset forty-four times!"
Flowers are weak creatures. They are naïve. They reassure themselves as best they
can. They believe that their thorns are terrible weapons . . ."
"I know a planet where there is a certain red-faced gentleman. He has never smelled a flower. He has never
looked at a star. He has never loved any one. He has never done anything in his life but add up figures. And
all day he says over and over, just like you: 'I am busy with matters of consequence!' And that makes him
swell up with pride. But he is not a man--he is a mushroom!"
"The flowers have been growing thorns for millions of years. For millions of years the sheep have been
eating them just the same. And is it not a matter of consequence to try to understand why the flowers go to
so much trouble to grow thorns which are never of any use to them? Is the warfare between the sheep and
the flowers not important? Is this not of more consequence than a fat red-faced gentleman's sums? And if I
know--I, myself--one flower which is unique in the world, which grows nowhere but on my planet, but
which one little sheep can destroy in a single
It is such a secret place, the land of tears.
"I ought not to have listened to her," he confided to me one day. "One never ought to listen to the flowers.
One should simply look at them and breathe their fragrance. Mine perfumed all my planet. But I did not
know how to take pleasure in all her grace. This tale of claws, which disturbed me so much, should only
have filled my heart with tenderness and pity."
"The fact is that I did not know how to understand anything! I ought to have judged by deeds and not by
words. She cast her fragrance and her radiance over me. I ought never to have run away from her . . . I
ought to have guessed all the affection that lay behind her poor little stratagems. Flowers are so
inconsistent! But I was too young to know how to love her . . ."
The little prince also pulled up, with a certain sense of dejection, the last little shoots of the baobabs. He
believed that he would never want to return. But on this last morning all these familiar tasks seemed very
precious to him. And when he watered the flower for the last time, and prepared to place her under the
shelter of her glass globe, he realized that he was very close to tears.
"I have been silly," she said to him, at last. "I ask your forgiveness. Try to be happy . . ."
Of course I love you," the flower said to him. "It is my fault that you have not known it all the while. That
is of no importance. But you--you have been just as foolish as I. Try to be happy . . . Let the glass globe be.
I don't want it any more."
He did not know how the world is simplified for kings. To them, all men are subjects.
"If I ordered a general," he would say, by way of example, "if I ordered a general to change himself into a
sea bird, and if the general did not obey me, that would not be the fault of the general. It would be my
fault."
"Exactly. One must require from each one the duty which each one can perform," the king went on.
"Accepted authority rests first of all on reason. If you ordered your people to go and throw themselves into
the sea, they would rise up in revolution. I have the right to require obedience because my orders are
reasonable."
"Then you shall judge yourself," the king answered. "that is the most difficult thing of all. It is much more
difficult to judge oneself than to judge others. If you succeed in judging yourself rightly, then you are
indeed a man of true wisdom."
"I have good reason to believe that somewhere on my planet there is an old
rat. I hear him at night. You can judge this old rat. From time to time you will condemn him to death. Thus
his life will depend on your justice. But you will pardon him on each occasion; for he must be treated
thriftily. He is the only one we have."
"It may well be that this man is absurd. But he is not so absurd as the king, the conceited man, the
businessman, and the tippler. For at least his work has some meaning. When he lights his street lamp, it is
as if he brought one more star to life, or one flower. When he puts out his lamp, he sends the flower, or the
star, to sleep. That is a beautiful occupation. And since it is beautiful, it is truly useful."
"That is very funny! A day lasts only one minute, here where you live!"
What the little prince did not dare confess was that he was sorry most of all to leave this planet, because it
was blest every day with 1440 sunsets!
sâmbătă, 3 iulie 2010
All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.
Henry Ellis
But now I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth.
Umberto Eco
Everything in life is luck.
Donald Trump
I still find each day too short for all the thoughts I want to think, all the walks I want to take, all the books I want to read, and all the friends I want to see.
John Burroughs
Henry Ellis
But now I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth.
Umberto Eco
Everything in life is luck.
Donald Trump
I still find each day too short for all the thoughts I want to think, all the walks I want to take, all the books I want to read, and all the friends I want to see.
John Burroughs
marți, 29 iunie 2010
anatole france
All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another.
Chance is perhaps the pseudonym of God when he did not want to sign.
Devout believers are safeguarded in a high degree against the risk of certain neurotic illnesses; their acceptance of the universal neurosis spares them the task of constructing a personal one.
I prefer the folly of enthusiasm to the indifference of wisdom.
If the path be beautiful, let us not ask where it leads.
It is human nature to think wisely and act in an absurd fashion.
Lovers who love truly do not write down their happiness.
Of all the sexual aberrations, chastity is the strangest.
One thing above all gives charm to men's thoughts, and this is unrest. A mind that is not uneasy irritates and bores me.
Religion has done love a great service by making it a sin.
Suffering! We owe to it all that is good in us, all that gives value to life; we owe to it pity, we owe to it courage, we owe to it all the virtues.
The law, in its majestic equality, forbids the rich as well as the poor to sleep under bridges, to beg in the streets, and to steal bread.
The truth is that life is delicious, horrible, charming, frightful, sweet, bitter, and that is everything.
We do not know what to do with this short life, yet we want another which will be eternal.
What frightens us most in a madman is his sane conversation.
Without lies humanity would perish of despair and boredom.
Chance is perhaps the pseudonym of God when he did not want to sign.
Devout believers are safeguarded in a high degree against the risk of certain neurotic illnesses; their acceptance of the universal neurosis spares them the task of constructing a personal one.
I prefer the folly of enthusiasm to the indifference of wisdom.
If the path be beautiful, let us not ask where it leads.
It is human nature to think wisely and act in an absurd fashion.
Lovers who love truly do not write down their happiness.
Of all the sexual aberrations, chastity is the strangest.
One thing above all gives charm to men's thoughts, and this is unrest. A mind that is not uneasy irritates and bores me.
Religion has done love a great service by making it a sin.
Suffering! We owe to it all that is good in us, all that gives value to life; we owe to it pity, we owe to it courage, we owe to it all the virtues.
The law, in its majestic equality, forbids the rich as well as the poor to sleep under bridges, to beg in the streets, and to steal bread.
The truth is that life is delicious, horrible, charming, frightful, sweet, bitter, and that is everything.
We do not know what to do with this short life, yet we want another which will be eternal.
What frightens us most in a madman is his sane conversation.
Without lies humanity would perish of despair and boredom.
antoine de saint-exupery
Grown-ups never understand anything for themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them.
It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.
It is such a secret place, the land of tears.
Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking outward in the same direction.
Men have forgotten this truth,' said the fox. 'But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.'
Night, the beloved. Night, when words fade and things come alive. When the destructive analysis of day is done, and all that is truly important becomes whole and sound again. When man reassembles his fragmentary self and grows with the calm of a tree.
The aeroplane has unveiled for us the true face of the earth.
What makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere it hides a well.
It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.
It is such a secret place, the land of tears.
Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking outward in the same direction.
Men have forgotten this truth,' said the fox. 'But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.'
Night, the beloved. Night, when words fade and things come alive. When the destructive analysis of day is done, and all that is truly important becomes whole and sound again. When man reassembles his fragmentary self and grows with the calm of a tree.
The aeroplane has unveiled for us the true face of the earth.
What makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere it hides a well.
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