Marina Muller

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What Design Can’t...
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Apr 20, 2026 12:08AM

 
Family Lexicon
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The Umbrella
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Apr 12, 2026 02:48AM

 
Book cover for Tudo que já nadei: Ressaca, quebra-mar e marolinhas (Portuguese Edition)
não há de ser nada, mas bati um recorde escroto: três meses sem ver o mar. as montanhas foram boas madrinhas, a floresta me acolheu bem, embora eu e o frio tenhamos muitas questões – as quais sinto que não resolveremos nessa vida –, mas ...more
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Gabriel García Márquez
“Havia achado, sempre, que morrer de amor não era outra coisa além de licença poética. Naquela tarde, de regresso para casa, outra vez, sem o gato e sem ela, comprovei que não apenas era possível, mas que eu mesmo, velho e sem ninguém, estava morrendo de amor. E também percebi que era válida a verdade contrária: não trocaria por nada neste mundo as delícias de meu desassossego.”
Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, Memories of My Melancholy Whores
tags: amor

Olivia Laing
“You can be lonely anywhere, but there is a particular flavour to the loneliness that comes from living in a city, surrounded by millions of people.”
Olivia Laing, The Lonely City: Adventures in the Art of Being Alone

Olivia Laing
“Loneliness is personal, and it is also political. Loneliness is collective; it is a city. As to how to inhabit it, there are no rules and nor is there any need to feel shame, only to remember that the pursuit of individual happiness does not trump or excuse our obligations to each another. We are in this together, this accumulation of scars, this world of objects, this physical and temporary heaven that so often takes on the countenance of hell. What matters is kindness; what matters is solidarity. What matters is staying alert, staying open, because if we know anything from what has gone before us, it is that the time for feeling will not last.”
Olivia Laing, The Lonely City: Adventures in the Art of Being Alone

Gabriel García Márquez
“I always had understood that dying of love was mere poetic license. That afternoon, back home again without the cat and without her, I proved that it was not only possible but that I myself, an old man without anyone, was dying of love. But I also realized that the contrary was true as well: I would not have traded the delights of my suffering for anything in the world. I had spent more than fifteen years trying to translate the poems of Leopardi, and only on that afternoon did I have a profound sense of them: Ah, me, if this is love, then how it torments.”
Gabriel García Márquez, Memories of My Melancholy Whores

Valter Hugo Mãe
“Estava sozinho, os seus amores haviam falhado e sentia que tudo lhe faltava pela metade, como se tivesse apenas metade dos olhos, metade do peito e metade das pernas, metade da casa e dos talheres, metade dos dias, metade das palavras para se explicar às pessoas. Via-se metade ao espelho e achava tudo demasiado breve, precipitado, como se as coisas lhe fugissem, a esconderem-se para evitar a sua companhia. Via-se metade ao espelho porque se via sem mais ninguém, carregado de ausências e de silêncios como os precipícios ou poços fundos. Para dentro do homem era um sem fim, e pouco ou nada do que continha lhe servia de felicidade. Para dentro do homem o homem caía.”
Valter Hugo Mãe, O Filho de Mil Homens

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