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Psicologia da Arte
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Mothers in Mourning
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Edimilson de Almeida Pereira
“não vale a pena ter um bom coração, não vale.
de repente alguém arrasta o sapato sobre ele.
não vale a pena confiar no piso e na música
— tudo é escorregadio se te colocam a culpa.
sim, vale a pena, sim. — ter um bom coração
é a chave, não é por isso que o velho som
ainda quebra na areia? não é por isso
que se vive de medo sem medo nenhum?”
Edimilson de Almeida Pereira, Ruídos

Fernando Namora
“Todas as vezes que olho para a estrada percorrida, onde já ficou muito do sangue, suor e lágrimas que a vida nos reserva, recordo um certo trecho de um romance de Erico Veríssimo: um rapaz e uma rapariga transpõem a cerca da Universidade; acabam de lhes entregar o diploma de médicos e, com ele, um futuro de imprevistos e de abismos. Cá fora, no largo, onde a sombra altiva de uma estátua se levanta, no céu estrelado, Olívia espalha pelo chão o ramo de flores que lhe haviam oferecido, enrola o diploma e por ele espreita, irreverente, os astros enigmáticos- um óculo mágico a desvendar o amanhã. O companheiro, com essa melancolia desiludida que vem depois das esperanças realizadas, espreme as mãos vazias, a vida abre-se de súbito a seus pés, inesperada, pavorosa como um fosso. Ele tem atrás de si durezas e humilhações e pressente que não pode haver outra coisa a aguardar-lo.”
Fernando Namora, Retalhos da Vida de um Médico

Marion Minerbo
“Freud reconheceu e diferenciou o amor narcísico do amor objetal. Narcísico quando o objeto sustenta o narcisismo e confirma o valor do Eu: “Eu (sujeito) te amo porque você (objeto) me ama”. E o amor pode ser objetal quando o objeto, por suas próprias características, propicia experiências de prazer e de alegria. Ambas as formas de amor fazem parte da economia psíquica, e idealmente há um equilíbrio entre elas: amamos o objeto por aquilo que ele é e por aquilo que nos proporciona.”
Marion Minerbo, Notas sobre a aptidão à felicidade
tags: amor, freud

Mircea Cărtărescu
“Why do I know I exist if I also know I will not? Why was I given access to logical space and the mathematical structure of the world? Just to lose them when my body is destroyed? Why do I wake up in the night with the thought that I will die, why do I sit up, drenched in sweat, and scream and slap myself and try to suppress the thought that I will disappear for all eternity, that I will never be again, to the end of time? Why will the world end with me? We age: we stand quietly in line with those condemned to death. We are executed one after the other in a sinister extermination camp. We are first stripped of our beauty, youth, and hope. We are next wrapped in the penitential robe of illness, weariness, and decay. Our grandparents die, our parents are executed in front of us, and suddenly time gets short, you suddenly see your reflection in the axeblade.

And only then do you realize you are living in a slaughterhouse, that generations are butchered and swallowed by the earth, that billions are pushed down the throat of hell, that no one, absolutely no one escapes. That not one person that you see coming out of the factory gates in a Mélies film is still alive. That absolutely everyone in an eighty-year-old sepia photograph is dead. That we all come into this world from a frightening abyss without our memories, that we suffer unimaginably on a speck of dust, and that we then perish, all in a nanosecond, as though we had never lived, as though we had never been.”
Mircea Cărtărescu, Solenoid

Chairil Anwar
“This time no one's looking for love
down between the sheds, the old houses, among the twittering
masts and rigging. A boat, a prau that will never sail again
puffs and snorts, thinking there's something it can catch
The drizzle brings darkness. An eagle's wings flap,
brushing against the gloom; the day whispers, swimming silkily
away to meet harbor temptations yet to come. Nothing moves
and now the sand and the sea are asleep, the waves gone.

That's all. I'm alone. Walking,
combing the cape, still choking back the hope
of getting to the end and, just once, saying the hell with it
from this fourth beach, embracing the last, the final sob.”
Chairil Anwar, The Complete Poetry and Prose of Chairil Anwar

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