Status Updates From Fairy Tales

Branca de Neve:
"Oh, não peço mais nada do
que estar morta a sorrir. Morta,
é isso que estou e sempre
estive - nunca senti o
quente impulso da vida.
Estou tão imóvel como a
tenra neve que se oferece
aos raios de sol para que
a possua. Sim, sou neve -
derreto sob o bafo quente,
não meu mas da Primavera.
Que doce é este gotejar!
Minha terra muito querida,
acolhe-me em tua casa!..."

“I’m all yours, so frightfully yours that you must lend me your body to hide myself deep inside it.”

“What one word might express. Our language sounds far too crude for expressing this. Music is required to better say this over and over.”

“You nightingale, you lovely dream, you, above every fantasy, a sublime apparition, see how quick my hands come together in their veneration if you. The language must be a weasel falling headlong when it wishes that it didn’t lack words for her, but it can see her poverty. The wonder of her seals its lips: in this way does love hold its breath.”

“Let love fall down and beg at your feet.”

“An image before which art stands aloof and love looks at a loss.”

“You’re an angel. Tenderness, as if embarrassed by that word’s meaning, stammers you’re an angel. What else could you be?”

“The scent of yellow roses spreads forth. Like a soul it comes and goes and solemnly takes my hand. I stand still as if enchanted.”

“With your eyes, you regard me like the sun. And I am the soil that thrives on its merciful kiss, on which nothing else ever can as it lovingly blooms to you.”

“Isn’t reality a dream too? Aren’t we all, even when awake, going about a bit like dreamers, sleepwalkers in the light of day, who play around with caprices and act as if awake?”

“Lovely, O how lovely. Spring’s lush splendor is hardly so gorgeous. She surpasses in grandeur an image of polished marble when sculpted by a true artist. She is sweet like a gentle dream. The fancy of a fevered brow could not form such a fairy scene.”