[rafa]’s Reviews > Orlando > Status Update

Illusions are to the soul what atmosphere is to the earth. Roll up that tender air and the plant dies, the colour fades. The earth we walk on is a parched cinder. It is marl we tread and fiery cobbles scorch our feet. By the truth we are undone. Life is a dream. ’Tis waking that kills us.

as the ear is the antechamber to the soul, poetry can adulterate and destroy more surely than lust or gunpowder. The poet’s, then, is the highest office of all. [...] His words reach where others fall short. A silly song of Shakespeare’s has done more for the poor and the wicked than all the preachers and philanthropists in the world.

Orlando had contracted in England some of the customs or diseases (whatever you choose to consider them) which cannot, it seems, be expelled.

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essa introdução tá me dando uma vontade tão grande de ler as cartas dela e da vita...