The Long Take - Robin Robertson

from Part II: 1948

The heat was gone. They could feel it.
There was a hectic joy downtown, a release. King Eddy’s
six-deep at the bar and still coming.

‘Okay, guys. Best killing in the movies.’
‘Tommy Udo! It’s gotta be Tommy Udo!’
‘That’s up there, sure, but how about Raw Deal
when the broad gets the flambé in the face?’
‘Didn’t kill her, though.’
‘What about T-Men,
when The Schemer gets cooked in the steam-room?’
‘Nice . . .’
‘That other film of his, the Western, what’s it called? Border Incident! That’s got a death by tractor.’
‘Or Union Station, half a mile away – death by cattle stampede!’
‘I like that shoot-out in the hall of mirrors . . . ’
‘Nah, too classy. I’d vote for Decoy – Jean Gillie
crushing her boyfriend with her car.’
‘Yeah, or that chesty dame with the ice-pick, Janis Carter.’
‘He survived . . .’
‘I’d take Raymond Burr in Desperate. Great movie.
The way he goes over the stair-rail at the end
and drops four flights. That’s a lulu.’
‘Well, if you’re talking stairs it’s gotta be Tommy Udo, c’mon . . .’
‘Yeah: hard to beat that – tying an old lady to her wheelchair
then pushing her down a flight of stairs.
Widmark’s first film, and he was dynamite.’
‘Okay. All agreed? Right. Kiss of Death. Udo gets the cake.’

*
  He remembered the German on the barricade who took a magnesium flare in the chest and went up like a bonfire: so white you couldn’t look, but you couldn’t quite look away.

*

He dreamt the mountains were on fire
and the flames were gliding down the sides like lava,
the mountains were slipping into the sea which was on fire,
into the city, which was also burning,
and the ground opened up then
and he dreamt that he walked away,
streets full of stones,
and he saw a black man black with flame, black leaves
falling all around him: a black autumn, coming down.
And Pike, he dreamt of Pike,
pinning him by the throat to the ground, with a knife.
And then he woke.

*

There was a new crack through the tiles in the bathroom,
running in a straight line from the window to the door.

*

He was working nights at the Press, nights out on the street,
sharpening now after the turn in the year, the air
loosened after the rain, the pavement black and glinting.
There were parts of the city that were pure blocks of darkness,
where light would slip in like a blade to nick it, carve it open:
a thin stiletto, then a spill of white; the diagonal gash
of a shadow, shearing; the jagged angle sliding over itself
to close; the flick-knife of a watchman’s torch, the long gasp
of headlights from nowhere, their yawning light – then
just as quickly
their falling away:
closed over, swallowed
by the oiled, engraining, leaden dark.
He hears someone running
but there’s no one there.
His shadow folds into the wall, then along it.
Then gone.

*

‘Hey, Walker. Wanted in Overholt’s office.’

He went through, past the juniors: Pike, talking over
the top of everyone, repeating his punch-line
louder each time, harder.
The old man was checking finals, but he pushed them aside.
‘Very well, Walker, you can go this summer. Up to San Francisco.
I like what you’ve done here on this homeless issue,
so we’ll use you as a stringer, see how it goes.
I want a big piece on this, on the whole thing.’
‘You mean the destitute?’
‘Yes. Out on the streets
while the mayor and the police commissioner
are fine-dining in Chasen’s or Musso’s Back Room.
I mean the fact that two thirds of this city
is a fenced-off ghetto;
that there’s graft and corruption running right the way through.
I mean the fact that this is a country where there aren’t enough homes,
enough jobs, where one in six Angelenos are ex-servicemen
and they’re lying out on Skid Row –
but all anyone ever talks about is watching for Russians,
HUAC locking up half of Hollywood,
the government building more bombs.
We won the war, but we’re living like we lost it.’

He stood, and went to the window.
‘Things are hotting up, Walker. It’s a good time to go.’

High Rise (2015)

Van Damme - Diego Moraes

A gente fazia faculdade de jornalismo na uninorte. Ela me dava bola. Queria sair comigo. Quem sabe namorar e ter filhos. Um dia cheguei chapado na sala e disse que van damme era melhor que godard. Ela não perdoou. O amor acabou e virou ódio. Algumas mulheres perdoam tudo, menos um bêbado falando que van damme é melhor que godard. O mais foda é que estou revendo O grande dragão branco no telecine e não mudei de opinião. Van damme é o cara. 

Diego Moraes - Retirado daqui. 

Two Pieces

Antes

Tentava desviar-lhe o cabelo sempre que este lhe tapava os olhos. A mão quase chegava a tocar os primeiros fios dourados.

Só que ela voltava a cabeça para o lado, talvez por vergonha, e ele nunca conseguiu tocar-lhe.

Before

He tried pulling back her hair whenever it covered her eyes, his hand almost touching her golden locks.

     However, she kept turning her head, probably because she was ashamed, and he never managed to touch her.

Depois

Agora que se reencontravam era ela que estendia a mão na tentativa de lhe tocar no cabelo, só que ele distraído como sempre, virava a cabeça para o lado e nem reparava no seu gesto.

     No entanto, ambos sorriam timidamente. Juntavam as mãos e apertavam-nos com a força de quem não quer largar. Só não mexiam no cabelo um do outro.

After

Now at their reencounter it was she who tried to fondle his hair. But he, distracted as always, turned his head around and did not even notice her hand.

     However, they were both timidly smiling at each other. They join hands and squeeze them with the strength of those who do not want to let go. They just do not stroke each other’s hair.  

E.L. Doctorow - Homer and Langley

 I’m Homer, the blind brother. I didn’t lose my sight all at once, it was like the movies, a slow fade out. When I was told what was happening I was interested to measure it, I was in my late teens then, keen on everything. What I did this particular winter was to stand back from the lake in Central Park where they did all their ice skating and see what I could see and couldn’t see as a day by day thing. The houses over to Central Park West went first, they got darker as if dissolving into the dark sky until I couldn’t make them out, and then the trees began to lose their shape and then finally, this was toward the end of the season, maybe it was late February of that very cold winter, and all I could see were these phantom shapes of the ice skaters floating past me on a field of ice, and then the white ice, that last light, went gray and then altogether black, and then all my sight was gone though I could hear clearly the scoot scut of the blades on the ice, a very satisfying sound, a soft sound though full of intention, a deeper tone than you’d expect made by the skate blades, perhaps for having sounded the resonant basso of the water under the ice, scoot scut, scoot scut. I would hear someone going someplace fast, and then the twirl into the long scurratch as the skater spun to a stop, and then I laughed too for the joy of that ability of the skater to come to a dead stop all at once, going along scoot scut and then scurratch.

Homer and Langley, Random House, 2009.

Casa dos irmãos de onde foram retiradas mais de 140 toneladas de "tralha"

Regras

o homem corre em direcção à mulher num último esforço para a alcançar, enquanto um outro grupo de homens o persegue. ele corre com todas as suas forças tentando desesperadamente fugir para abraçar a mulher. a mulher chora e, entre soluços, chama pelo seu nome. os homens apontam as pistolas, mas falham o alvo. alguns chegam a hesitar o disparo: as balas já são tão poucas.

ao correr em desespero o homem perde um dos sapatos, tropeça, cai e volta a levantar-se rapidamente, com uma agilidade que não conhecia em si próprio. depois de muito esforço consegue, finalmente, chegar à mulher que o abraça com toda a força do mundo. ele beija-a. um tiro ecoa ao longo da rua. um dos homens mantém a expressão dura, o fumo da pistola a serpentear-lhe por entre os olhos. manteve-se assim durante algum tempo antes de dar um segundo tiro. afinal de contas a guerra tem regras. 

de José Duarte, 'Regras', de Heartbreak Hotel, a sair um dia destes.

The Day - Kenneth Goldsmith

Metropolitan Forecast

          D8 L THE NEW YORK TIMES TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 2001

          Metropolitan Forecast

          today Less humid, sunshine

          High 79. Noticeably less humid air will filter into the metropolitan region on. Brisk winds from the northwest. High pressure building east from the Great Lakes will promote mainly sunny skies. Daytime readings will peak in the lower 80’s.

          tonight Clear, lighter winds

          Low 62. Skies will be clear overnight as high pressure crests near the Middle Atlantic Coast. Humidity will remain low, and temperatures will fall to around 60 degrees in many spots.

          tomorrow Mainly sunny

          High 76. Sunshine and just a few clouds will fill the sky. Breezes will turn and blow from the south ahead of a cold front approaching from Canada.

Islam

          e2 the new york times, tuesday, september 11, 2001

          ARTS ABROAD

          Continued From First Arts Page

          On Islam, Mr. Houellebecq went still further, deriding his estranged mother for converting to Islam and proclaiming that, while all monotheistic religions were “cretinous,” “the most stupid religion is Islam.” And he added: “When you read the Koran, you give up. At least the Bible is

          Sexual tourism

          and inflammatory

          remarks about

          Palestinians.

          very beautiful because Jews have an extraordinary literary talent.” And later, noting that “Islam is a dangerous religion,” he said it was condemned to disappear, not only because God does not exist but also because it was being undermined by capitalism.

Poetry (July/August 2009). Retirado daqui.

O Polícia

Estava sentado numa pequena cadeira, junto ao balcão do café. Bebia um copo ou outro, porque tinha acabado de sair do serviço. Era apenas para relaxar. O empregado do café permanecia de pé à espera de clientes. A sala principal era um local pouco iluminado, mas arrumadinho. Ao fundo dessa sala uma televisão passava um jogo de futebol. De vez em quando o homem virava a cara, concentrava-se e tentava saber qual o resultado.

O outro homem sentou-se ao lado do primeiro homem. O primeiro homem, de vez em quando, levantava o chapéu e coçava a cabeça, em sinal de aborrecimento. O segundo homem, depois de pedir um copo para aliviar a tensão, reparou no esforço do primeiro homem sempre que tentava ver o resultado do futebol. Estranhando a falta de visão do homem perguntou-lhe como fazia quando era para apanhar ladrões, uma vez que não via muito bem. O polícia respondeu-lhe que, na maior parte das vezes, fechava os olhos. Não porque era mais fácil, mas porque se sentia muito cansado.

De Tudo o que acontece

(José Duarte)

Saúde Pública

O homem olhou desconfiado, arqueou a sobrancelha, e depois de algum espanto, fingiu-se desinteressado, embora não conseguisse tirar os olhos do objecto. O outro homem tinha nas suas mãos um pequeno tubo no qual estava um líquido. Apontava o tubo para a luz e sorria. Dizia que com aquela vacina, finalmente, poderiam salvar os animais dos homens e, enfim, tornar o mundo um lugar mais arrumado. O primeiro homem olhou para o segundo e perguntou: - Tem a certeza disso, Herr Doctor?

De Tudo o que acontece

(José Duarte)

Ficção

Fiction's about what it is to be a human being.

David Foster Wallace