Intimacy

"Hurting someone is an act of reluctant intimacy."

"How disturbing it is that our illusions are often our most important beliefs."

"A breakdown is a breakthrough is a breakout. That is something."

-Hanif Kureishi

The Reader

I have read the book almost a year ago and I adored it. It kept me thinking for days. I tried to understand the force of love and lust that kept Michael incapable of loving anyone else for the rest of his life. I thought about the force of shame and self-respect. Are there really such people that would sacrifice their life just to avoid shame? Most of all, I was wondering how come an illegitimate love of a 15-years old and a woman of 40 seemed so natural and normal to me. I adore writers that succeed in representing things as though they are the most natural thing that could happen although in reality they would seem improbable.

I saw the film a couple of days ago. First of all, I don't think Kate Winslet was the right choice for the role, even though I truly admire her acting skills and I really think she deserved an Oscar (but maybe for another movie?!). The way I imagined the woman when I was reading the book was someone not so beautiful, a person who has lived and at whose face there are traces of the life she passed. She wouldn't be so slim, and she would have bigger breasts, but these are smaller details mainly part of one's imagination. Now that I think of another actress that would be right for the role, no one comes to my mind.. Is it possible that Kate is the only acclaimed actress who has a few pounds in eccess??? I'll think about this.. However, what I wanted to say is that I rarely watch a movie after a book and really get into it. The only movie that was everything I imagined while I was reading the book was Parfume (I'll say something more on that matter some other time), and I have to admit that The Reader was not far from it. I enjoyed it, and apart from some minor imperfections, I can say that it was an excellent representation of the book. Talking about imperfections, I think that the part of Michael communicating with his daughter could have been a little bit shorter. It was to depict how every his relationship with a woman was unsuccessful, and we got that with just two phrazes spoken between them.

To conclude, even with rare examples of good films I'm going to stick to books. No film can replace my imagination.

Quero Fazer Contigo..

Brincas todos os dias com a luz do Universo.
Sutil visitadora, chegas na flor e na água.
És mais do que a pequena cabeça branca que aperto
como um cacho entre as mão todos os dias.

Com ninguém te pareces desde que eu te amo.
Deixa-me estender-te entre grinaldas amarelas.
Quem escreve o teu nome com letras de fumo entre as estrelas do sul?
Ah, deixa-me lembrar como eras então, quando ainda não existias.

Subitamente o vento uiva e bate à minha janela fechada.
O céu é uma rede coalhada de peixes sombrios.
Aqui vêm soprar todos os ventos, todos.
Aqui despe-se a chuva.

Passam fugindo os pássaros.
O vento. O vento.
Eu só posso lutar contra a força dos homens.
O temporal amontoa folhas escuras
e solta todos os barcos que esta noite amarraram ao céu.

Tu estás aqui. Ah tu não foges.
Tu responder-me-às até ao último grito.
Enrola-te a meu lado como se tivesses medo.
Porém mais que uma vez correu uma sombra estranha pelos teus olhos.

Agora, agora também pequena, trazes-me madressilva,
e tens até os seios perfumados.
Enquanto o vento triste galopa matando borboletas
eu amo-te, e a minha alegria morde a tua boca de ameixa.

O que te haverá doído acostumares-te a mim,
à minha alma selvagem e só, ao meu nome que todos escorraçam.
Vimos arder tantas vezes a estrela d'alva beijando-nos os olhos
e sobre as nossas cabeças destorcem-se os crepúsculos em leques
rodoiantes.

As minhas palavras choveram sobre ti acariciando-te.
Amei desde há que tempo o teu corpo de nácar moreno.
Creio-te mesmo dona do Universo.
Vou trazer-te das montanhas flores alegres, "copihues",
avelãs escuras, e cestos silvestres de beijos.

Quero fazer contigo
o que a primavera faz com as cerejeiras.

(Pablo Neruda)