sábado, 13 de novembro de 2010

Pague os seis reais

Pague os seis reais.

E garanta o seu lugar.


Mais dias para você entregar o seu assignment. Em vez de ser no dia 18 (dia da nossa prova), você pode entregá-lo impreterivelmente na segunda dia 22. Claro que pode entregar antes, se quiser.

Impossível passar disso.


quarta-feira, 10 de novembro de 2010


1.There has been an interesting debate recently between Peter and Guy. Peter thinks that our present Brazilian society is NOT very far at all from the society depicted in the movie Fahrenheit 451. Guy, on the other hand, entirely disagrees with him, saying that contemporary Brazilian society has nothing whatsoever to do with the one shown in the movie.

Write down what Peter and Guy said to support their ideas.



2. The excerpt below was taken from a play we studied. After identifying the play, identify who is talking and explain the context in which this dialogue takes place. Give an answer as complete as possible.

Speaker 1: Speak.
Speaker 2: Nothing, my lord.
Speaker 1: Nothing?
Speaker 2: Nothing.
Speaker 1: Nothing can come of nothing. Speak again.

3. Read the excerpt about King Lear below and then answer the two questions about it.

Shakespeare's King Lear, though it was written four centuries ago and is set in the far-distant mythological past, still carries a moralistic message with it today. Like traditional fairy tales, the entire play is set up to illustrate a single flaw in the human condition and teach a lesson about it. This lesson is the importance of honesty.

3.1. How can "King Lear" be compared to traditional fairy tales?
3.2. Why is the topic of honesty so important in the play?

4. Explain why "The Merchant of Venice" is considered a “problem play”.

5. Being very careful not to slip into triviality and banality, write about a situation in your life in which you had a dilemma. A dilemma somewhat similar to the famous Hamlet's dilemma.


quarta-feira, 13 de outubro de 2010

Shakespeare assignment

I've just realized you had nowhere to post the assignment I gave you last week. You can post them here, in the comments. And please don’t just copy and paste from the internet.

See you next week.

Marina (#4)

quinta-feira, 7 de outubro de 2010

The Book People

So, you guys remember Fahrenheit 451, right? The Book People (the good people? No, the good people!) is the way they found to preserve the precious knowledge of books. One day the dark ages would ago away and books could be printed again, and then the book people would be called to recite themselves.

So, today the students became book people. Not bad for the short time I gave you, right?

Now, does any of you remember which book you became? Answer this in your comment.

domingo, 3 de outubro de 2010

Enjoy your Mondays with responsibility

Dear ones,

tomorrow we have the class of Marina Alvarez, my trainee who works with 22ABC Video & Literature.

As I've noticed that many students have been absent on Mondays and many have been arriving late, I hereby write this post to urge you to, please, be on time tomorrow.

I count on you.

Be there. Don't be late.

Thank you.

terça-feira, 17 de agosto de 2010

CHARLES, a short story


by Shirley Jackson

The day my son Laurie started kindergarten he renounced corduroy overalls with bibs and began wearing blue jeans with a belt; I watched him go off the first morning with the older girl next door, seeing clearly that an era of my life was ended, my sweet-voiced nursery-school tot replaced by a long-trousered, swaggering character who forgot to stop at the corner and wave good-bye to me.

He came running home the same way, the front door slamming open, his cap on the floor, and the voice suddenly become raucous shouting, “Isn’t anybody here?”

At lunch he spoke insolently to his father, spilled his baby sister’s milk, and remarked that his teacher said we were not to take the name of the Lord in vain.

“How was school today?” I asked, elaborately casual.
“All right,” he said.
“Did you learn anything?” his father asked.
Laurie regarded his father coldly. “I didn’t learn nothing,” he said.
“Anything,” I said. “Didn’t lean anything.”
“The teacher spanked a boy, though,” Laurie said, addressing his bread and butter.
“For being fresh,” he added, with his mouth full.
“What did he do?” I asked. “Who was it?”

Laurie thought. “It was Charles,” he said. “He was fresh. The teacher spanked him and made him stand in the corner. He was awfully fresh.”
“What did he do?” I asked again, but Laurie slid off his chair, took a cookie, and
left, while his father was still saying, “See here, young man.”

The next day Laurie remarked at lunch, as soon as he sat down, “Well, Charles was bad again today.” He grinned enormously and said, “Today Charles hit the teacher.”
“Good heavens,” I said, mindful of the Lord’s name, “I suppose he got spanked
“He sure did,” Laurie said. “Look up,” he said to his father.
“What?” his father said, looking up.
“Look down,” Laurie said. “Look at my thumb. Gee, you’re dumb.” He began
to laugh insanely.
“Why did Charles hit the teacher?” I asked quickly.
“Because she tried to make him color with red crayons,” Laurie said. “Charles wanted to color with green crayons so he hit the teacher and she spanked him and said nobody play with Charles but everybody did.”

The third day—it was a Wednesday of the first week—Charles bounced a see-saw on to the head of a little girl and made her bleed, and the teacher made him stay inside all during recess. Thursday Charles had to stand in a corner during story-time because he kept pounding his feet on the floor. Friday Charles was deprived of black-board privileges because he threw chalk.

On Saturday I remarked to my husband, “Do you think kindergarten is too unsettling for Laurie? All this toughness and bad grammar, and this Charles boy sounds like such a bad influence.”

“It’ll be alright,” my husband said reassuringly. “Bound to be people like Charles in the world. Might as well meet them now as later.”

On Monday Laurie came home late, full of news. “Charles,” he shouted as he came up the hill; I was waiting anxiously on the front steps. “Charles,” Laurie yelled all the way up the hill, “Charles was bad again.”

“Come right in,” I said, as soon as he came close enough. “Lunch is waiting.”
“You know what Charles did?” he demanded following me through the door.
“Charles yelled so in school they sent a boy in from first grade to tell the teacher she had to make Charles keep quiet, and so Charles had to stay after school. And so all the children stayed to watch him.“What did he do?” I asked.
“He just sat there,” Laurie said, climbing into his chair at the table. “Hi, Pop,
y’old dust mop.”
“Charles had to stay after school today,” I told my husband. “Everyone stayed
with him.”
“What does this Charles look like?” my husband asked Laurie. “What’s his other name?”
“He’s bigger than me,” Laurie said. “And he doesn’t have any rubbers and he doesn’t wear a jacket.”

Monday night was the first Parent-Teachers meeting, and only the fact that the baby had a cold kept me from going; I wanted passionately to meet Charles’s mother. On Tuesday Laurie remarked suddenly, “Our teacher had a friend come to see her in school today.”

“Charles’s mother?” my husband and I asked simultaneously.
“Naaah,” Laurie said scornfully. “It was a man who came and made us do exercises, we had to touch our toes. Look.” He climbed down from his chair and squatted down and touched his toes. “Like this,” he said. He got solemnly back into his chair and said, picking up his fork, “Charles didn’t even do exercises.”

“That’s fine,” I said heartily. “Didn’t Charles want to do exercises?”
“Naaah,” Laurie said. “Charles was so fresh to the teacher’s friend he wasn’t let
do exercises.”
“Fresh again?” I said.
“He kicked the teacher’s friend,” Laurie said. “The teacher’s friend just told
Charles to touch his toes like I just did and Charles kicked him.

“What are they going to do about Charles, do you suppose?” Laurie’s father asked him.
Laurie shrugged elaborately. “Throw him out of school, I guess,” he said.

Wednesday and Thursday were routine; Charles yelled during story hour and hit a boy in the stomach and made him cry. On Friday Charles stayed after school again and so did all the other children.

With the third week of kindergarten Charles was an institution in our family; the baby was being a Charles when she cried all afternoon; Laurie did a Charles when he filled his wagon full of mud and pulled it through the kitchen; even my husband, when he caught his elbow in the telephone cord and pulled the telephone and a bowl of flowers off the table, said, after the first minute, “Looks like Charles.”

During the third and fourth weeks it looked like a reformation in Charles; Laurie reported grimly at lunch on Thursday of the third week, “Charles was so good today the teacher gave him an apple.”

“What?” I said, and my husband added warily, “You mean Charles?”

“Charles,” Laurie said. “He gave the crayons around and he picked up the books afterward and the teacher said he was her helper.”

“What happened?” I asked incredulously.
“He was her helper, that’s all,” Laurie said, and shrugged.
“Can this be true about Charles?” I asked my husband that night. “Can something like this happen?”
“Wait and see,” my husband said cynically. “When you’ve got a Charles to deal with, this may mean he’s only plotting.” He seemed to be wrong. For over a week Charles was the teacher’s helper; each day he handed things out and he picked things up; no one had to stay after school.

“The PTA meeting’s next week again,” I told my husband one evening. “I’m going to find Charles’s mother there.”
“Ask her what happened to Charles,” my husband said. “I’d like to know.”
“I’d like to know myself,” I said.

On Friday of that week things were back to normal. “You know what Charles did
today?” Laurie demanded at the lunch table, in a voice slightly awed. “He told a little
girl to say a word and she said it and the teacher washed her mouth out with soap and Charles laughed.”

“What word?” his father asked unwisely, and Laurie said, “I’ll have to whisper it to you, it’s so bad.” He got down off his chair and went around to his father. His father bent his head down and Laurie whispered joyfully. His father’s eyes widened.
“Did Charles tell the little girls to say that?” he asked respectfully.
“She said it twice,” Laurie said. “Charles told her to say it twice.”
“What happened to Charles?” my husband asked.
“Nothing,” Laurie said. “He was passing out the crayons.”

Monday morning Charles abandoned the little girl and said the evil word himself three or four times, getting his mouth washed out with soap each time. He also threw chalk.

My husband came to the door with me that evening as I set out for the PTA meeting. “Invite her over for a cup of tea after the meeting,” he said. “I want to get a look at her.”
“If only she’s there.” I said prayerfully.
“She’ll be there,” my husband said. “I don’t see how they could hold a PTA meeting without Charles’s mother.”

At the meeting I sat restlessly, scanning each comfortable matronly face, trying to determine which one hid the secret of Charles. None of them looked to me haggard enough. No one stood up in the meeting and apologized for the way her son had been acting. No one mentioned Charles.

After the meeting I identified and sought out Laurie’s kindergarten teacher. She had a plate with a cup of tea and a piece of chocolate cake; I had a plate with a cup of tea and a piece of marshmallow cake. We maneuvered up to one another cautiously, and smiled.
“I’ve been so anxious to meet you,” I said. “I’m Laurie’s mother.”
“We’re all so interested in Laurie,” she said.
“Well, he certainly likes kindergarten,” I said. “He talks about it all the time.”
“We had a little trouble adjusting, the first week or so,” she said primly, “but now
he’s a fine helper. With occasional lapses, of course.”
“Laurie usually adjusts very quickly,” I said. “I suppose this time it’s Charles’s influence.”
“Yes,” I said, laughing, “you must have your hands full in that kindergarten, with Charles.”
“Charles?” she said. “We don’t have any Charles in the kindergarten.”

Here are they

Two almond trees
One naked, the other dressed
Winter and summer.

Leaves leave
the branches and tress
in the middle of the winter.

It starts to rain
In the whole city
Shoes are shining.

Season changes
Nothing changes
I look at the almond tree.

They leave
The leaves.

Some are brown
And some are green.
What does that mean?

Spring's coming
Almond tree blushes
And falls.

Naked branches against the sky
On the ground
My dreams.

Some branches leafless
Some with a lot
We must look inside.

Red in the winter
Leaves fall down
Screaming for the summer.
[Marina Costa]

Almond tree
Gets more unripe every day.
Benjamin Button.
[Marina Siqueira]

"Bem-te-vi!", cries the bird
And the naked almond tree

Trees getting bald
Branches, naked
On the floor, leaves.

Some students were absent on the haikai morning. But they wrote teir haikais as well...:

When red, it's on the floor
No winter anymore
Then the sun become green
[Ana Clara]

Look at the trees
What's happening?
Winter rules.

Am I drunk?
Are they really naked?
Nice to see you, winter.

Leaves aren't falling
They're just dancing in the wind
Winter Melody.
{Marina Calderon]

Two almond trees
bring the elixir of life.
Morning spring.

Yesterday, yellow and clear
Today, so red and soft.
I agree: I'm in love too.
[Luiza Machado]

I wish I could change
Just like the almond tree.
But here, the same.
[Luiza Machado]

Feel the sensations that
Pump in my heart.
Red-green almond tree.

If I told you how
Would you, almond tree,
Turn the blue sky red?
[Lousie Hammer}

Your changes
Confuse my eyes.
Are you the same?
[Luiza Machado]

Haikais -- ours!

So, believe it or not, the day finally came and the group produced their own haikais. To make things worse, I told them all their poems had be on the same theme: the almond trees losing their leaves in the winter. So, after showing them some haikais I had written myself on the theme (though I didn't say then I was the author), I invited the students out to the courtyard in order to contemplate the beauty of the almond trees. And to write haikais of couse.
Some students were reluctant ("I can't do it, teacher! And I don't like haikais! And..."). One, in particular, was foaming.
But they all wrote their haikais, some more than one. I helped with the editing ("Cut this, put this word here"), but the job is theirs and I'm very proud of them, I mean, you. =]

terça-feira, 10 de agosto de 2010


August 12th - Test on Poetry. Read post below.

August 16th - We finish PROVERBS and do the haikai thing. (But you may already post one of you haikais here on the blog. Some students have already done it.)

August 19th - Work on PROVERBS.

August 23 - Short story "Charles".



Sorry I didn't come on Monday, 9th. I broke my hand. =/

I'd like you to know that our test won't be postponed. The day is the same - next Thursday, 12th.

Remember it's only on the poems we discussed.

TESTE COM CONSULTA. You can use all the poems and the notes you have. However, you can't lend or borrow them during the test. So, just don't fail to bring all your material.

Unfortunately I won't be there with you, again, as I've been invited by MEC to do a special task. Big thing.

I'll be there with you mentally, sending good vibes.


segunda-feira, 26 de julho de 2010


Yes, don't think you were to get away with poetry so easily.

So, your poetry assignment is:


Actually, you're going to write two: one here and one in class.


Get inspired. If you say "I can't do it", it's because You can.


By Evandro's request, I'm here to post something about haikais, so you can think about it during this last week of vacations.

Haikais are a form of Japanese poetry. They are really short, and normally have three lines. Although there used to be very strict rules about its structure and content, modern haikais often follow only the three-line rule. Word play is also very common in haikais.

Another important characteristic of the haikai is that it usually includes a revelation at the end. That is, the first two lines may present ordinary elements, but the third one creates a surprising closure.

Below are some examples of haikais.

The first one is from the one of the most famous Japanese poets, Bashô, and it is probably his best know haikai, in one of its many translations:

the old pond;
a frog jumps in —
the sound of the water.

These other haikais were originally written in English:

an aging willow--
its image unsteady
in the flowing stream

meteor shower...
a gentle wave
wets our sandals

snow in my shoe
sparrow's nest

autumn morning—
repainting our bedroom
the color it was

up to my ears
in birdsong

clinic waiting room...
one fish in the aquarium
belly up

Here are some links to more haikais in English and in Portuguese:

Modern Haiku
Haiku Society of America Online Haiku Collections
Caixa de Haikai

Enjoy! :D

p.s. I know the comic strip at the top is in Spanish (by an Argentine artist), but I thought you might like it. :)

sábado, 17 de julho de 2010

And now you’re mine
Pablo Neruda

And now you're mine. Rest with your dream in my dream.
_______ and ________ and ________ should all sleep now.
The night turns on its _______ wheels,
and you are pure beside me as a sleeping amber.

No one else, Love, will sleep in my dreams. You will go,
we will go ________, over the _________ of time.
No one else will travel through the ________ with me,
only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon.

Your ______have already opened their delicate fists
and let their soft drifting signs drop away,
your ________ closed like two gray wings, and I move

after, following the folding water you carry, that carries me away.
The ________, the ________, the __________ spin out their destiny.
Without you, I am your dream, only that, and that is all.

"Daddy", by Sylvia Plath

Two more poems we read together in class: "Daddy", by Sylvia Plath and a sonnet by Pablo Neruda.

Sylvia Plath

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time -
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off the beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine,
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You -

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two -
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

sexta-feira, 9 de julho de 2010


H.W. Longfellow

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

1st poem
e. e. cummings

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

2nd poem
e. e. cummings

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like,, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh....And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new

Carl Sandburg

I asked professors who teach the meaning of life to tell what is happiness.
And I went to famous executives who boss the work of thousands of men
They all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though as I was trying to fool with them.
And then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along the Desplaines river
And I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with their women and children and a keg of [beer and an accordion.

Sylvia Plath

First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
A brace or a hook,
Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch,

Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then
How can we give you a thing?
Stop crying.
Open your hand.
Empty? Empty. Here is a hand

To fill it and willing
To bring teacups and roll away headaches
And do whatever you tell it.
Will you marry it?
It is guaranteed

To thumb shut your eyes at the end
And dissolve of sorrow.
We make new stock from the salt.
I notice you are stark naked.
How about this suit----

Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
Will you marry it?
It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
Against fire and bombs through the roof.
Believe me, they'll bury you in it.

Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
I have the ticket for that.
Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.
Well, what do you think of that ?
Naked as paper to start

But in twenty-five years she'll be silver,
In fifty, gold.
A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can talk, talk , talk.

It works, there is nothing wrong with it.
You have a hole, it's a poultice.
You have an eye, it's an image.
My boy, it's your last resort.
Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.

sábado, 3 de julho de 2010

An assignment

Below you find a summary of the Greek myth of Icarus.

Icarus' father, Daedalus, a talented, remarkable craftsman, attempted to escape from his exile in the place of Crete, where he and his son were imprisoned at the hands of King Minos, the king for whom he had built the Labyrinth to imprison the Minotaur (half man, half bull). Daedalus, the superior craftsman, was exiled because he gave Minos' daughter, Ariadne, a clew of string in order to help Theseus, the enemy of Minos, survive the Labyrinth and defeat the Minotaur.

Daedalus fashioned two pairs of wings out of wax and feathers for himself and his son. Before they took off from the island, Daedalus warned his son not to fly too close to the sun, nor too close to the sea. Overcome by the giddiness that flying lent him, Icarus soared through the sky curiously, but in the process he came too close to the sun, which melted the wax. Icarus kept flapping his wings but soon realized that he had no feathers left and that he was only flapping his bare arms. And so, Icarus fell into the sea in the area which bears his name, the Icarian Sea near Icaria, an island southwest of Samos.

The idea is that Icarus "went too far", tried to overcome his métron, which is "a measure or rule, by which anything is measured".

QUESTION: Make a relation between Icarus and one character of the movie Dead Poets Society. Justify your answer, using at least one scene of the movie to support your ideas.

domingo, 27 de junho de 2010


All this took place on June 24th. We did the "read-the-verse-and-kick-that-ball" activity and you guys had prepared a surprise for me.

Wasn't it one of the happiest days?

And...hej, don't you guys like the colors? =)))


Para ser coerente com o título da postagem e com minha cara de tacho, mais não digo.

Bem, só um pouquinho: thank you. Very very much. I won't ever forget it.

sexta-feira, 18 de junho de 2010

Two more (atendendo a pedidos)

Don't I look goofy, with my closed eyes? (Well, tired I was...).
But the girls look great. If they say nothing, it's because they agree.

quinta-feira, 17 de junho de 2010

Varal de Poesias / Poetry Line

Verses / Lines to Read before you kick the Ball (Our Video)

So, these are some suggestions, exactlly the ones that were read in the movie. I'm gonna post more soon.

Choose yours.

"Oh to struggle against great odds. To meet enemies undaunted." (Walt Whitman)

"To be a sailor of the world, bound for all ports." (Walt Whitman)

"Oh, I live to be the ruler of life, not a slave." (Walt Whitman)

"To indeed be a god!" (?)


"And thee my soul,
Joys, ceaseless exercises, exaltations"

"I raise the present on the past"

"Whoever you are, to you endless announcements! "

"I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you
. "

"I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.

"I resist any thing better than my own diversity,
Breathe the air but leave plenty after me,
And am not stuck up, and am in my place "

"With music strong I come, with my cornets and my drums"

"I know I am deathless"

"I exist as I am, that is enough"

"I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul"

One more:

I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world.

terça-feira, 15 de junho de 2010


And remember we're filming the "read-a-verse-and-kick-that-ball" scene. But the date has changed. Let's try to do it on June 24 [hej, that's one day before my birthday, so make it neat, ok =)]

11. – I want you all to come over here and take a slip of paper and
line up single file.
- "Oh to struggle against great odds. To meet enemies undaunted."
- Now go on. Yes! Next.
- "To be a sailor of the world, bound for all ports."
- Next. Louder!
- "Oh, I live to be the ruler of life, not a slave."
- (…)
- Come on, Charlie, let it fill your soul!
- "To indeed be a god!"

The verses to be chosen are going to be posted here soon.


Guys, these are the quotes we worked with in class. We have identified all who's and when's. Now you're supposed to pick 5 and explain them fully.
It's an assignment. You can do it with the partner you worked with in class.

1. (–You gotta calm down)
– No, that’s just my problem. I’ve been calm all my life. I’m gonna do something about that.

2. – What the hell is going on here?
– I don’t hear enough rip.
– Mr. X
– Mr. Y.
– I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were here.
– I am.
– Ah, so you are. Excuse me.

3. – The world’s first flying desk set. Don’t worry, you’ll get another one next year.

4. – Now, in this class you can either call me X, or if you are slightly more daring, O Captain, My Captain.

5. - The point is, that there's nothing you can do about it. So you can just butt out. I can take care of myself just fine. Alright?
- No.
- What do you mean 'no'?
- No!

6. - Why do I stand up here? Anybody?
- To feel taller!
- No! Thank you for playing Mr. Dalton. I stand upon my desk to remind myself that we must constantly look at things in a different way.


8. - Gentlemen, what are the four pillars?
- Travesty! Horror! Decadence! Excrement!

9. - Don't you ever dispute me in public! Do you understand?
- Father, I wasn't disputing you…
- After you've finished medical school and you're on your own, then you can do as
you damn well please. But until then, you do as I tell you. Is that clear?

10. - Today we're going to be talking about William Shakespeare.
- Oh, God!

11. – I want you all to come over here and take a slip of paper and
line up single file.
- "Oh to struggle against great odds. To meet enemies undaunted."
- Now go on. Yes! Next.
- "To be a sailor of the world, bound for all ports."
- Next. Louder!
- "Oh, I live to be the ruler of life, not a slave."
- (…)
- Come on, Charlie, let it fill your soul!
- "To indeed be a god!"

12. - Well,X, the curriculum here is set. It's proven it works. If you question, what's to prevent them
from doing the same?
- I always thought the idea of educating was to learn to think for yourself.
- At these boys' ages? Not on your life! Tradition, John. Discipline. Prepare them for college, and the rest will take care of itself.

13. - Mr. Keating! They made everybody sign it.
- Quiet, Mr. X.
- You gotta believe me. It's true.
- I do believe you, X.
- Leave, Mr. Keating.
- But it wasn't his fault!
- Sit down, Mr. Anderson! One more outburst from you or anyone else, and
you're out of this school! Leave, Mr. Keating. I said leave, Mr. Keating.
- O Captain! My Captain!

quinta-feira, 10 de junho de 2010


Hope you guys enjoyed as much as I did.

Some pix.

sábado, 5 de junho de 2010

Dead Poets Society

Don't you guys be cynical....

This movie can change your lives.

It has changed / changes / is changing mine.


The purpose, well one of the purposes, of reading "The Story of an Hour" was to present the concept of EPIPHANY.
The story is just perfect when it comes to it.
But as I want this concept indelibly etched in your minds I also showed snippets of Sex, Lies & Videotape and The Elephant Man....
Wonderful scenes from beautiful movies...

sábado, 15 de maio de 2010


So here is our first story of the second trimester - "The Story of an Hour", by Kate Chopin. It's a short short story so I managed to put it all here.

The Story of An Hour
Kate Chopin (1894)

Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death.

It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.
She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.

There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.
She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.
There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.

There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will--as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under the breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.
She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.

There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.
And yet she had loved him--sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!

"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.

Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhold, imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door--you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the door."

"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.

Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.
Someone was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.
When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy that kills.

The Recipe

So here comes the recipe. It has blanks, though, as the exercise we did in class! =)
There are plenty of variations, as all recipes do. I remember adding some pieces of bacon last year. The tomato chutney, suggested here, looks a bit redundant, doesn't it? Tomato sauce with... tomatoes!
Anyway, it's great! Perhaps not as delicious as french fries, but more like, as said in class, eggplants... An acquired tast, for the few....


You will need:

2 __________
1 ½ cup of buttermilk
1 teaspoon plus 1 ½ cup of self-rising flour
1 teaspoon of salt
1 teaspoon of black ________, divided
3 _________ green tomatoes, cut into ¼- inch ________
__________ oil for ____________

In a bowl, mix _____________ the eggs and buttermilk. Whisk in the tablespoon flour, ½ teaspoon salt, ½ teaspoon pepper. ____________ the tomato slices in this buttermilk mixture.

Stir together in another shallow bowl, the 1 ½ cups flour, ½ teaspoon salt, same of pepper.
__________ about 1 inch of oil to _________ 350o ____ in a heavy skillet. Dredge the tomato ________, one _____ ___ _______, in the seasoned flour, shaking off excess.
________ the ___________ in the hot oil; do not crowd.
________ should not overlap as they cook.

Fry each _______ until it ________ to turn _________. Fry until they _________. Drain on paper ______________. Serve with tomato chutney, if desired.

Yield: 12 to ________ slices.

quinta-feira, 29 de abril de 2010


Mind you that the title of this post is frying not fried green tomatoes...

This is because today Marina (which one? there are three) asked when we are going to fry the tomatoes....

Well, in the meantime you may enjoy the pictures of what I did with my group last year...

Don't get jealous, we can do the same this year, if you want to...



Hello hello... So, as said in class, this is one assignment I want you guys to do. The title of the task is ABSOLUTELY PERSONAL. Of course the second student may read what the first one wrote, and the tenth may read what the other nine wrote. It's ok, this is one of the reasons of this blog: to write with a purpose, to share your thoughts. So of course you may get inspired by what your classmates wrote. But your ideas must be, er... yours.


1) One thing that surprised me was…

2) One thing that amused me was…

3) One thing that annoyed me was…

4) One thing that disgusted me was…

5) One thing I identified with was…

6) One thing I really loved was…

7) One thing I won’t forget is…

quarta-feira, 7 de abril de 2010

Two Songs by Alan Parsons

Don't know if you know but I have this project of writing a book on progressive rock. I had intended to prepare it this year, but now I think it won't be possible. Anyway, one of the chapters will be devoted to the songs (and music in genereal) based on Edgar Allan Poe. There are many! I guess few authors have been such a source of inspiration as our tormented writer...

One of the most famous projects is the one made by Alan Parson, back in 1976. The good thing is: his album has songs for the two stories we read and discussed in class.

Here we have the lyrics.


The Alan Parsons Project
(Tales of Mystery and Imagination – Edgar Alan Poe – 1976)
Sung by Arthur Brown

You should have seen him
Lying alone in helpless silence in the night
You should have seen him
You would have seen his eye reflecting in the light

So for the old man
Ashes to ashes, earth to earth and dust to dust
No one will see me
No one with guilt to share, no secret soul to trust

And he wont be found at all
Not a trace to mark his fall
Nor a stain upon the wall

Louder and louder
Till I could tell the sound was not within my ears
You should have seen me
You would have seen my eyes grow white and cold with fear

Heard all the things in heaven and earth
Ive seen many things in hell
But his vultures eye of a cold pale blue
Is the eye if the devil himself

Take me away now
But let the silence drown the beating of his heart
I cant go on
Let me be free from wretched sea that I can not see
Please let me be free

The Alan Parsons Project

By the last breath of the four winds that blow
I’ll have revenge upon Fortunato
Smile in his face I’ll say "come let us go
I’ve a cask of amontillado"
Sheltered inside from the cold of the snow
Follow me now to the vault down below
Drinking the wine as we laugh at the time
Which is passing incredibly slow
(What are these chains that are binding my arm)
Part of you dies each passing day
(Say it’s a game and I’ll come to no harm)
You’ll feel your life slipping away
You who are rich and whose troubles are few
May come around to see my point of view
What price the crown of a king on his throne
When you’re chained in the dark all alone
(Spare me my life only name your reward)
Part of you dies each brick I lay
(Bring back some light in the name of the lord)
You’ll feel your mind slipping away

sexta-feira, 2 de abril de 2010

Edgar Allan Poe

Our first short stories, both by Edgar Allan Poe: "The Tell-Tale Heart" and "The Cask of Amontillado".

The first can be found here:


And the second here:


domingo, 28 de março de 2010

A song! She's leaving home...

After some classes talking about the elements of fiction, these elements were illustrated with the help of... a song! No, no, ladies and gentlemen, I know you guys did not fail last year and you are not doing the 21 workhop Songs again. It's just because I thought it would be interesting to use a different and unexpected "text". Hope you guys liked it.

The lyrics (the way it was worked in class, with some extra words):


The Beatles
(Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band – 1967)

Wednesday morning at five o'clock
as the day slowly begins
Silently closing her bedroom door
Leaving the single note that she hoped would say more
She goes downstairs to the kitchen
clutching her white handkerchief
Quietly turning the rusty back door key
Stepping outside she is finally free

She (we gave her most of our lives)
is leaving (sacrificed most of our lives)
home (we gave her everything money could buy)
She's leaving home after living alone for
so many years (bye bye)

Father snores as his wife gets into her new dressing gown
Picks up the letter that's still lying there
Standing all alone at the top of the stairs
She breaks down and cries to her husband
Daddy, listen, our baby's gone
Why would she treat us so thoughtlessly
How could she do really this to me

She (We never thought of ourselves)
is leaving (never a thought for ourselves)
home (we struggled hard all our lives to get by)
She's leaving home after living alone for
so many years (bye bye)

Friday morning at nine o'clock sharp she is far away
Waiting to keep the appointment she already made
Meeting a young man from the motor trade

She (what did we do that was wrong)
is having (we didn't know it was wrong)
fun (fun is the one thing that money can't buy)
Something inside that was always denied for
so many years (bye bye)
She's leaving home (bye bye)

quarta-feira, 24 de março de 2010

Kick off

Hey, here we go....