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Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas by Machado de Assis
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Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas Quotes Showing 1-30 of 126
“Marcela amou-me durante quinze meses e onze contos de réis”
Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“Ao verme que primeiro roeu as frias carnes do meu cadáver dedico como saudosa lembrança estas memórias póstumas”
Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“Este último capítulo é todo de negativas. Não alcancei a celebridade do emplasto, não fui ministro, não fui califa, não conheci o casamento. Verdade é que, ao lado dessas faltas, coube-me a boa fortuna de não comprar o pão com o suor do meu rosto. Mais; não padeci a morte de D. Plácida, nem a semidemência do Quincas Borba. Somadas umas coisas e outras, qualquer pessoa imaginará que não houve míngua nem sobra, e conseguintemente que saí quite com a vida. E imaginará mal; porque ao chegar a este outro lado do mistério, achei-me com um pequeno saldo, que é a derradeira negativa deste capítulo de negativas: — Não tive filhos, não transmiti a nenhuma criatura o legado da nossa miséria.”
Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“Matamos o tempo, o tempo nos enterra.”
Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“Por que bonita, se coxa? Por que coxa, se bonita?”
Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“Let Pascal say that man is a thinking reed. He is wrong; man is a thinking erratum. Each period in life is a new edition that corrects the preceding one and that in turn will be corrected by the next, until publication of the definitive edition, which the publisher donates to the worms.”
Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“Não te irrites se te pagarem mal um benefício: antes cair das nuvens, que de um terceiro andar.”
Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“(...) preferi dormir, que é um modo interino de morrer.”
Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“Then I said to myself, "If the centuries are going by, mine will come too, and will pass, and after a time the last century of all will come, and then I shall understand." And I fixed my eyes on the ages that were coming and passing on; now I was calm and resolute, maybe even happy. Each age brought its share of light and shade, of apathy and struggle, of truth and error, and its parade of systems, of new ideas, of new illusions; in each of them the verdure of spring burst forth, grew yellow with age, and then, young once more, burst forth again. While life thus moved with the regularity of a calendar, history and civilization developed; and man, at first naked and unarmed, clothed and armed himself, built hut and palace, villages and hundred-gated Thebes, created science that scrutinizes and art that elevates, made himself an orator, a mechanic, a philosopher, ran all over the face of the globe, went down into the earth and up to the clouds, performing the mysterious work through which he satisfied the necessities of life and tried to forget his loneliness. My tired eyes finally saw the present age go by end, after it, future ages. The present age, as it approached, was agile, skillful, vibrant, proud, a little verbose, audacious, learned, but in the end it was as miserable as the earlier ones. And so it passed, and so passed the others, with the same speed and monotony.”
Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“I am beginning to be sorry that I ever undertook to write this book. Not that it bores me; I have nothing else to do; indeed, it is a welcome distraction from eternity. But the book is tedious, it smells of the tomb, it has a rigor mortis about it; a serious fault, and yet a relatively small one, for the great defect of this book is you, reader. You want to live fast, to get to the end, and the book ambles along slowly; you like straight, solid narrative and a smooth style, but this book and my style are like a pair of drunks; they stagger to the right and to the left, they start and they stop, they mutter, they roar, they guffaw, they threaten the sky, they slip and fall...
And fall! Unhappy leaves of my cypress tree, you had to fall, like everything else that is lovely and beautiful; if I had eyes, I would shed a tear of remembrance for you. And this is the great advantage in being dead, that if you have no mouth with which to laugh, neither have you eyes with which to cry.”
Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“Algum tempo hesitei se devia abrir estas memórias pelo princípio ou pelo fim, isto é, se poria em primeiro lugar o meu nascimento ou a minha morte.”
Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“Why the devil couldn’t it have been blue?” I said to myself.
And this thought—one of the most profound ever made since the discovery of butterflies—consoled me for my misdeed and reconciled me with myself. I stood there, looking at the corpse with, I confess, a certain sympathy. The butterfly had probably come out of the woods, well-fed and happy, into the sunlight of a beautiful morning. Modest in its demands on life, it had been content to fly about and exhibit its special beauty under the vast cupola of a blue sky, al sky that is always blue for those that have wings. It flew through my open window, entered by room, and found me there. I suppose it had never seen a man; therefore it did not know what a man was. It described an infinite number of circles about my body and saw that I moved, that I had eyes, arms, legs, a divine aspect, and colossal stature. Then it said to itself, “This is probably the maker of butterflies.” The idea overwhelmed it, terrified it; but fear, which is sometimes stimulating, suggested the best way for it to please its creator was to kiss him on the forehead, and so it kissed me on the forehead. When I brushed it away, it rested on the windowpane, saw from there the portrait of my father, and quite possibly perceived a half-truth, i.e., that the man in the picture was the father of the creator of butterflies, and it flew to beg his mercy.
Then a blow from a towel ended the adventure. Neither the blue sky’s immensity, nor the flowers’ joy, nor the green leaves’ splendor could protect the creature against a face towel, a few square inches fo cheap linin. Note how excellent it is to be superior to butterflies! For, even if it had been blue, its life would not have been safe; I might have pierced it with a pin and kept it to delight my eyes. It was not blue. This last thought consoled me again. I placed the nail of my middle finger against my thumb, gave the cadaver a flip, and it fell into the garden. It was high time; the provident ants were already gathering around…Yes, I stand by my first idea: I think that it would have been better for the butterfly if it had been born blue.”
Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“Perhaps the reader is astonished by the frankness with which I expose and emphasize my mediocrity; let him remember that frankness is the virtue most appropriate to a defunct. In life, the watchful eye of public opinion, the conflict of interests, the struggle of greed against greed oblige a man to hide his old rags, to conceal the rips and patches, to withhold from the world the revelations that he makes to his own conscience; and the greatest reward comes when a man, in so deceiving others, manages at the same time to deceive himself, for in such case he spares himself shame, which is a painful experience, and hypocrisy, which is a hideous vice. But in death, what a difference! what relief! what freedom! How glorious to throw away your cloak, to dump your spangles in a ditch, to unfold yourself, to strip off all your paint and ornaments, to confess plainly what you were and what you failed to be! For, after all, you have no neighbors, no friends, no enemies, no acquaintances, no strangers, no audience at all. The sharp and judicial eye of public opinion loses its power as soon as we enter the territory of death. I do not deny that it sometimes glances this way and examines and judges us, but we dead folk are not concerned about its judgment. You who still live, believe me, there is nothing in the world so monstrously vast as our indifference.”
Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“Quem escapa do perigo vive a vida com outra intensidade.”
Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
tags: viver
“Não tive filhos, não transmiti a nenhuma criatura o legado da nossa miséria.”
Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“Ai dor! Era-me preciso enterrar magnificamente os meus amores. Eles lá iam, mar em fora, no espaço e no tempo, e eu ficava-me ali numa ponta de mesa, com os meus quarenta anos, tão vadios e tão vazios; ficava-me para os não ver nunca mais, porque ela poderia tornar e tornou, mas o eflúvio da manhã quem é que o pediu ao crepúsculo da tarde?”
Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“Ah! were you careful to tie me to the cliff of your frivolity, your indifference, or your agitation?”
Machado de Assis, The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas
“Invenções há, que se transformam ou acabam; as mesmas instituições morrem; o relógio é definitivo e perpétuo. O derradeiro homem, ao despedir-se do sol frio e gasto, há de ter um relógio na algibeira, para saber a hora exata em que morre.”
Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“Para que queres tu mais alguns instantes de vida? Para devorar e seres devorado depois? Não estás farto do espetáculo e da luta? Conheces de sobejo tudo o que eu te deparei menos torpe ou menos aflitivo: o alvor do dia, a melancolia da tarde, a quietação da noite, os aspectos da Terra, o sono, enfim, o maior benefício das minhas mãos. Que mais queres tu, sublime idiota?”
Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“Observe now with what skill, with what art, I make the biggest transition in this book. Observe: my delirium began in the presence of Virgilia; Virigilia was the great sin of my youth; there is no youth without childhood; childhood presupposes birth; and so we arrive, effortlessly, at October 20, 1805, the date of my birth.”
Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“There he is, bent over the page, with a monocle in his right eye, wholly devoted to the noble but rugged task of ferreting out the error. He has already promised himself to write a little monograph in which he will relate the finding of the book and the discovery of the error, if there really is one hidden there. In the end, he discovers nothing and contents himself with possession of the book. He closes it, gazes at it, gazes at it again, goes to the window and holds it in the sun. The only copy! At this moment a Caesar or a Cromwell passes beneath his window, on the road to power and glory. He turns his back, closes the window, stretches in his hammock, and fingers the leaves of the book slowly, lovingly, tasting it sip by sip...An only copy!”
Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“Mas, ou muito me engano, ou acabo de escrever um capítulo inútil.”
Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“I had no children, I did not transmit to any creature the legacy of our misery.”
Machado de Assis, The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas
“Somadas umas coisas e outras, qualquer pessoa imaginará que não houve míngua nem sobra, e conseguintemente que saí quite com a vida. E imaginará mal; porque ao chegar a este outro lado do mistério achei-me com um pequeno saldo, que é a derradeira negativa deste capítulo de negativas: - Não tive filhos, não transmiti a nenhuma criatura o legado da nossa miséria.”
Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“I have noticed that the adulation of women is not the same as that of men. The latter smacks of servility; the first can be confused with affection.”
Machado de Assis, The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas
“…like the horse in the old ballads, which Romanticism found in the medieval castle and left in the streets of our own century. The Romanticists rode the poor best until he was so nearly dead that he finally lay down in the gutter, where the realists found him, his flesh eaten away by sores and worms, and, out of pity, carried him away to their books.”
Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“A ridiculous old age is perhaps the saddest and ultimate surprise human nature may have in store.”
Machado de Assis, The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas
“Matamos o tempo; o tempo nos enterra.”
Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas
“My youth was reacting, it was necessary to live.”
Machado de Assis, The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas
“I took her hand, pulled it lightly to me, and kissed her on the forehead, with the delicacy of a zephyr and the gravity of Abraham.”
Machado de Assis, The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas

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