WORLD LITERATURE

Augusto dos Anjos (20.04.1884 - 12.11.1914), brasileiro, nasceu na Paraíba, poeta, formado em direito sem nunca ter exercido a profissão. Foi considerado o mais original e sombrio dos poetas brasileiros. ......................... Música: Night of Mistery by Alexander Nakarada (www.serpentsoundstudios.com) Licensed under Creative Commons BY Attribution 4.0 License Eu, Augusto dos Anjos Capa comum Amazon Kindle: https://amzn.to/3gC2S4U

A Metamorfose é uma novela escrita por Franz Kafka, nascido em 1883 onde hoje fica a República Tcheca. Foi publicada em 1915, um dos poucos textos que ele publicou em vida. 0:29 Parte 1: Resumo 1:49 Parte 2: Análise 2:23 2.1: Metamorfose 3:11 2.2: Capitalismo 4:11 2.3: Doença 5:03 2.4: Depressão 5:50 2.5: Vida de Kafka 6:33 2.6: Existencialismo https://soundcloud.com/oilage https://linktr.ee/oilage Fontes: KAFKA, Franz. A Metamorfose. 3. ed. São Paulo: Martin Claret, 2012. Tradução de: Torrieri Guimarães. FRAZÃO, Thaís da Silva; FRANCO, Patrícia Romário; FIGUEIREDO, Elielson de Souza. O EXISTENCIALISMO E O ABSURDO: UMA ANÁLISE LITERÁRIA E FILOSÓFICA DA OBRA "A METAMORFOSE" DE FRANZ KAFKA.. Caderno Eletrônico de Resumos da Iv Semana Acadêmica de Filosofia - Uepa, Belém, v. 2, n. 1, nov. 2018. A Metamorfose Capa comum – Edição padrão, 15 janeiro 2020 Amazon Kindle: https://amzn.to/3zzWiDj

Poetry reading of "At Five in the Afternoon" by Spanish poet, Federico García Lorca. Original Music: Estocada a muerte (violin, guitar, ukulele) by A. Q. Goring and Death (At Five in the Afternoon), was written by the Spanish poet, Federico García Lorca. The elegy describes the horrific consequence of bullfighting to both man and animal. The tragedy occurs at 5 in the afternoon and the poem proceeds to dwell on all the "terrible" details of the bloody sport of bullfighting and death of torero, Ignacio Sanchez Mejias. 1. Goring and death At five in the afternoon. It was five o'clock sharp in the afternoon. A boy brought the white sheet at five in the afternoon. A pail of lime made ready at five in the afternoon. The rest was death, and death alone. at five in the afternoon. The wind carried away the cotton wool at five in the afternoon. And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel at five in the afternoon. Now the dove and the leopard wrestle at five in the afternoon. And a thigh with a desolate horn at five in the afternoon. The bass-string struck up at five in the afternoon. Arsenic bells and smoke at five in the afternoon. Groups of silence in the corners at five in the afternoon. And the bull alone with a high heart! At five in the afternoon. When the sweat of snow was coming at five in the afternoon, when the bull ring was covered in iodine at five in the afternoon. Death laid eggs in the wound at five in the afternoon. At five in the afternoon. At five o'clock sharp in the afternoon. A coffin on wheels was his bed at five in the afternoon. Bones and flutes resound in his ears at five in the afternoon. Now the bull bellows from within at five in the afternoon. The room was iridescent with agony at five in the afternoon. In the distance the gangrene now comes at five in the afternoon. Horn of the lily through green groins at five in the afternoon. The wounds were burning like suns at five in the afternoon. And the crowd was smashing windows at five in the afternoon. At five in the afternoon. Oh, that terrible five in the afternoon! It was five by all the clocks! It was five in the shadow of the afternoon!

Directed by Sheridan James Lunt. Images for the poetry of Federico García Lorca, 2011. Sleepwalking Novel Green I want you green. Green wind. Green branches. a boat over the sea and the horse on the mountain. With the shadow around the waist she dreams on her balcony, green flesh, green hair, with eyes of cold silver. Green I want you green, under the moon of the gypsies things are looking at her and she cannot look at them. * Green I want you green. Big star frosts, comings in shadow fish that opens the way to the dawn. The figurine scrapes its wind With the file of its branches, and the mound, arched cat, it bristles its sour meow. But who will come? And where...? She goes on her porch, green meat, green streaks, dreaming in the bitter sea. * Compadre, I want to change my horse for your house, my saddle by your mirror, my knife for your blanket. Compadre, I've been bleeding, from the Goat Hills. If I could, boy, that deal ended. But I'm not me anymore, not even my home is my home anymore. compadre i want to die decently in my bed. By steel, if that's the case, on the netherlands sheets. Can't you see the wound I carry from chest to throat? three hundred brown roses Bring your white bib. your blood drips and stinks Around your waistband. But I'm not me anymore, not even my home is my home anymore. at least let me up to the high verandas, let me up, let me, to the tall balconies. balustrades of this moon where the water booms. * The two compadres are already up to the tall balconies. Leaving a trail of blood. Leaving a trail of tears. They trembled on the roofs The body lamps. a thousand crystal tambourines, they hurt the dawn. * Green I want you green. Green wind. Green branches. The two compadres went upstairs. The ample wind, let in the mouth a rare taste of gall, mint and basil. Compadre! Where is it, tell me? Where is your bitter girl? How many times has he waited for you! How many times did I wait for you, fresh face, black locks, here on the verandah green! * over the mouth of the cistern the gypsy was rocked. Green meat, green streaks, with eyes of cold silver. an icy moon pendant hold it over the water. The night has become intimate like a small square. drunken civil guards, they were banging on the door. Green I want you green. Green wind. Green branches. a boat on the sea and the horse on the mountain.