3: Do Riso

Of all the laughs that strictly speaking are not laughs, but modes of ululation, only three I think need detain us, I mean the bitter, the hollow and the mirthless. They correspond to successive… how shall I say successive… suc… successive excoriations of the understanding, and the passage from the one to the other is the passage from the lesser to the greater, from the lower to the higher, from the outer to the inner, from the gross to the fine, from the matter to the form. The laugh that now is mirthless once was hollow, the laugh that once was hollow once was bitter. And the laugh that once was bitter? Eyewater, Mr. Watt, eyewater. But do not let us waste our time with that. . . . The bitter, the hollow and—Haw! Haw!— the mirthless. The bitter laugh laughs at that which is not good, it is the ethical laugh. The hollow laugh laughs at that which is not true, it is the intellectual laugh. Not good! Not true! Well well. But the mirthless laugh is the dianoetic laugh, down the snout—Haw!—so. It is the laugh of laughs, the risus purus, the laugh laughing at the laugh, the beholding, the saluting of the highest joke, in a word the laugh that laughs—silence please—at that which is unhappy.

— in Watt, Samuel Beckett
— imagem: The Execution, Yue Minjun

2: As Horas

Praça 15 de Mayo, Buenos Aires
Ah as horas indecisas em que a minha vida parece de um outro…
As horas do crepúsculo no terraço dos cafés cosmopolitas !
Na hora de olhos húmidos em que se acendem as luzes
E o cansaço sabe vagamente a uma febre passada.

— Álvaro de Campos – Livro de Versos . Fernando Pessoa.
— Imagem: Praça 15 de Mayo, Buenos Aires, Autor Desconhecido.

0: Totus Mundus Agit Histrionem

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Macbeth, Acto V, Cena 5, 19-28 de William Shakespeare,
dito por Bill Camp em Birdman