Um refúgio?
Um barriga?
Um abrigo onde se esconder
quando estiver se afogando na chuva,
ou sendo quebrado pelo frio,
ou sendo revirando pelo vento?
Temos um esplêndido passado pela frente?
Para os navegantes com desejo de vento,
a memória é um porto de partida.

Esta obra es un juego sobre el poder de la imaginación, en el que se mezclan la reflexión y la creación literarias, y que viene a constituir una prolongación del viaje al bosque encantado de los libros que emprendió Fernando Savater enLa infancia recuperada.

“The Church says: the body is a sin.
Science says: the body is a machine.
Advertising says: The body is a business.
The Body says: I am a fiesta.” ---- Eduardo Galeano - Quote from Walking Words

Walking Words contains nearly three dozen enchanting short tales of rural and urban folklore along with sixty "windows" - aphorisms, sayings, memories, riddles, paradoxes. Above and below are among my favorites. Enjoy! Walking words walking toward my Goodreads friends . . .

WINDOW ON ART, ONE
In Zaragoza they paid homage to the ruins of a beautiful Moorish tower. They didn’t build another to evoke the tower that once was: instead a bronze child sits hugging his knees and looks at the huge hole where it stood.


WINDOW ON ART, TWO
I was a boy, practically a child, and I wanted to draw. By lying about my age, I snuck in with the students who were sketching a nude.
In the classes, I kept wasting paper struggling to find lines and shapes. That naked woman, who shifted her pose, was a challenge for my clumsy hand and nothing more: something like a breathing vase.
But one night at the bus stop, I saw her dressed for the first time. When she stepped into the bus, her skirt slid up and revealed the threshold of her thigh. That was when my body burned.


WINDOW ON A SUCCESSFUL MAN
He can’t look at the moon without calculating the distance.
He can’t look at a tree without calculating the firewood.
He can’t look at a painting without calculating the price.
He can’t look at a menu without calculating the calories.
He can’t look at a man without calculating the advantage.
He can’t look at a woman without calculating the risk.


WINDOW ON MUSIC
Papa Montero was a dance-man and crooner, the man who brought joy to the Havana night. The whole city danced the rumba with him, in him, and in his rumba let loose.
When a knife did in Papa Montero, the Havana night went mute. But in the middle of the wake a rumba was heard. Far off. Barely anyone noticed.
At dawn, when his friends went to carry the casket away, they found it empty.


WINDOW ON THE WORD
In Haiti, stories may not be told during the day. Anyone who tells a story before dark is disgraced: the mountain throws a stone at his head, his mother walks on all fours.
Nighttime draws out what is sacred, and those who know how to tell stories know that the name is the very thing that it names.


WRITTEN ON WALLS
Written on the wall in Montevideo: Nothing in vain. All is wine.
Also in Montevideo: Virgins have many Christmases, but not christenings.
In Buenos Aires: I’m so ungry I ate the h.
Also in Buenos Aires: We will revive even if it kills us!
In Quito: When we had all the answers, they changed the questions.
In Mexico: Give the president minimum wage, so he too can feel the rage.
In Lima: We don’t want to survive. We want to live.
In Havana: You can dance to anything.
In Rio de Janeiro: He who is afraid of living is never born.


WINDOW ON INVISIBLE DICTATORSHIPS
The sacrificing mother exercises the dictatorship of servitude.
The solicitous friend exercises the dictatorship of favors.
Charity exercise the dictatorship of debt.
Free markets allow us to accept the prices imposed upon us.
Free expression allows us to listen to those who speak in our name.
Free elections allows us to choose the sauce with which we will be eaten.


WINDOW ON PROHIBITIONS
On a wall in a Madrid eatery hangs a sign that says: No Singing.
On a wall in the airport of Rio de Janeiro hangs a sign that says: No Playing with Luggage Carts.
Ergo: There are still people who sing, there are still people who play.


WINDOW ON FEAR
Hunger breakfasts on fear. The fear of silence rattles the streets.
Fear threatens:
If you love, you get AIDS.
If you smoke, you get cancer.
If you breathe, you get polluted.
If you drink, you get accidents.
If you eat, you get cholesterol.
If you speak up, you get fired.
If you walk, you get mugged.
If you think, you get worried.
If you doubt, you get crazy.
If you feel, you get lonely.


WINDOW ON THE WORLD
Javier Villafane searches in vain for the word that slipped away just as he was about it say it. It was right on the tip of his tongue. Where did it go?
Is there a place for all the words that don’t want to stay? A kingdom of lost words? These words that escape, where do they lie in wait?


Tales and windows of this book include dozens of illustrations by the Brazilian Woodblock Print Artist José Francisco Borges.

Back in 1993 when Walking Words was first published, Eduardo Galeano gave a reading in a small Manhattan bookstore. It was my good fortune to be among the enthusiastic audience. After the reading I exchanged a few words with the author and, of course, purchased his book. Eduardo wrote a personal inscription - "Walking Words walk toward Glenn."

( )

“The Church says: the body is a sin.
Science says: the body is a machine.
Advertising says: The body is a business.
The Body says: I am a fiesta.” ---- Eduardo Galeano - Quote from Walking Words

Walking Words contains nearly three dozen enchanting short tales of rural and urban folklore along with sixty "windows" - aphorisms, sayings, memories, riddles, paradoxes. Above and below are among my favorites. Enjoy! Walking words walking toward my Goodreads friends . . .

WINDOW ON ART, ONE
In Zaragoza they paid homage to the ruins of a beautiful Moorish tower. They didn’t build another to evoke the tower that once was: instead a bronze child sits hugging his knees and looks at the huge hole where it stood.


WINDOW ON ART, TWO
I was a boy, practically a child, and I wanted to draw. By lying about my age, I snuck in with the students who were sketching a nude.
In the classes, I kept wasting paper struggling to find lines and shapes. That naked woman, who shifted her pose, was a challenge for my clumsy hand and nothing more: something like a breathing vase.
But one night at the bus stop, I saw her dressed for the first time. When she stepped into the bus, her skirt slid up and revealed the threshold of her thigh. That was when my body burned.


WINDOW ON A SUCCESSFUL MAN
He can’t look at the moon without calculating the distance.
He can’t look at a tree without calculating the firewood.
He can’t look at a painting without calculating the price.
He can’t look at a menu without calculating the calories.
He can’t look at a man without calculating the advantage.
He can’t look at a woman without calculating the risk.


WINDOW ON MUSIC
Papa Montero was a dance-man and crooner, the man who brought joy to the Havana night. The whole city danced the rumba with him, in him, and in his rumba let loose.
When a knife did in Papa Montero, the Havana night went mute. But in the middle of the wake a rumba was heard. Far off. Barely anyone noticed.
At dawn, when his friends went to carry the casket away, they found it empty.


WINDOW ON THE WORD
In Haiti, stories may not be told during the day. Anyone who tells a story before dark is disgraced: the mountain throws a stone at his head, his mother walks on all fours.
Nighttime draws out what is sacred, and those who know how to tell stories know that the name is the very thing that it names.


WRITTEN ON WALLS
Written on the wall in Montevideo: Nothing in vain. All is wine.
Also in Montevideo: Virgins have many Christmases, but not christenings.
In Buenos Aires: I’m so ungry I ate the h.
Also in Buenos Aires: We will revive even if it kills us!
In Quito: When we had all the answers, they changed the questions.
In Mexico: Give the president minimum wage, so he too can feel the rage.
In Lima: We don’t want to survive. We want to live.
In Havana: You can dance to anything.
In Rio de Janeiro: He who is afraid of living is never born.


WINDOW ON INVISIBLE DICTATORSHIPS
The sacrificing mother exercises the dictatorship of servitude.
The solicitous friend exercises the dictatorship of favors.
Charity exercise the dictatorship of debt.
Free markets allow us to accept the prices imposed upon us.
Free expression allows us to listen to those who speak in our name.
Free elections allows us to choose the sauce with which we will be eaten.


WINDOW ON PROHIBITIONS
On a wall in a Madrid eatery hangs a sign that says: No Singing.
On a wall in the airport of Rio de Janeiro hangs a sign that says: No Playing with Luggage Carts.
Ergo: There are still people who sing, there are still people who play.


WINDOW ON FEAR
Hunger breakfasts on fear. The fear of silence rattles the streets.
Fear threatens:
If you love, you get AIDS.
If you smoke, you get cancer.
If you breathe, you get polluted.
If you drink, you get accidents.
If you eat, you get cholesterol.
If you speak up, you get fired.
If you walk, you get mugged.
If you think, you get worried.
If you doubt, you get crazy.
If you feel, you get lonely.


WINDOW ON THE WORLD
Javier Villafane searches in vain for the word that slipped away just as he was about it say it. It was right on the tip of his tongue. Where did it go?
Is there a place for all the words that don’t want to stay? A kingdom of lost words? These words that escape, where do they lie in wait?


Tales and windows of this book include dozens of illustrations by the Brazilian Woodblock Print Artist José Francisco Borges.

Back in 1993 when Walking Words was first published, Eduardo Galeano gave a reading in a small Manhattan bookstore. It was my good fortune to be among the enthusiastic audience. After the reading I exchanged a few words with the author and, of course, purchased his book. Eduardo wrote a personal inscription - "Walking Words walk toward Glenn."

( )

Una mesa remendada, unas viejas letritas móviles de plomo o madera, una prensa que quizá Gutenberg usó: el taller de José Francisco Borges en el pueblo de Bezerros, en los adentros del Nordeste del Brasil. El aire huele a tinta, huele a maera. Las planchas de madera, en altas pilas, esperan que Borges las talle, mientas los grabados frescos, recién despegados, se secan colgados de los alambres. Con su cara tallada en madera, Borges me mira sin decir palabra.