Nunca trabalhou. Bebeu demasiado. Morreu na miséria. Devotou à poesia um amor total. Anarquista e colérico, manejava as palavras com uma alegria furiosa e levou esta alegria ao mais elevado ponto de arrebatamento.
(Michel Volkovitch sobre Nikos Karouzos, a tradução da frase é do francês, minha e tosca, claro está.)
Karouzos conta-se talvez entre aquele tipo de homens que tende a tornar-se naquela fala de Macbeth (em Macbeth de Shakespeare, evidentemente): There would have been a time for such a word. /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.
Karouzos conta-se talvez entre aquele tipo de homens que tende a tornar-se naquela fala de Macbeth (em Macbeth de Shakespeare, evidentemente): There would have been a time for such a word. /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.
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