Heterologias

Francis Bacon (1909-1992), Painting, 1946, óleo sobre tela, 198cm × 132 cm cm, Museum of Modern Art



IT IS a melancholy object to those who walk through this great town or travel in the country, when they see the streets, the roads, and cabin doors, crowded with beggars of the female sex, followed by three, four, or six children, all in rags and importuning every passenger for an alms. These mothers, instead of being able to work for their honest livelihood, are forced to employ all their time in strolling to beg sustenance for their helpless infants: who as they grow up either turn thieves for want of work, or leave their dear native country to fight for the Pretender in Spain, or sell themselves to the Barbadoes.

I think it is agreed by all parties that this prodigious number of children in the arms, or on the backs, or at the heels of their mothers, and frequently of their fathers, is in the present deplorable state of the kingdom a very great additional grievance; and, therefore, whoever could find out a fair, cheap, and easy method of making these children sound, useful members of the commonwealth, would deserve so well of the public as to have his statue set up for a preserver of the nation.

But my intention is very far from being confined to provide only for the children of professed beggars; it is of a much greater extent, and shall take in the whole number of infants at a certain age who are born of parents in effect as little able to support them as those who demand our charity in the streets.

(...)

I shall now therefore humbly propose my own thoughts, which I hope will not be liable to the least objection.

I have been assured by a very knowing American of my acquaintance in London, that a young healthy child well nursed is at a year old a most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled; and I make no doubt that it will equally serve in a fricassee or a ragout.

I do therefore humbly offer it to public consideration that of the hundred and twenty thousand children already computed, twenty thousand may be reserved for breed, whereof only one-fourth part to be males; which is more than we allow to sheep, black cattle or swine; and my reason is, that these children are seldom the fruits of marriage, a circumstance not much regarded by our savages, therefore one male will be sufficient to serve four females. That the remaining hundred thousand may, at a year old, be offered in the sale to the persons of quality and fortune through the kingdom; always advising the mother to let them suck plentifully in the last month, so as to render them plump and fat for a good table. A child will make two dishes at an entertainment for friends; and when the family dines alone, the fore or hind quarter will make a reasonable dish, and seasoned with a little pepper or salt will be very good boiled on the fourth day, especially in winter.

I have reckoned upon a medium that a child just born will weigh 12 pounds, and in a solar year, if tolerably nursed, increaseth to 28 pounds.

I grant this food will be somewhat dear, and therefore very proper for landlords, who, as they have already devoured most of the parents, seem to have the best title to the children.

Jonathan Swift (1667-1745), A Modest Proposal: For Preventing the Children of Poor People in Ireland from Being a Burden to Their Parents or Country, and for Making Them Beneficial to the Publick (1729)


Bacon


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Etiquetas: Body, cannibalism, capitalism, Disobedience, Economics, foda-se caralho, Genocide, Holocaust, José Sócrates, Literature, mass consumption, pedophilia, politically correct, Swift, vieille cuisine

E esta que fingiu nunca dar por mim, quando o carro arranca e me deixa esquecido, diz:

- Adeus, meu senhor .

Como quem diz: estavas aí e me viste e me desejaste, e quiseste o meu cono, e fui tua. Nunca mais me verás, fantasma de blusão negro e óculos grossos cara aparvalhada, fica-te, tarrenego!, sei lá quem tu és - não sou para ti.

E eu que era para ela. Outra qualquer. Dentro e fora da memória, fantasma para fantasmas.Vou para a cama. O vinho pesa-me na cabeça. Bebo água fria para desenjoar a gorja. Durmo como um bendito. Acordo no escuro, cedo, 6 ou 5 horas, há um grupo na Pensão que se está a levantar, batem portas. Estou excitadíssimo. O meu homem virá ao encontro? Onde o hei-de meter? Nestes quartos ouve-se tudo.

Abjecção. Remorsos. Decido não ir. Misturo a Deolinda com o António e sem mexer na picha estou quase a vir-me. De repente, tudo é tão violento que tenho de bater uma punheta.

Como a Natureza previu todas as nossas fraquezas e ausências, dotou-nos também com outro caralho para o cu detrás. Meto o dedo (médio?) todo no cu, bato a punheta. E a ejaculação, forte porque há dias que estou sem deitar nada cá para fora, dá-me contracções no esfincter. Gozozíssimas. Venho-me imenso. Estou cada vez mais excitado. Cada passo na escada parece julgo que é o António que vem e me penetra e me obriga a chupar-lhe o delicioso caralho que não vi. Escândalo. Tribunal Militar.Vergonha. Filhos a saberem tudo. Loucura. Suicídio. Tomo meio Calmax. A pouco e pouco a corda vai-se aligeirando, estou melhor. Mas que vontade de ter pecado. De pecar. Como assim: de viver.
Descubro que o êxito e o fracasso são uma e a mesma cadeia e em tudo. O êxito para cima, o fracasso para baixo, e quando digo baixo digo baixo: sujidões, dívidas, vergonhas, podridão, loucura. Mas o que toma tudo igual é que ambas as cadeias se encontram, nada a fazer, meus caros, daqui a cem anos ninguém se lembra.

E a nossa lição-abjecção a quem aproveitará?

Já tanto faz.

Tanto nos faz.

Braga, 16 ou 17 de Outubro, 1961.

Luiz Pacheco, O Libertino Passeia por Braga, a Idolátrica, o Seu Esplendor (1961), 1ª ed. 1970

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Etiquetas: Angola 62, Art, caralho, Disobedience, foda-se caralho, José Sócrates, Literature, Luiz Pacheco, paneleiros, pedophilia, politically correct, pornography, Scatology, Sexuality

Retrato de Ethel Hatch, com 9 anos, pelo Reverendo Charles Dodgson (1832-1898)
"Her admirers - middle-aged men and clergymen - respond to her dubious coquetry, to the sight of her well-shaped and desirable little body"...


Wee Willie Winkie

The owners of a child star are like leaseholders - their property diminishes in value every year. Time's chariot is at their back; before them acres of anonymity. What is Jackie Coogan now but a matrimonialsquabble? Miss Shirley Temple's case, though, has peculiar interest: infancy is her disguise, her appeal is more secret and more adult. Already two years ago she was a fancy little piece (real childhood, I think, went out after "The Littlest Rebel"). In "Captain January" she wore trousers with the mature suggestiveness of a Dietrich: her neat and well-developed rump twisted in the tap-dance; her eyes had a sidelong searching coquetry. Now in "Wee Willie Winkie," wearing short kilts, she is completely totsy. Watch her swaggering stride across the Indian barrack-square; hear the gasp of excited expectation from her antique audience when the sergeant's palm is raised; watch the way she measures a man with agile studio eyes, with dimpled depravity. Adult emotions of love and grief glissade across the mask of childhood, a childhood skin-deep. It is clever, but it cannot last. Her admirers - middle-aged men and clergymen - respond to her dubious coquetry, to the sight of her well-shaped and desirable little body, packed with enormous vitality, only because the safety curtain of story and dialogue drops between their intelligence and their desire. 'Why are you making Mummy cry?' - what could be purer than that? And the scene when dressed in a white nightdress she begs grandpa to take Mummy to a dance - what could be more virginal? On those lines her new picture, made by John Ford, who directed "The Informer," is horrifyingly competent. It isn't hard to stay to the last prattle and the last sob. The story - about an Afghan robber converted by "Wee Willie Winkie" to the British Raj - is a long way after Kipling. But we needn't be sour about that. Both stories are awful, but on the whole Hollywood's is the better.

Graham Greene (1904-1991), "Wee Willie Winkie", Night and Day, 28 October 1937



Cartaz para Wee Willie Winkie (1937), de John Ford

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Etiquetas: Cinema, Disobedience, Dodgson, foda-se caralho, Graham Green, John Ford, José Sócrates, Literature, Mass Media, pedophilia, politically correct, Sexuality, Shirley Temple

Caravaggio, "Boy Bitten by a Lizard", c. 1594, oil on canvas, 65,8 x 52,3 cm, Collezione Longhi, Florence.
Veio o lagarto... e mordeu-o

Nunca te foram ao cu
Nem nas perninhas, aposto!
Mas um homem como tu,
Lavadinho, todo nu, gosto!

Sem ter pentelho nenhum
com certeza, não desgosto,
Até gosto!
Mas... gosto mais de fedelhos.

Vou-lhes ao cu
Dou-lhes conselhos,
Enfim... gosto

Antonio Botto (1897-1959)
in Natália Correia (org.), Antologia de Poesia Portuguesa Erótica e Satírica, Lisboa, Afrodite, 1966



"Rub-a-dub, three men in a tub--Just look at the smiles on their faces!" (1955)

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Etiquetas: Botto, caralho, Disobedience, foda-se caralho, José Sócrates, nazism, paneleiros, Pedofilia, pedophilia, Poetry, politically correct