Relatively soon, I will die. Maybe in 20 years, maybe tomorrow, it doesn’t matter. Once I am dead and everyone who knew me dies too, it will be as though I never existed. What difference has my life made to anyone. None that I can think of. None at all.
The music, like writing and reading are very important factors in my life. With reading and writing it was always a discovery made by me; the music, and as a child I was invited, thanks to my uncle João Brito, to sleep listen to jazz, blues…
The only two books that I read at age of ten borrowed by my uncle was “Les jeux sont faits” and “Le Matin des magiciens”.
There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written or badly written. That is all.
O que é deliciosamente assustador, naturalmente, sem a profusão literária das memórias involuntárias produzidas pelo sabor das migalhas da madeleine de Proust misturadas numa colher com chá, são os pequenos pedaços do meu passado, desencadeados por um cheiro intenso de saudável maresia, que se foram desenrolando na mente enquanto tentava adormecer e outros fragmentos que entretanto surgem enquanto tento descrever essa noite – e não havendo, na verdade, qualquer sequência cronológica e muito menos lógica nas lembranças, são, não obstante isso, os fotograficamente eternos pequenos instantes do meu passado.
from fragmentos de um paradoxo
what book to choose?
goblin: Which book would you take to a desert island?
pbrito: Why would I want to go to a desert island?
goblin: It is a purely academic question. Only to define what is your favorite book.
pbrito: This is intended to be an interview or a psychological profile?
[…] “À la recherche du temps perdu” (Marcel Proust) will always be the book that I would take to an island.
Longtemps, je me suis couché de bonne heure. Parfois, à peine ma bougie éteinte, mes yeux se fermaient si vite que je n’avais pas le temps de me dire: «Je m’endors.»
Du Côté de Chez Swann, Marcel Proust
meet my team
He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision — he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath — “The horror! The horror!”
Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness