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«Do not go gentle into that good night»

Do not got gentle into that good night,
old age should burn and rave at close of day;
rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
their frail deeds might have danced in a gren bay
rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
and learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
do no go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
curse, bless, me now with your fierece tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

***

No us deixeu endur dòcilment per la foscor,
la vellesa ha de brillar, dement, quan cau el sol.
Rebel·leu-vos, rebel·leu-vos i que no mori la llum.

Malgrat que els savis veuen la justícia de la seva fi,
no poden partir cap llamp amb la paraula – i tot i així
no es deixen endur dòcilment per la foscor.

Els homes bons, quan veuen l’última ventada,
ploren perquè seves febles fites ja no s’enlairaran,
i es rebel·len, es rebel·len perquè no mori la llum.

Els insensats que van atrapar el sol al vol
i van viure prous anys com per penedir-se’n, ells
no es deixen endur dòcilment per la foscor.

Els malaurats que, quan s’apropa la fi, incendien
el cel com meteors per darrer cop – ells són feliços
i es rebel·len, es rebel·len perquè no mori la llum.

I tu, quan em vegis des de la tristor de les altures,
beneeïx-me, maleïx-me amb fúria – t’ho prego!
No us deixeu endur dòcilment per la foscor,
Rebel·leu-vos, rebel·leu-vos i que no mori la llum.

Maria

Do not go gentle into that good night (Dylan Thomas, 1947)

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«The Disciple», modern

When Narcissus died the pool of his pleasure changed from a cup of sweet waters into a cup of salt tears, and the Oreads came weeping through the woodland that they might sing to the pool and give it comfort.

And when they saw that the pool had changed from a cup of sweet waters into a cup of salt tears, they loosened the green tresses of their hair and cried to the pool and said, «We do not wonder that you should mourn in this manner for Narcissus, so beautiful was he».

«But was Narcissus beautiful?» said the pool.

«Who should know that better than you?» answered the Oreads. «Us did he ever pass by, but you he sought for, and would lie on your banks and look down at you, and in the mirror of your waters he would mirror his own beauty».

And the pool answered, «But I loved Narcissus because, as he lay on my banks and looked down at me, in the mirror of his eyes I saw ever another pool mirrored».

The Disciple (Poems in Prose, 1924, Oscar Wilde), amb modificacions.

Audubon, Hemlock Warbler, Plate 134.

The tempest

Act 3, Scene 2, 71-79

CALIBAN — Why, as I told thee, ’tis a custom with him
I’th’afternoon to sleep; there thou mayst brain him,
having first seized his books: or with a log,
batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake,
or cut his weasand with thy knife. Remember
first to possess his books; for without them
he’s but a sot, as I am, nor hath not
one spirit to command: they all do hate him
as rootedly as I. Burn but his books.

Resan till Melonia

***

Act 3, Scene 2, 109-129

[Ariel plays the tune on a tabor an pipe]

STEPHANO — What is this same?

TRINCULO — This is the tune of our catch, played by the picture of Nobody.

STEPHANO — If thou be’st a man, show thyself in thy likeness: if thou be’st a devil, take’t as thou list.

TRINCULO — O, forgive me my sins!

STEPHANO — He that dies pays all debts: I defy thee. Mercy upon us!

CALIBAN — Are thou afeard?

STEPHANO — No, monster, not I.

CALIBAN — Be not afeard, the isle is full of noises,
sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not:
sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices,
that if I then had waked after long sleep,
will make me sleep again, and then in dreaming,
the clouds methought would open and show riches
ready to drop upon me, that when I waked
I cried to dream again.

STEPHANO — This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where I shall have my music for nothing.

CALIBAN — When Prospero is destroyed.

Paraphelidium transcriptome: some code

This is a quick post to highlight the publication of Global transcriptome analysis of the aphelid Paraphelidium tribonemae supports the phagotrophic origin of fungi by Guifré Torruella, Purificación López-García (Université Paris-Sud) et al., in Communications Biology.

In parallel, we released the R code we used to analyse the functional profile of its gene content, which you can find it in this Github repository. We used the absence/presence profile of a set of genes linked to primary metabolism in the genomes (or transcriptomes) of unicellular eukaryotes to highlight similarities between the gene content of fungi and Paraphelidium.

Thus, it can assist in the production of plots such as the following (Figure 3 in the paper):

a PCoA (Principal Coordinate Analysis) of gene presence for orthologs related to primary metabolism, across 41 eukaryotes. b same data in a binary presence/absence heatmap, with species clustering

These results highlight the similarities between the rich primary metabolism of Paraphelidium and ‘canonical’ fungi. Thus, unlike other early-branching fungal allies such as Rozella, Paraphelidium does not have a simplified metabolism. This is consistent with what is actually the most interesting result of the paper (in my opinion): the phylogenomic analysis of Paraphelidium consolidates its position as sister-group to fungi and breaks up its association with Rozella and microsporidians. This has important implications regarding the lifestyle of the ancestral fungi, which was likely phagotrophic (instead of osmotrophic).

But you should read the paper to get the whole picture.

Ich fürchte mich so vor der Menschen Wort

Ich fürchte mich so vor der Menschen Wort.
Sie sprechen alles so deutlich aus:
Und dieses heißt Hund und jenes heißt Haus,
und hier ist Beginn, und das Ende ist dort.

Mich bangt auch ihr Sinn, ihr Spiel mit dem Spott,
sie wissen alles, was wird und war;
kein Berg ist ihnen mehr wunderbar;
ihr Garten und Gut grenzt grade an Gott.

Ich will immer warnen und wehren: Bleibt fern.
Die Dinge singen hör ich so gern.
Ihr rührt sie an: sie sind starr und stumm.
Ihr bringt mir alle die Dinge um.

***

Les paraules dels homes m’omplen de temor.
Parlen de totes les coses amb mots clars:
així que això és una casa, i això és un gos,
i aquí hi ha el principi, i aquí hi ha el final.

M’espanta com pensen, el seu joc sardònic;
saben què passarà, i saben què passà;
i a cap muntanya hi queda res sagrat:
béns i jardins fan frontera amb els divins.

Sempre he d’avisar-los: ni us apropeu!
És la música de les coses el que pretenc sentir.
Les toqueu: però elles romanen quietes i mudes.
Tots vosaltres em mateu les coses.

Rainer Maria Rilke

«L’església catòlica espanyola»

Puta paparra, carronya on fermenta
La claveguera de la llum del dia,
Apunta el seu coet lluna opulenta
I implora no fallar la punteria.

Teixeix sotanes una aranya lenta.
Com ballen amb les vides per la via
Que va del militar a la serventa!
Despullen amb les ungles pedreria.

Ens fa de mare i de pare, i s’engreixa
De tèrbola tenebra, i no desdenya
De beneir la reixa de la queixa.

Be mossegaire, mal de tots nosaltres,
Aquesta activitat d’ensenyar els altres
Aplica-te-la, porca, a tu mateixa.

L’esglèsia catòlica espanyola (Joan Brossa, Poesia rasa I, 1950-1955)

«Final!»

Havies d’haver fet una altra fi;
et mereixies, hipòcrita, un mur a
un altre clos. La teva dictadura,
la teva puta vida d’assassí,

quin incendi de sang! Podrit botxí,
prou t’havia d’haver estovat la dura
fosca dels pobles, donat a tortura,
penjat d’un arbre al fons d’algun camí.

Rata de la més mala delinqüència,
t’esqueia una altra mort amb violència,
la fi de tants des d’aquell juliol.

Però l’has feta de tirà espanyol,
sol i hivernat, gargall de la ciència
i amb tuf de sang i merda. Sa Excremència!—

Glòria del bunyol,
ha mort el dictador més vell d’Europa.
Una abraçada, amor, i alcem la copa!

Final! (Joan Brossa, 20 de novembre de 1975)