Nausicaa

Gerty MacDowell who was seated near her companions, lost in thought, gazing far away into the distance, was in very truth as fair a specimen of winsome Irish girlhood as one could wish to see. She was pronounced beautiful by all who knew her though, as folks often said, she was more a Giltrap than a MacDowell. Her figure was slight and graceful, inclining even to fragility but those iron jelloids she had been taking of late had done her a world of good much better than the Widow Welch's female pills and she was much better of those discharges she used to get and that tired feeling. The waxen pallor of her face was almost spiritual in its ivorylike purity though her rosebud mouth was a genuine Cupid's bow, Greekly perfect. Her hands were of finely veined alabaster with tapering fingers and as white as lemon juice and queen of ointments could make them though it was not true that she used to wear kid gloves in bed or take a milk footbath either. Bertha Supple told that once to Edy Boardman, a deliberate lie, when she was black out at daggers drawn with Gerty (the girl chums had of course their little tiffs from time to time like the rest of mortals) and she told her not let on whatever she did that it was her that told her or she'd never speak to her again. No. Honour where honour is due. There was an innate refinement, a languid queenly hauteur about Gerty which was unmistakably evidenced in her delicate hands and higharched instep. Had kind fate but willed her to be born a gentlewoman of high degree in her own right and had she only received the benefit of a good education Gerty MacDowell might easily have held her own beside any lady in the land and have seen herself exquisitely gowned with jewels on her brow and patrician suitors at her feet vying with one another to pay their devoirs to her. Mayhap it was this, the love that might have been, that lent to her softlyfeatured face at whiles a look, tense with suppressed meaning, that imparted a strange yearning tendency to the beautiful eyes a charm few could resist. Why have women such eyes of witchery? Gerty's were of the bluest Irish blue, set off by lustrous lashes and dark expressive brows. Time gas when those brows were not so silkilyseductive. It was Madame Vera Verity, directress of the Woman Beautiful page of the Princess novelette, who had first advised her to try eyebrowleine which gave that haunting expression to the eyes, so becoming in leaders of fashion, and she had never regretted it. Then there was blushing scientifically cured and how to be tall increase your height and you have a beautiful face but your nose? That would suit Mrs Dignam because she had a button one. But Gerty's crowning glory was her wealth of wonderful hair. It was dark brown with a natural wave in it. She had cut it that very morning on account of the new moon and it nestled about her pretty head in a profusion of luxuriant clusters and pared her nails too, Thursday for wealth. And just now at Edy's words as a telltale flush, delicate as the faintest rosebloom, crept into her cheeks she looked so lovely in her sweet girlish shyness that of a surety God's fair land of Ireland did not hold her equal.

Eily Mavourneen - (from The Lily Of Killarney by Jules Benedict) - J.J. ...

Joan Sutherland Balfe Siege of Rochelle T'was in the garden beauti...

Conferencia «Antonio Buero Vallejo, un teatro crítico, rebelde y esperanzado», a cargo de Antonio Chazarra. Te esperamos en el Ateneo de Madrid

Antonio Buero Vallejo

Centenario del nacimiento de Antonio Buero Vallejo (29/9/1916-29/4/2000)
Viernes 29 de enero.19.00 horas. Conferencia «Antonio Buero Vallejo, un teatro crítico, rebelde y esperanzado», a cargo de Antonio Chazarra. Preside Enrique Tierno. Presenta Francisco Castañón. Invitación. Sinopsis. Imágenes. Citas en medios: La Vanguardia | Te Interesa | Telecinco | Escritoadrede | El Economista | Spain News | Telemadrid | Madridpress | Literatura Noticias |
En el transcurso del acto rinden homenaje al activo ateneísta Antonio Buero Vallejo leyendo diversos textos:
Pedro Sánchez, Paz Ballesteros, Miguel Losada, Luz Olier, Manuel Espín, Rosa Bustelo, Rafael Simancas, Pedro López Arriba, Mercedes Lezcano, Ignacio Amestoy, Pilar Guerrero, Ángel M. Samperio, José María Alfaya,  Francisco Ortuño, Ana G. D’Atri, Eduardo G. Peribañez, Maripaz González, Graciela Rodríguez.

Ingresa en el Ateneo con fecha 21/07/1948, Socio nº 986, con la profesión de pintor. El 30/03/1985 es nombrado Socio de Mérito. Causa baja el 30/04/2000 por fallecimiento.
Durante años frecuentó el Ateneo casi a diario. Las mañanas se instalaba en la Biblioteca donde pasaba largas horas escribiendo y leyendo. En los pupitres de la Biblioteca del Ateneo escribe “Historia de una escalera” (según testimonio del ponente y miembro de la Junta de Gobierno Antonio  Chazarra). En un autógrafo que dedicó en un libro de la Biblioteca en 1995 se definía como “antiguo socio y muy agradecido a su biblioteca”.
"Por las tardes, frecuentaba la tertulia de la Galería de Retratos en las que se reunía entre otros con su amigo de siempre Ramón de Garciasol, con Felipe García Ibáñez, director de Ediciones Cid, con el abogado Rodolfo Vázquez y con Pedro Dicenta, sobrino del famoso actor Manuel Dicenta".(Del artículo "Antonio Buero Vallejo, en su ardiente oscuridad" de Miguel Losada. Libro Ateneístas Ilustres I).
El Ateneo de Madrid posee un retrato del dramaturgo que se expondrá en el evento.  

Te esperamos en el Ateneo de Madrid, el sábado 23. We really looking forward to meeting them

The Night Before Larry Was Stretched. "Talking about hanging. I´ll show you somenthing you never show". Cyclops.

The curse of my curses

Seven days every day
And seven dry Thursdays
On you, Barney Kiernan,
Has no sup of water
To cool my courage,
And my guts red roaring
After Lowry's lights.

Cyclops. Time: 5 p.m.

Easter 1916, by William Butler Yeats

I
I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

II

That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse.
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vain-glorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

III

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter, seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute change.
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim;
And a horse plashes within it
Where long-legged moor-hens dive
And hens to moor-cocks call.
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.

IV

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death.
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead.
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse --
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.