quinta-feira, 23 de abril de 2026

Cartoon - Jim Unger

 








Almoços vários

Em 07.04.2026 com os VetVals1: Carlos Amorim, Daniel Machado, João de Deus, João Francisco, Luis Costa, Luis Miranda, eu, José Azevedo e Alfredo Duarte.



Em 24 de Março com IST2 - Zé Morgado (há 45 anos que o não via), o Fernando Freitas, o Jorge Matos e o João Cruz no Fragateiro na Trafaria.






Com o Alfredo Duarte (e família) na Amadora em 07.03.2026


Com Jorge Basílio e Isabel no XS Lounge (22.03.2026)


Livro - Le Sport-Spectacle de compétition de Jean Marie Brohm

Apesar da tendência progressista do autor, é inegável o talento para elencar e denunciar o que de mal o desporto actual tem. Incluindo um exemplo nacional como a invasão da academia do Sporting...

Por cá, para lá de continuar tudo bem (...), não tenho conhecimento de ensaios desta natureza.











Observador - Da família para o safe space (Nuno Lebreiro)

 


(sublinhados pessoais)

Da família para o safe space

Imagine-se, por exemplo, Péricles declamando sobre qual a regulamentação adequada do teor de gordura no leite, ou sobre a quantidade de sal no pão

Em A Condição Humana, Hannah Arendt observa que a sociedade moderna dissolveu a separação entre o público e o privado que definia a família na sociedade clássica. Na Grécia antiga, o lar era acima de tudo um espaço privado. Dentro dela, os filhos deviam obediência aos pais que, em troca, lhes providenciavam educação, protecção e sustento, numa relação directa e soberana face ao colectivo. Essa reciprocidade assentava em amor, sangue, responsabilidade, respeito, orgulho e hierarquia, nunca em “direitos”, menos ainda em regulamentação tutelar por parte de um Estado central. A polis, pelo outro lado, configurava o espaço político onde os cidadãos elegíveis podiam participar no debate público, decidindo assuntos comuns, políticos, sociais e económicos, onde não se misturavam as miudezas da economia doméstica, naturalmente relegada para dentro das quatro paredes que compunham o mundo privado da família.

Essa fronteira público-privado era, naturalmente, essencial na formação dos indivíduos. Na medida em que os assuntos “domésticos” ficavam fora da política, bem como do “regulamento”, ou da “administração pública”, a sociedade clássica, uma sociedade, paradoxalmente, muito menos individualista do que a moderna, garantia efectiva separação entre o indivíduo — parido, nutrido, acarinhado, educado no recesso do seu lar — e o Estado. Arendt nota, com pertinência, que a modernidade inverteu o processo: ainda que em nome do interesse do indivíduo e dos seus “inalienáveis direitos”, a sociedade de massas acabou “socializando” em larga medida aquela componente outrora privada da sociedade.

Desde logo, o indivíduo sai a perder, e por uma razão simples: a família governa no concreto; o Estado, no geral e abstracto. Assim, onde a família, bem como a pequena comunidade, lida, trata, se relaciona com pessoas de carne e osso, ao Estado, gerindo todos, em massa, sobra apenas a abstracção do modelo teórico, do algoritmo, ou da tendência social. Como Aristóteles lembrava a propósito daquilo que é público, no estado moderno, o indivíduo, interessando abstractamente a todos, não interessa, de facto, a ninguém, transformando-se num número, uma insignificância estatística, um grão transportado numa imensa engrenagem.

Pior ainda, é que foi todo o mundo privado doméstico que se esvaiu para dentro da própria política. É por essa razão que no mundo moderno grande parte do debate público gira necessariamente em torno de questões outrora domésticas, pouco dignas de qualquer debate inflamado na ágora: imagine-se, por exemplo, Péricles declamando sobre qual a regulamentação adequada do teor de gordura no leite, ou sobre a quantidade de proteínas na carne, a quantidade de sal no pão — tudo temas que, por incrível que pareça, junto com vírgulas orçamentais, compõem hoje em dia as manchetes dos jornais que entretêm a população. Aliás, do mesmo modo doméstico, prático, se mede também a “felicidade” nacional através do número de televisores, ou Bimby, por habitante, número de automóveis por agregado familiar, computadores, telemóveis, etc., etc. — assim se decretando científica e estatisticamente sobre os sucessos, ou insucessos, de cada governação.

Em suma, no mundo moderno, o poder político, e não a sociedade através das suas instituições — família, comunidade, empresa, corporação —, é aquele que se preocupa “efectivamente com os reais problemas das populações”, tratando, acima de tudo, da “qualidade de vida” das pessoas, assim garantindo e certificando que estão todos em segurança, entre outras, alimentar. Todos, atente-se, e por igual — assim funciona a sociedade de massas no conforto do geral e abstracto.

Consequentemente, porque o poder não pode propriamente cair na rua, muito mais despercebido que a regulamentação estatal sobre cápsulas de garrafas passa o debate sobre os essenciais desígnios nacionais, ou civilizacionais. Esses grandes objectivos geracionais, tal como no mundo clássico, separam-se dos outros assuntos mais comezinhos, apenas que agora não para o espaço de cidadania, como em Atenas, mas para fora dele, no caso, para o multilateralismo global das grandes organizações internacionais, das ONG, dos simpósios com oradores ex-primeiro-ministros pagos a preço de ouro e transportados por aviões a jacto. Aí, nos corredores da grande finança e negociata internacional, em espaços neutros de soberania, ficam os destinos do mundo convenientemente arrumados, bem acima do alcance dos narizes rasteiros de quem apenas trata da sua vida doméstica. E assim se mantém uma conveniente segregação entre o essencial e o acessório, mesmo que apenas no campo prático, real, já que no teórico, bem como na TV, todos são iguais, todos votam e todos decidem por igual.

O Estado não se limitou, no entanto, a gerir a sociedade de forma prática e realista. No seu afã utilitário, para o bem de todos, e em nome de todos, assumiu também o papel de educador moral e higiénico da sociedade. Vai daí que, por estes dias, toda uma classe política, desde os líderes máximos até ao mais humilde presidente de junta, se ocupe a fechar vias ao automóvel, reduzir limites de velocidade para 30 km/h e pintar faixas verdes e cor-de-rosa para bicicletas, trotinetas, patins, skates e demais traquitanas eléctricas, assim “mudando comportamentos”, implementando “estilos de vida alternativos” para, enquanto se “salva o planeta”, aplicar com zelo as portarias, financiar a ASAE e estafar milhões em propaganda capaz de curar os cidadãos dos malefícios tenebrosos do sal, do açúcar, da nicotina, do álcool e do sedentarismo. É, assim, com gentil benevolência, que o poder tutelar, ora tornado absoluto, molda estilos de vida “saudáveis”, tudo para gáudio do povoléu, desde que devidamente certificados e recomendados por especialistas de bata branca que apareçam na TV.

No final, o resultado é simples: onde as fronteiras que defendem o direito ao privado,  à privacidade, ao íntimo, soçobram e se quebram, como foi o caso do reduto familiar, logo o todo inunda o particular, tudo massificando, igualando, nivelando — destruindo —, assim impondo, pela força de um gigantesco rolo compressor, o grande desígnio do liberalismo moderno: a igualdade estandardizada, garantida, imposta, certificada, carimbada, de uma sociedade massificada, gerida por um Estado massificado, numa união de mentes e vontades também elas massificadas — todos sonhando a paz perpétua, fraterna, universal.

De facto, o Estado já pouco tem do velho Leviatão autoritário que exigia uma alegórica fusão de soberanias individuais. Hoje, é muito mais o triunfo de um novel, moderníssimo, soberano: não tanto o célebre Grande Irmão de Orwell, mas uma síntese hermafrodita entre o Grande Pai, que tudo limita, controla, fiscaliza, punindo uns com multas, todos assustando com a sua autoridade, e a Grande Mãe que, protegendo do mundo inseguro e hostil lá de fora, vem acariciar, prometer apoios e  garantir que “vai ficar tudo bem”, estando sempre presente, carinhosa, nutrindo o súbdito obediente pelo colo e mama, prometendo segurança, desde o berço até à cova.

Este fenómeno, obviamente, não surgiu do nada. Olhando para trás, foi precisamente o declínio da família ocidental enquanto instituição que criou um vazio que o Estado veio diligentemente preencher: à medida que a família perdeu a capacidade e autoridade para educar, proteger e dar sentido à vida dos indivíduos, o Estado — e a sociedade de massas que o sustenta — absorveu essas funções. Reordenando-se a fronteira entre público e privado do binómio Estado-Família para o Estado-Indivíduo, o mundo moderno escancarou as portas dos castelos privados que compunham uma sociedade livre e independente que, desde então, se foi, progressivamente, esvaindo para esse novo super-estado, essa entidade supra-tutelar que, para todos os efeitos, se sente legítima e constitucionalmente dona dos “seus” cidadãos.

Nada disto, no entanto, preocupa grandemente o homem moderno. Afinal, a família, em particular a sua formação, defesa e propagação, é tarefa de pessoas, pessoas essas que entre a responsabilidade árdua, bem como a capacidade de abnegação, altruísmo e sacrifício que a tarefa, ou missão, implica, tendem a escolher outros caminhos mais fáceis, prazenteiros, certamente mais convenientes no imediato. A missão árdua, convenhamos, não é a escolha típica do homem moderno — e se o é, não tem o vínculo de responsabilidade que, outrora, foi capaz de manter a instituição familiar acima dos devaneios, abandonos e arremessos emocionais dos momentos presentes. Afogado num mar de promessas de facilidades, bem como assustado perante o peso de responsabilidades para as quais não está preparado, o homem moderno, seja pela TV, seja pelo novel telefone táctil armado de “inteligência” artificial, no conforto da “civilização mais avançada e rica da história”, de modo “seguro e eficaz”, tende a deixar largamente a condução da sua vida e das suas escolhas para terceiros.

Desse modo, abastado em conveniência, os dias sucedem-se, preferencialmente sem surpresas, sustos ou particulares ansiedades, vestindo-se aquilo que o especialista de moda sugeriu na TV, comendo-se o que o especialista de nutrição prescreveu para perder peso e, claro está, ingerindo-se os medicamentos que os especialistas da grande indústria farmacêutica garantiram tudo vir melhorar — desde a constante luta contra a depressão até à conquista máxima, mesmo que estéril, da pujança sexual.

Desse modo, o telemóvel, que já faz tudo menos telefonar, rouba a agência e a responsabilidade individual da escolha e decisão: é o telefone, por exemplo, que, de manhã, decide se se justifica a gabardine ou o cachecol; se é mais rápido ir de transporte público ou de carro eléctrico; ou até, a qualquer momento de exasperante espera — o homem moderno pode tudo menos esperar sozinho, consigo mesmo —, é o telefone que entretém, faz rir, chorar e, claro está, vende a narrativa consensual, comunitária, que, entre heróis louvados e vilões vilipendiados, acaba motivando, consoante as ocasiões, o ódio raivoso, ou a celebração frenética, que guiarão as bem treinadas multidões rumo às grandes conquistas do progresso e da modernidade.

Consequentemente, na base da destruição do núcleo fundador da identidade individual — a família — estão os próprios indivíduos que, progressivamente alienados, assim proporcionam um novo território de expansão e colonização para o Estado — o seu próprio espaço mental. Gera-se um ciclo vicioso: família enfraquecida gera indivíduos fracos e dependentes; estes, por conseguinte, a gerarem, geram também eles famílias fracas e facilmente dissolúveis — e assim sucessivamente. Nos entretantos, o Estado torna-se cada vez maior, e mais poderoso, bem como cada vez mais exigente, cada vez mais tutelar, justificando todo este processo — ainda que profundamente desumano no desrespeito que revela perante os princípios fundamentais da vida — como sendo do interesse das pessoas. No final, explicam-nos, “é tudo para o nosso bem”.

Eis, então, a expressão máxima do liberalismo progressista contemporâneo: em nome dos maiores princípios tolerar as maiores atrocidades, inclusive onde a vida e a morte são trocadas por patacos, sempre em nome da conveniência, sem qualquer outro intuito que não seja o slogan cada vez mais gasto e repetido da liberdade: aborto? É a liberdade da mulher. Eutanásia? É a liberdade face à dor. Ultra-securitarismo? É a liberdade face ao risco e ao incerto. Esbulho fiscal? É a liberdade da justiça social. Hiper-vigilância? É a liberdade face ao crime. Controlo da liberdade de expressão? É a liberdade face às ofensas e os sentimentos magoados — e ai daquele que recalcitrar, apóstata herege, negacionista radical, que urge expurgar, limpar e expulsar do corpo social.

Nesta perspectiva, e analisando bem os frutos da grande marcha dos últimos 200 anos, a “libertação” promovida pelo Estado “liberal” apenas revelou um rosto já há muito conhecido — o do déspota. Ao usurpar o papel da família — educar, proteger, alimentar, moralizar —, o Estado falhou por completo na libertação do indivíduo para uma existência mais plena, feliz e completa. Libertou-o, no entanto, da responsabilidade ao prometer, de forma enganadora, livrá-lo da angústia, do risco e da incerteza. Ora, como esse momento de absoluta segurança, uma vez abandonado o útero materno, nunca retorna, o esforço de “libertação” do indivíduo apenas gerou um processo sem fim onde o Estado, a troco de mais poder, e custando cada vez mais liberdade, pretende aplacar as angústias e incertezas mais banais nos seres humanos — no fundo, realizar uma utopia onde a impossibilidade de sucesso reside precisamente nas características intrínsecas das pessoas que sonham com a utopia.

O resultado é, como é óbvio, o famoso safe space: um espaço progressivamente menor onde o indivíduo se “liberta” progressivamente de mais e mais coisas. Liberta-se da família, ora substituída por apoios estatais e “novas formas de parentalidade”; liberta-se da comunidade onde o outro, pela mera opinião, pode ofender e ferir susceptibilidades; liberta-se do corpo, com cirurgias, amputações, castrações, hormonas e identidades fluídas, inventadas e geridas por especialistas; liberta-se da liberdade, pois que sem responsabilidade ninguém pode ser livre para decidir seja o que for; liberta-se, até, da realidade — afinal, “mulheres podem ter pénis”, garantem os especialistas. No limite, liberta-se da própria existência incómoda: através da eutanásia, assistida, em cápsulas de design futurista, controlada, planificada a tempo e horas de acordo com a conveniência do calendário familiar. No fim, sobram apenas homúnculos e o cumprimento literal, absoluto, dos desígnios do liberalismo progressista: “libertação” — eufemismo para “abdicação” — extrema, igualdade completa. Quem diria que a máxima Kantiana da paz perpétua se realizaria na cela exígua e solitária do safe space da alienação mental?

Quanto aos outros — os resistentes —, resta apenas uma conclusão, tão evidente quanto necessária: o safe space, e a destruição do indivíduo que tal ideal consigo acarreta, configura, não apenas o resultado prático da utopia progressista liberal, como é também o antónimo perfeito de uma família bem-sucedida. E, por essa mesma razão, perceber a família como o coração palpitante, vibrante, fundador de indivíduos fortes, saudáveis, integrados, adultos e independentes, homens e mulheres capazes de gerar uma sociedade livre, esse é o único antídoto para o veneno que nos nossos dias vai corroendo, e matando, a sociedade dita liberal.

___

Nota do A.: No próximo Sábado, dia 18 de Abril, terei o prazer de estar presente no III Simpósio do SALL – Constituição e Senso Comum, em Lisboa, no auditório CUF Tejo, para uma conversa sobre a importância do papel da família na sociedade. Pode ver o programa e inscrever-se aqui.


The Spectator - The real reason VAR has ruined football

 

(personal underlines)

The real reason VAR has ruined football

The two main harms of government regulation, to be balanced against any benefits, are cost and delay. But there is another harm, rarer but lethal when it happens. Sometimes regulation perversely increases risk by lulling the regulated business or people into a false sense of safety.

I had this thought last weekend as I watched a football match on television. My beloved Newcastle United beat Aston Villa in the FA Cup fourth round, but the match made headlines because of five bafflingly bad decisions taken by the referee and his linesmen: failing to award two clear penalties, failing to give a red card for a dangerous tackle and failing to spot two offsides that led to goals.

Four of the five decisions went against my team but that is not my point. Because it was the FA Cup, there was no Video Assistant Referee (VAR) to check and overrule the ref. Whereas some say this proved the need for VAR, Alan Shearer made a more perceptive comment: ‘If you ever needed any evidence of the damage VAR has done to the referees, I think today is a great example of that. These guys I think look petrified to make a decision today because they didn’t have a comfort blanket. For me, they’re actually getting worse.In other words, the introduction of new technology to help referees has made them less good at their job.

The same thing happened in the run-up to the financial crisis. There was plenty of regulation of banks, indeed the volume and detail of regulation increased significantly before the crash. The Financial Services Authority (FSA) crawled all over banks, demanding to see how they handled various risks. The widespread notion that deregulation caused the crash is nonsense. It was the under–regulated hedge funds that came through the crisis in best shape precisely because they had no comfort blanket.

As the 15 authors of one 2009 study, led by Philip Booth of the Institute of Economic Affairs, concluded: ‘Though [we find] that statutory regulation failed, and that market participants took more risks than they should have done, it appears that statutory regulation made matters worse rather than better.’ This is partly because regulators were obsessed with one kind of risk and neglected another. Credit risk (whether borrowers could pay back money they had borrowed) was the constant concern of the regulator. Liquidity risk (whether lenders might stop supplying funds) was often barely mentioned. Yet it was mainly liquidity drying up that brought down the mortgage banks and many other institutions.

Credit risk in Britain turned out to be roughly as the banks had calculated; liquidity risk turned out to be much higher. Why had the boards of banks not taken more notice of the risks they were running on the borrowing side? Because the regulator inadvertently reassured them by neglecting the topic. Said the bulls to the bears on the boards: ‘The FSA’s not worried, so why are you?’

Moreover, as John Kay and Mervyn King pointed out in their book Radical Uncertainty, the regulated banks had got into the habit of putting a number on every risk, to indicate probability multiplied by impact. They did this to satisfy the regulator. In effect, this turned regulation into a box-ticking operation. But some risks were unquantifiable, so putting numbers on them misled the risk committees of these banks and the regulators too. ‘The biggest mistake governments made was to pretend they knew more than they did,’ said Kay and King.

In America, regulators made a worse and rather less subtle mistake in the early 2000s. The American government decided that sub-prime lending should be encouraged in order to help more poor people and minorities to get mortgages. They did this mainly by ordering two huge, government-backed entities, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, to drive up the proportion of sub-prime mortgages.

With a government guarantee behind their borrowing, the two went out and bought portfolios of mortgages off lenders, who happily responded by abandoning almost all restraint on sub-prime lending. Why do we care whether this chap can repay his loan, they asked themselves, if others are going to take the loan off our books? Why do we care, said Fannie and Freddie, if the taxpayer is guaranteeing us? By 2008, when the music stopped, Freddie and Fannie held more than $2 trillion of such loans with high default rates and high loan-to-value ratios. They had spent $175 million lobbying to defend their government guarantee.

The late John Adams of University College London wrote a book about a general human tendency for ‘risk compensation’: if you make our lives safer, we will take more risks. People wearing seat belts drive faster, other things being equal, than those not wearing them. American states that brought in laws mandating the use of motorcycle helmets saw relatively more motorcycle accidents than those that did not. A spot where a rural road crossed a railway in Canada, with no gates or warning lights, was rendered ‘safer’ by cutting down trees so cars could see if trains were coming – the result was an accident for the first time, because cars slowed down less.

Conversely, Sweden’s ‘Hogertrafikomlaggningen’ in 1967 – when, overnight, drivers switched to driving on the right – caused a temporary reduction in accidents, as drivers compensated for the expected increased risk by driving more carefully.

Of course, this argument shouldn’t be taken too far. Regulation does help reduce risk: speed limits, drink-driving laws, bans on texting while driving all help. Yet if you try to explain to a regulatory body that badly designed regulations might sometimes make things less safe, they just don’t get it. For regulators, human beings are automatons that obey or disobey rules, not thinking creatures that respond in subtler ways to incentives. Give referees the comfort of knowing a video replay will confirm or overrule their decisions and you don’t make their decisions better, you make them worse.

The Spectator - Why the best holidays are taken alone


 (personal underlinings)

Why the best holidays are taken alone

Be selfish, ditch the tourist traps and find a new side to yourself

(Picture: iStock)

It’s because I was on my own in Los Angeles, smoking weed on Venice Beach, that I ended up at Coachella Festival with two girls I’d barely met and the DJs Belle and Sebastian. It was because I was on my own in Nashville that I woke up with a Texan soldier and never had to tell anyone. And it’s because I was on my own driving up the west coast of England that I could take a spontaneous detour to Anthony Gormley’s ‘Another Place’ – just for the wonder of seeing those mossy, iron sculptures lapped by the waves. 

Hell is other people – especially on holiday. Group trips give me chills. Words like ‘minibus’, ‘group tour’ or ‘kitty’ make me nauseous. Once I ended up in hospital with acute pancreatitis when I was supposed to be on a group ski-trip in Switzerland. Frankly, I considered the smell of antiseptic and microwaved meals a relief.  

The final blow came during one especially horrendous group holiday to Ibiza when we rowed over plans and bills every day. In the blazing Spanish sun of the strip, I vowed: never again! 

If, like me, you are an intensely curious commitment-phobe, then there is no greater pleasure than solo travelling.  This summer I stepped off the train on a burning hot day in Berlin and was reminded of a particular joy Julie Burchill has described as the thrill of being somewhere where no one knows you, perhaps not even yourself. 

The problem with travelling with friends is that they keep reminding you who they think you are when, somewhere in Germany, a whole new side of yourself could be waiting to be found. Perhaps this is the weekend you’ll discover a love of sauerkraut, techno or try out bondage with two daddies from the KitKatClub. Who knows? You certainly never will unless you let yourself explore. 

Little wonder, then, that solo travel is booming. The global solo travel market is expected to exceed $1 trillion by 2030 – driven by the rise of digital ‘nomadism’ and, of course, that pleasure of doing nothing. Tour operator Jules Verne said solo travellers accounted for 46 per cent of bookings for its trips this year – with the majority of those bookings from women. 

Solo travel is becoming a feminine conceit. A survey by the Hostelworld travel platform last year found 60 per cent of its solo travellers were women. Of that number, many would have been younger women: two-thirds of all solo travellers are aged between 18 and 30.

Even as a woman above that range though, I’m not surprised. When travelling alone, I don’t feel unsafe but rather unobserved. I can wear comfortable shoes, no make-up and can happily vanish for days at a time. In my middle age, I have a firm idea of what I like on holiday: sleeping late, sea-swimming, a bit of culture, a lost afternoon. Maybe I’ll walk across a city at night and – in the right mood – go dancing. I don’t want to waste my limited time doing things I don’t like. On my own, I don’t have to. 

I like to unravel when travelling, unlimited by other’s expectations. In California I was amazed to find myself chanting on a grief yoga retreat – only because no one I knew could see.  

My kind of travelling means not making plans. I spent summer driving my dog around France, detouring to towns I recognised from drinking –  from Cognac to Saint-Émilion – booking Airbnbs and staying for days without being nagged to move on. In Jerusalem, I felt so moved at Yad Vashem I went back the next day without worrying I was boring a friend. 

I am a confident traveller and my worst nightmare is being with someone insistent on seeing tourist traps. I want to experience how somewhere feels. In New York, I ignored the Empire State Building, going vintage clothes shopping in the East Village. In Paris, I was a flaneuse: getting lost in pretty back streets, swimming in the Seine and gorging on cheese. In San Francisco, I indulged my nerd-ophilia by going on Tinder dates with coders. 

I am a people-pleaser and so holidays give me one space to be selfish. Alone, I’m beholden to no-one. In Italy, I could decide off the cuff to take a train from Florence to Venice, stopping at Padua just because there was a 14-century fresco I was curious to see. In Thailand, I could ditch the beach for the jungle, swerve tourist night markets to eat at dodgy local shacks – without being responsible for someone getting food poisoning. 

Perhaps I’ve just not ‘found’ the right travel companion, some might suggest. But, as a travel writer, even when I’m asked if I want to bring a ‘plus one’, I often decline – lying to boyfriends as I wheel my suitcase out the door. After all, when surrounded by the noise and social demands of every day life, it’s easy to get lost. How grounding to be freed from all that in a place where you have no ties.

It surprises me when people equate solo travelling with running away from yourself. If anything, it’s when travelling alone that I get the clearest sense of who I am. 

quinta-feira, 16 de abril de 2026

Fotos - gatos (Xuxu e Tri)






 

Observador - O maior crime contra a matemática (Diogo Quintela)

 

(sublinhados pessoais)

O maior crime contra a matemática

Terá sido uma questão de gosto? Como na Miss Universo? O júri considerou que o tráfico transatlântico de escravos fica melhor em biquíni do que o Holocausto, e por isso deu-lhe a coroa?

Na semana passada, após votação na Assembleia-Geral, a ONU declarou o tráfico transatlântico de escravos como o maior crime contra a humanidade. A declaração foi aprovada com 123 votos a favor e apenas 3 votos contra (EUA, Israel e Argentina). Portugal absteve-se, juntamente com 52 outros países, incluindo os membros da União Europeia e o Reino Unido.

O Governo português foi fortemente criticado. Quer por parte de quem acha uma vergonha não ter votado a favor, quer por parte de quem acha que não ter votado contra é uma vergonha. À primeira vista, parece uma abstenção sonsa. Das duas, uma: ou Portugal considera que participou no maior crime de sempre e votava a favor; ou considera que o tráfico transatlântico de escravos não foi o maior crime de sempre e votava contra. Posto perante estas duas hipóteses, optou por não se decidir.

Fez bem. Portugal é um país com níveis razoáveis de numeracia, portanto sabe que não se tratou do maior crime de sempre. Por outro lado, como lhe dá jeito a fama de ter entrado no maior crime de sempre, deixou passar. Isto é o que se faz na prisão: mesmo sendo uns choninhas, convém que os outros prisioneiros julguem que somos o bad boy do refeitório.

A votação está envolta em polémica. O principal problema é que não se conhecem os critérios usados para avaliar o conjunto de todos os grandes crimes contra a humanidade e, cotejando-os, decidir que o tráfico transatlântico foi o maior de todos.

Terá sido uma questão de gosto? Como na Miss Universo? O júri considerou que o tráfico transatlântico de escravos fica melhor em biquíni do que o Holocausto e por isso deu-lhe a coroa? Relegou a patifaria de Hitler para Miss Simpatia? Nesse caso, suponho que o tráfico transaariano de escravos para o mundo árabe tenha recebido a faixa de Miss Fotogenia, por ser tão parecido com o seu congénere transatlântico. Se tiver sido esse o caso, não há muito a dizer. Os padrões de beleza são subjectivos e mudam consoante as culturas.

Ou, pelo contrário, será que se estabeleceram métricas rigorosas para comprar os diferentes crimes, avaliando o número de vítimas? Nesse caso, é capaz de já haver razão para protesto. É que, segundo as estimativas dos historiadores, o tráfico de escravos no Atlântico, realizado pelas potências marítimas europeias e suas colónias (alô, Brasil! Tamo junto!) terá afectado 12.5 milhões de africanos, dos quais perto de 2 milhões morreram na travessia. É muito. Ainda assim, menos do que os 17 milhões de escravos transportados por mercadores muçulmanos pelo deserto do Saara e por portos do Índico e Mar Vermelho, viagens em que terão morrido perto de 3 milhões. E muito menos do que os mortos noutros grandes crimes, ainda que de espécies diferentes: só no Grande Salto para a Cova, os comunistas chineses mataram 40 milhões de compatriotas. Também em fomes, gulags e purgas variadas, a URSS de Lenine e Estaline liquidou entre 12 a 15 milhões de inimigos do povo.

Posto isto, como é que os membros da ONU terão decidido atribuir o primeiro lugar da infâmia a um crime que teve muito menos vítimas que a concorrência? Admito que possa ser difícil aceitar a discrepância. Mas só para quem não segue o futebol europeu e não está a par das regras para atribuição da Bota de Ouro. O troféu que premeia o maior goleador do continente não é ganho pelo jogador que marca mais golos. Nada disso. Há uma ponderação consoante a importância do campeonato em que joga. Se jogar num dos campeonatos mais competitivos, como o inglês ou o espanhol, os golos valem a dobrar. Se joga numa liga intermédia, como a nossa, os golos multiplicam por 1.5. E se joga num dos campeonatos mais fracos, é atribuído o valor nominal. Assim, um avançado pode marcar 50 golos no Chipre, mas perder para outro que marque apenas 30 em Itália.

Há de suceder algo parecido com os Grandes Crimes. Os mortos têm uma valorização diferente, conforme o verdugo. Se tiver sido um ocidental, multiplica por 2; se não, divide por 5. É injusto, admito. Um tirano comunista bem pode esforçar-se e, ainda assim, nunca ter o reconhecimento merecido. Teria de chacinar toda a sua população 3 ou 4 vezes para poder ter uma chance contra os reinos europeus dos séc. XVI a XVIII, que não precisam de matar tanto para serem considerados os melhores facínoras.

Só isto explica que um crime com menos impacto seja considerado o maior de todos. E que a ONU, uma criação ocidental, inspirada em leis e direitos estabelecidos pelo ocidente, consiga afirmar que a escravatura, uma prática de todas as civilizações, foi o pior crime de sempre, mas apenas a parte cometida pelo ocidente. Que, por acaso, até foi o primeiro a pará-lo e a fazer os outros pararem de o praticar.

Entretanto, o proponente desta resolução é o Gana. O que é uma coincidência gira: o Império Axânti, antepassado do Gana, foi um dos mais bem sucedidos abastecedores de escravos aos europeus. Capturava inimigos nas tribos vizinhas, armazenava-os no seu território e vendia-os para exportação. Portanto, temos aqui o fornecedor a censurar moralmente o retalhista. Isto é o Pablo Escobar a apontar o dedo ao dealer do Casal Ventoso. São espertos, os ganeses: lucraram a vender escravos e ainda vão tentar ganhar algum com as reparações que se preparam para pedir. O proverbial homem que mata os pais e depois pede ajuda ao Estado por ser órfão.

Percebe-se a incoerência, é um tema sensível. Na verdade, muitos dos escravos que foram traficados no Atlântico seriam hoje ganeses. E custa aceitar que isto aconteça a compatriotas, mesmo que apenas a um. Por exemplo, eu estou maçado porque António Guterres é um vendido.

ARTE - Les cinq éléments du tao

Uma reportagem muito interessante sobre a China actual 

https://www.facebook.com/santeetmedecinesdouces/videos/les-cinq-%C3%A9l%C3%A9ments-du-tao-%C3%A9lixirs-de-vievoyage-%C3%A0-travers-la-chine-contemporaine-e/596648252262196/






The Spectator - England’s rugby team and Labour are both set to lose

 

(personal underlines)

England’s rugby team and Labour are both set to lose

We’re beset by leadership problems in sport and politics

(Picture: Getty)

Humiliated, disparaged and the object of global scorn for their lily-livered incompetence. But enough about the England rugby team. Last week was also deeply embarrassing for Sir Keir Starmer and his government. As President Donald Trump said of Britain’s Prime Minister: ‘This is not Winston Churchill we’re dealing with.’ One might say something similar about Steve Borthwick, England’s head coach. This is not Clive Woodward we’re dealing with. You remember Woodward, the man who in 2003 guided England to World Cup glory. 

Those were the days when the England rugby team were the envy of the world; now they are the inept of the world. Pummelled by Scotland, thrashed by Ireland and mugged by Italy, England wrap up their Six Nations campaign with a visit to Paris tomorrow evening to face the tournament leaders. 

If the humiliation heaped on the Royal Navy last week by their French counterparts was painful, just wait and see what their rugby team will do to England tomorrow. Put it this way: England have as much chance of success in Paris as Labour do in May’s local elections

On reflection, the Labour government and the England rugby team have much in common. Let’s start with their leadership. 

Borthwick and Starmer are out of their depth. They are robotic, over-promoted men incapable of inspiring their underlings. Both got where they are by default; Starmer was elected to office because voters were so desperate to get the Tories out; Borthwick was nominated head coach because the Rugby Football Union (RFU) was so desperate to get Eddie Jones out. Jones coached England from 2016 to 2022, and in that time the irascible Australian guided the team to a Grand Slam success in 2016 and a World Cup final three years later. His win ratio was 73 per cent; Borthwick’s is 59 per cent. 

Under Borthwick’s leadership, England have lost for the first time to Fiji and Italy, and suffered record home defeats to France and Ireland. If – sorry, when – England lose to France on Saturday it will be the first time they have lost four matches in a Six Nations championship. 

Neither Starmer and Borthwick are intuitive. The former makes his decisions according to international law and the latter ‘is driven by data’. Indecision racks the pair. It’s 16 policy U-turns so far for the Prime Minister (at least it was at the time of writing), and Borthwick’s team selections have become notoriously erratic. 

After Ireland hammered England last month, Borthwick dropped nine players for the trip to Italy. He chops and changes players in key positions, such as hooker, fly-half and full-back. There is no stability and continuity to the team, and this has led to a lack of confidence within the squad. 

Likewise, the cabinet don’t appear to have much confidence in the judgment of the PM. Starmer wanted to support Trump in his attack on Iran, according to reports, but he was overruled after a cabinet revolt. This is a sign of a weak leader. One of the mutineers was Rachel Reeves, the Chancellor who is unfailingly upbeat about the state of the economy despite all the evidence to the contrary. Following last week’s spring statement, Reeves was accused of being ‘delusional’ and ‘in denial’. 

Those words sprang to mind after some of the England team defended their demoralising defeat to Italy. Ben Earl claimed that ‘large parts of the performance were brilliant’. A job in the Treasury awaits. Earl is a good player, and a veteran of the England side. He was one of three players who chose not to ‘take the knee’ at the height of the Black Lives Matter mania in 2020. The RFU left the decision to the players and most dropped a knee to the Twickenham turf, just as Starmer had done earlier in the year as leader of the opposition. 

‘Wokeness’ is another thing that the Labour party and the England team have in common. The Prime Minister rebuked Sir Jim Ratcliffe last month after the tycoon suggested Britain was being ‘colonised’ by migrants. England’s captain, Maro Itoje, also rubbished Ratcliffe’s remarks, calling them ‘ridiculous’. Itoje is entitled to his opinion but is it wise in a team sport for a captain to air his views on such a divisive issue? Reading some of the thousands of comments left online by readers of the Times and the Telegraph, it was evident that most wished Itoje had kept his thoughts to himself. Team sports and politics are not a good mix. 

England actually played well in their opening match of the Six Nations, a rollicking 48-7 win over Wales, but that was before Itoje responded to Ratcliffe. One wonders if some of Itoje’s teammates wished he had kept quiet? Who knows. But the most astonishing aspect of England’s collapse in the last month has been the evaporation of the team’s spirit. 

Sam Warburton, the former British Lions captain turned BBC pundit, said last weekend: ‘Something is going on, I think, behind closed doors. [It] is not a camp which is all on the same page, who know what they are doing. It is very disjointed.’ This government and this England rugby team are so hopeless that people are voting with their feet. Record numbers of Brits are fleeing the country to escape what the Mail describes as ‘Starmer’s Socialist chaos’. 

Rugby fans are running from Borthwick’s strategic chaos. Hundreds streamed out of Twickenham before the end of England’s abject defeat to Ireland last month. Some of them may have kept on going, running dementedly down Whitton Road to Twickenham train station and from there to Heathrow. 

A one-way ticket, please. Anywhere will do. Except Paris on Saturday night. 

The Spectator - Woke isn't dead – and here's the proof

 (personal underlines)


Woke isn't dead – and here's the proof

Taxpayers are funding a music festival which bans white people from its leadership (Alamy)

In one respect, the scaremongers are right: Racism is alive and well in this country, being imbedded in our institutions and abetted by the arms of the state. But this scourge manifests itself not in the hackneyed and often illusionary variety forever invoked by the liberal-left. This is the benevolent, ‘nice’ form of racial discrimination, one which bizarrely presents itself as an extension of anti-racism.

Race obsessives not only remain a real presence, but those with a morbid fascination with skin colour are being actively encouraged in their hobby. Taxpayers are now funding a music festival which bans white people from its leadership. The annual Decolonise Fest, a London event for ‘punx [sic] of colour,’ one which aspires to undo the damage of colonialism and ‘dismantle white supremacy’ in the punk scene, not only forbids whites from its hierarchy, but has received money from the Arts Council, National Lottery and the Department for Culture, Media and Sport.

In the words of the festival’s organisers, ‘white people cannot join the organising group’, as the event seeks to ‘focus on people of colour’ and the ‘contribution punx of colour have made to the punk scene since its inception.’ The festival has featured the most infamous hard-left punk band of our times, Bob Vylan, whose mixed-raced lead singer, Pascal Robinson-Foster, led chants of ‘death to the IDF’ during their Glastonbury set last summer. As Decolonise Fest’s manifesto elaborates: ‘We are uncompromising and strong and will dismantle the white supremacy, patriarchy, classism, ableism and Islamophobia that infests the punk scene’.

This roll-call of right-on causes. The turgid verbiage. The hope of introducing an edgy-sounding neologism ending in ‘-x’ to the lexicon. These are tell-tell signs of an event whose organisers remain beholden to the language of wokery, who believe that they can cajole and blindside the gullible by simply invoking its mantras and regurgitating its slogans. As the festival organisers continue, the event aspires to ‘talk about racism but not in a way that centres on whiteness or priorities the feelings of white people. No white tears.’

We shouldn’t therefore be surprised to read about the existence of such a festival. If Piers Morgan is to be believed, ‘woke is dead’. But it isn’t. This festival is evidence that this philosophy is very much alive.

One of the most persistent legacies of wokery is the the idea that colour-blindness is a complacent, impossible and even oppressive delusion. This ideology said instead that people of white pigmentation should become attuned to the original sin of ‘whiteness’. It also explained that those with dark skin should be taught that ‘black’ represented a fixed, essential entity which needed to be capitalised accordingly. Declaring yourself ‘colour-blind’, or denying one’s racism, became for white people a thought-crime, merely damning proof of innate, subconscious racism.

According to one of the gurus of hyper-liberalism, Ibram X. Kendi, it was no good being ‘non-racist’: we all had to be pro-actively ‘anti-racist’. According to the similarly-influential Robin DiAngelo, author of the best-selling 2018 book White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk about Racism, all white people are guilty. As Nellie Bowles wrote in her 2024 expose of hyper-liberal excess, Morning After The Revolution: ‘In the DiAngelo doctrine, there are not individual racists doing singular bad acts. All white people are racist, because racism is structural…To fix one’s inherent racism requires constant work and it requires white people to talk about their whiteness. They must identify as white.’

The u-turn among activists on the left, from progressives of all hues, has been something to behold. Sixty years ago, good, decent, liberal voices urged us not to judge people by the colour of their skin. Thirty years ago, those at the vanguard of liberalism could dismiss race as a chimera and ‘social construct’. But now we’re back where we started, seeing skin colour as something that determines one’s thinking and one’s moral worth.

This thinking is in rude health today. The increased ‘racial awareness’ of recent years has entailed more recruitment policies in the workplace based on race, more officially-sanctioned segregation. The Decolonise Fest carnival represents merely the extension of this tendency. ‘Black Out’ theatre productions, which effectively advise against the attendance of white people, have been with us in this country since 2019, while the Decolonise Fest has been in existence for even longer, founded in 2016.

If racism of the old-fashioned variety seen in the 1970s is resurgent, and if ‘ethnonationalism’ has become a force to be reckoned with today, it shouldn’t surprise us. It’s the new racialists who have helped to re-racialise our society and even our very thinking. Much like those cranky European taxonomists of the 19th century, it’s today’s hyper-liberals, with their unsubstantiated and corrosive theories on race, who are driving everyone mad.

The Spectator - Italian food is revolting

(private underlines)  

Italian food is revolting

Why does the world revere it?

[iStock]

About a week into an open-ended early pandemic stay in Ortigia, the antique, tourist-beloved spit off Siracusa on Sicily’s eastern coast, I had an epiphany. I hated the food. I’d just had a few bites of a clammy aubergine parmigiana, and a plate of oily tuna steak dressed with a bit of lemon was on its way to me. I felt sick and couldn’t face another bite – and yet, supposedly, I was right in the heartlands of the finest continental gastronomy.

This, at least, is the orthodoxy of the world, of tourists low- and high-end and home cooks everywhere – and especially in Italy itself. And now their devotion to the deep-fried rice ball, the breadstick, the sickly spicy sausage paste, the bloodless tomato carpaccio and the watery cream-topped bun has paid off: last month Unesco awarded Italian cuisine ‘special cultural heritage status’. Giorgia Meloni is satisfied, having campaigned for this honour since her election. ‘For us Italians, cuisine is not just food or a collection of recipes,’ she said. ‘It is so much more: it is culture, tradition, work, wealth.’

She’s all too right about the last two: Italy’s dependence on a menu of unchanging greatest hits speaks to the relative poverty and economic hopelessness of the swathes of the country whose food is most famous, particularly south of Rome. I happened to be in Sicily as the notorious second Italian lockdown came into force in November 2020, and it was sad seeing not just the cafes and restaurants but the whole economy dying without the ability to sell tourists plates of prosciutto and pizza after 6 p.m. 

Every country has a cuisine, but the best ones American, Israeli, Greek, even French – allow for a little cultural importation, a little change; new spices, textures, combinations. But the Italians clearly know that they must guard the provinciality of their fare at all costs, and have perfected the savvy use and marketing of cheap ingredients to starry-eyed foreigners desperate to try pizza margherita and pasta alla norma under Caesar’s skies. It’s a formula that works and works and works, and can be translated to suit all segments of the market.

But that September evening in that highly-regarded Ortigia restaurant, it felt to me that this cuisine seemed to always be fundamentally composed of clammy, cloying ingredients, all the wrong textures, all the wrong flavours, all the wrong ingredients, unwholesome, overpriced. I like tomatoes and aubergines, I just don’t like them shivering and oily on a plate together – and the Italian custom for bone-dry bits of bread, either in stick form or of stale loaves, does little to save the day. In short, Italian food is wildly overrated. 

Rejecting the most-vaunted cuisine on Earth was incredibly freeing. No more overspending on fatty food for simpletons and tourists! I shopped in the local Spa and ate fennel, yoghurt and fruit (though most supermarket fruit in Italy is appalling), feeling richer, thinner and entirely less sick.

Coming to my decision about Italian food wasn’t a quick process, though. For all the bad experiences – including begging a wine bar in Trieste to find me just one single vegetable (they eventually found two sundried tomatoes at the bottom of a jar) – there were some less terrible ones. In Ragusa, following in Inspector Montalbano’s footsteps, I went to a Michelin-starred restaurant for lunch one dreary October day and had a nutty green pasta (nice) and, admittedly, some very tender duck. On another trip, in Bologna, I dutifully found out the trattorias most beloved of local foodies, walking far outside the centre in the broiling heat to try the tagliatelle al ragu famous in the city, and, another night, met my Italian-speaking cousin for a repast of local mortadella and tortellini in broth. It was all fine, and even impressive in that way that the Italian restaurant experience can be. But it was not a patch, food-wise, on the delicious and exciting type of meal you can have in a good Melbourne, Bangkok, Jerusalem, London or Mumbai eatery.

Italian food is a fundamentally static cuisine, toggling between unchanging family recipes and eternal crowd-pleaser fare. In a sense it’s a victim of its own success, which has made it afraid of change that would be as bad for business as for Italy’s sense of cultural identity. In this sense, the Unesco award fits perfectly, as it does for ancient, crumbling structures that stay above ground for hundreds and thousands of years.

What the world laps up is the fantasy of Italy – land of Romans, mafia, beautiful babes, gangsters, romantics, Romeo and Juliet. The food doesn’t matter, not really – it’s just part of the stage-set. At least, this would be the honest view of anyone – sufficiently liberated from pro-Italian mythology – who has sampled well-made dishes from almost any other, superior, cuisine.

The Spectator - The Neapolitan Horowitz

 


The Neapolitan Horowitz

Maria Tipo's Scarlatti – flawlessly transparent even at the speed of light – was unsurpassed by any of her rivals

‘You play Bach your way, and I’ll play it his way.’ That remark by the Polish harpsichordist Wanda Landowska is often described as an ‘infamous put-down’, but it was really just a playful quip directed at Pablo Casals after they disagreed about trills. Anyway, the line has been running through my head all week because I’ve been listening to a recording of the Goldberg Variations – Wandowska’s signature piece – by a pianist who was quite determined to play them her way, not Bach’s.

Maria Tipo was born in 1931 and died last year – the same dates as Alfred Brendel, though it’s hard to think of two pianists with less in common. In her heyday she was promoted as ‘the Neapolitan Horowitz’. That wasn’t quite so wide of the mark, since both artists were celebrated for their quicksilver virtuosity, but the truth is that nobody in recorded history sounded like Tipo. And if that strikes you as a back-handed compliment, well, she had only herself to blame.

In January 1955 the New York Times critic Harold Schonberg reported that a ‘blonde, sultry-looking 24-year-old Italian pianist’ had startled a Town Hall audience with the clarity and vivacity of her playing. In 1991 he wrote a profile of her in advance of her first New York solo recital for 32 years. He wondered what had kept her away. Tipo talked vaguely of wanting to concentrate on her European career and Schonberg didn’t press the point. ‘When she makes up her mind, her chin juts forward, steel comes into her eyes, and she is immovable. Period. Subject closed.’

Perhaps it had something to do with the snootiness of American critics. Tipo’s 1986 Goldbergs were dismissed as a gloopy anachronism on one side of the pond while winning the Diapason d’or on the other. But then she was a puzzling artist. She could certainly sound old-fashioned. I first encountered her in some Bach-Busoni transcriptions that slipped down as smoothly as tiramisu. Then I was blown away by a disc of Scarlatti sonatas whose fingerwork – flawlessly transparent at the speed of light – was unsurpassed by any of her rivals, including Horowitz.

Tipo’s Scarlatti, wrote Schonberg, was ‘very un-Horowitzian’. Her clean, détaché fingering created ‘a bracing rhythmic vitality far removed from the fluctuations of tempo that were the Horowitz trademark.’ That makes Tipo’s approach sound modern, so why the reputation for anachronism? The answer lies in her phenomenal but idiosyncratic control of dynamics: perfect for her fellow Neapolitan Scarlatti but not so well suited to the master of Leipzig.

Scarlatti’s sonatas offer us a lopsided, relentlessly surprising universe in a grain of sand. It’s a paradox that music written for an instrument with fixed dynamics acquires such explanatory power when subjected to tricks of texture on a concert grand. And no one mastered more of those tricks than Maria Tipo, though she preferred to conjure with volume rather than tempo.

You’d think that Tipo’s knack of bringing out inner voices would pay similar dividends in Bach’s Goldberg Variations. The problem is that she applies it unsystematically, which is fatal when you’re grappling with the ultimate masterpiece of musical symmetry. In places the sforzandi rain down randomly while those inner voices play peek-a-boo – and this, together with her habit of omitting second-half repeats, infects some variations with the spirit of Scarlatti. Others are strung together as loosely (and pedalled as generously) as Beethoven bagatelles; the ‘Black Pearl’ could almost be a Chopin nocturne.

And yet… I’d rather hear the miscalculations of an inspired maverick than another disc of pyrotechnics from the competition circuit. To mark the anniversary of her death, Warner is issuing a boxed set of Tipo’s Erato recordings. If you still play CDs I’d advise snapping it up, if only because streaming services have uploaded a mangled copy of her exhilarating Beethoven Piano Sonata Op. 109 and I don’t trust them to fix it.

As you’d expect, it’s a mixed legacy. There are lots of piano sonatas by Clementi that, shall we say, make the best possible case for the music. There are also Mozart concertos with the Vienna Symphony Orchestra in which Tipo employs all manner of quirky devices in an attempt to jump-start the accompaniment. Luckily she succeeds and they end up as a joyous affairs with, inevitably,
idiosyncratic cadenzas.

We won’t hear the likes of Maria Tipo again. Whether you think that’s a good or a bad thing is a matter of taste – though surely only the most purse-lipped purists could fail to respond to her Scarlatti. Personally I’m delighted to have the opportunity to dip into the discography of an artist who never failed to discover unanticipated beauties in a score – even, or perhaps especially, if they weren’t there in the first place.

Maria Tipo: The Complete Warner Classics Recordings is out on 6 February.