sábado, 29 de junho de 2024

Cartoons - The Spectator

 No news...



Almoço VetVals

Em 12.06.2024 almoço no Clube de Râguebi de Direito, com Carlos Poppe, Luis Pardal, João Almeida Henriques, Pedro Almeida Henriques, João Raimundo e Raul Costa, velhas glórias do Técnico. O Francisco Sanchez faltou por problemas de saúde.

Luis Pardal e Carlos Poppe


João Raimundo

João Almeida Henriques


Raul Costa

Pedro Almeida Henriques


Reflexão - Rui Ramos

 

(sublinhados meus)

O grande fracasso das oligarquias europeias

As velhas oligarquias políticas estão a deixar a Europa cada vez menos rica e segura. É esse o problema, e não o “populismo”.

Por toda a Europa, é a mesma coisa: os velhos partidos querem convencer-nos de que o único problema são os novos partidos. Chamam-lhes “populistas”, como se chamar um nome fosse, só por si, um argumento. De facto, não têm argumentos. Na metade ocidental do continente, os velhos partidos são geralmente os mesmos desde a redemocratização no fim da II Guerra Mundial, arrumados em duas grandes famílias, a da democracia-cristã e a da social-democracia. Os seus governos falharam estrondosamente nas últimas décadas, e é esse, e não o chamado “populismo”, o problema da Europa.

Vamos ser justos. A Europa a ocidente da Rússia continua a ser uma das melhores regiões do mundo para viver. Comparada com as suas imediações – Rússia, Médio Oriente, África — ainda é livre, ainda é rica, ainda parece segura. O problema está em que, sendo ainda essas coisas, é cada vez menos essas coisas. Por comparação com os EUA, os europeus estão cada vez menos ricos. Uma das grandes promessas dos regimes europeus desde a II Guerra Mundial foi a convergência com os EUA. A Europa está agora em divergência. Também não está segura. Em muitos Estados, as migrações descontroladas, conjugadas com a importação do wokismo americano, deixaram demasiada gente inquieta com a coesão nacional, um dos fundamentos da democracia e do modo de vida numa Europa de nações. Finalmente, a guerra da Ucrânia mostrou como, sem o chapéu-de-chuva americano, a próxima etapa de Putin poderia talvez estar dentro da UE.

Só a restrição da liberdade no resto do mundo faz a Europa destacar-se ainda em termos de Estado de direito e democracia representativa. Mas isso deixa aos europeus a questão de saber o que fazer com essa liberdade, perante o fracasso das oligarquias. Em eleições, têm-na usado para rebaixar oligarquias que consideram, muito legitimamente, responsáveis pelas suas frustrações e incertezas. Como seria de esperar, aumentou a oferta de partidos que apela ao “povo” contra os velhos partidos. Daí, tecnicamente, o “populismo”. Mas em demagogia, os novos “populistas” não conseguem competir com as antigas oligarquias. Nada encanta tanto um oligarca como a perspectiva de obrigar os eleitores, como tem feito Emmanuel Macron em França, a votar no velho sistema como única alternativa ao “fascismo”. O truque, porém, funciona cada vez menos.

E as instituições da integração europeia? A UE tem sido outra cortina de fumo político. Foram as velhas oligarquias que construíram essas instituições, para depois se esconderem atrás delas, esperando que as frustrações populares se dirigissem contra uma Bruxelas mais ou menos abstracta. O Brexit provou que a perda de soberania era mais uma lenda. Em 2016, os eleitores britânicos devolveram a soberania à sua oligarquia política, e, livres de Bruxelas, o que viram desde então foi a mesma incapacidade de liberalizar a economia, o mesmo descontrole das migrações, e os mesmos ataques de wokismo, apesar de o governo ser do Partido Conservador e de todas as facções desse partido terem passado pelo poder. O problema nunca estivera em Bruxelas, mas numa velha oligarquia política que, sem o alibi europeu, revelou toda a sua mediocridade. É assim no Reino Unido, seria assim em todos os outros países, se saíssem.

Nas próximas semanas, dois partidos de governo, o do presidente Macron em França e os Tories no Reino Unido, podem desaparecer. As velhas oligarquias, de esquerda ou de direita, não têm remédio. Não é que não saibam ou que não vejam. Sabem e veem. Mas estão reféns dos sistemas de interesses e cumplicidades que construíram para se manter no poder. Nunca farão as “reformas” que admitem ser necessárias. Aos eleitores europeus, só resta deixarem tudo assim, ou votarem de outra maneira.

Reflexão - Alberto Gonçalves

 

(sublinhados meus)

A casta do castelo

A “confiança nas instituições” não é minada porque uma casta sem escrúpulos coloca o poder ao serviço dos seus excelsos interesses. Não, senhor. Ela só corre riscos se as trafulhices são divulgadas.

Imagine-se que os telefonemas de um governante são escutados pela polícia a pretexto de suspeitas de tráfico de influências e corrupção. Imagine-se que, num dos telefonemas, o escutado conversa com outro governante e este, sobre quem não recaem quaisquer suspeitas na história em apreço, confessa ao colega um projecto em vias de conclusão para rebentar um infantário à bomba, a título de alerta para as alterações climáticas e o “genocídio” em Gaza. Imagine-se que a gravação é rápida e ilicitamente entregue aos media, que a difundem. Imagine-se o que aconteceria, logo de seguida, num país normal. E imagine-se o que aconteceria em Portugal.

PUB • CONTINUE A LER A SEGUIR

Num país normal, além da extraordinária repercussão na opinião pública, as forças de segurança tratariam imediatamente de deter o sujeito em questão, obrigá-lo a denunciar possíveis cúmplices e, claro, anular o plano, impedir o atentado e salvar as criancinhas. Em Portugal, semelhantes minudências passariam para segundo plano: a reacção prioritária seria encher os estúdios televisivos e as colunas dos jornais de comentadores com ambições políticas e políticos a fingir de comentadores, todos indignadíssimos com a fuga do segredo de justiça, o comportamento inaceitável do Ministério Público e a necessidade de, acima de tudo, resgatar o bom nome do candidato a bombista, entretanto arrastado pela lama. No que dependesse desses vultos da ética, as criancinhas não teriam hipótese.

O exemplo é caricatural e grotesco? É. Gosto de caricaturas grotescas, inclusive caricaturas grotescas de “pessoas sérias”, que andam por aí de dedinho em riste a condenar a “descredibilização da classe política” e o “ataque cerrado” à “confiança nas instituições”. Note-se que a “confiança nas instituições” não é minada porque uma casta sem escrúpulos coloca o poder ao serviço dos seus excelsos interesses. Não, senhor. A “confiança nas instituições” só corre riscos se as trafulhices são divulgadas. A “ética” de que a casta fala não se aplica aos actos, e sim à ocultação, ou à revelação, dos ditos. Parece Kant, mas é “cant”, a palavra inglesa que significa o recurso insincero a sentimentos virtuosos, ou a pura hipocrisia. A palavra aplica-se com frequência ao linguajar do submundo.

Se quiserem, substituam o ataque ao infantário por um ataque mais meigo e plausível. Ao erário público, por exemplo. Imagine-se então que o dr. Costa era escutado a informar o ministro Galamba do despedimento à bruta e por “justa causa” da presidente da TAP, de modo a poupar ao governo as maçadas subsequentes à indemnização da famosa engenheira. Imagine-se os milhões que a senhora francesa reclama ao Estado (seis). Imagine-se os milhões antes aprovados por WhatsApp (meio). Imagine-se os milhares de milhões assim pulverizados nos divertimentos com a “companhia de bandeira” (três ou quatro). Para os porta-vozes da casta, perdão, os comentadores isentos da esquerda à “direita” (risos), as escutas deveriam ter sido destruídas, dado que, esclarecem, não aludem ao processo investigado e não contêm “qualquer relevância criminal”. Pois não. Desviar dinheiro dos contribuintes para obter benefícios partidários não é sequer um pequeno delito: é um direito da casta, legitimado pela jurisprudência, quiçá o usucapião.

Francisco Mendes da Silva, funcionário da casta e rapaz simpático, apareceu-me no Twitter a chamar ao episódio “um sintoma de uma cultura insuportavelmente anti-democrática”. Tendo a concordar. O que nos distingue é ele achar que o problema está na Justiça, que verte para o exterior, cito, “conversas políticas”, e eu achar que o problema está nos políticos, que confundem conspirações ilícitas com diálogos triviais, privacidade com imunidade, política com impunidade. E democracia com privilégio. Sem se rir, o Francisco queixa-se de que a Justiça é “insindicável” – e não, ele não deseja, ou pelo menos não diz desejar, que a Justiça seja “sindicável” pela restante parelha de poderes. O que ele deseja é que o jornalismo escrutine a Justiça como, deduz-se, escrutina a política. Escrutinar a política? Em Portugal? O Francisco tem graça. Se lhe coubesse decidir o caso Watergate, que saiu barato por comparação com a TAP, o Francisco fechava o Washington Post, lançava o Garganta Funda nas masmorras e atribuía uma comenda a Nixon.

Aliás, também é engraçado reparar que a aversão do Francisco e dos seus parceiros de ofício à “excessiva” independência judicial termina quando o alvo das investigações e dos eventuais abusos é o cidadão “comum” ou, vá lá, um político que a ortodoxia repute de “extremista”. Por alguma razão que me escapa e que com certeza é de uma imaculada nobreza, essa rapaziada apenas defende pro bono os membros da casta. E acrescente-se que a defesa tem resultado: apesar das tenebrosas perseguições a cargo de juízes ressentidos e “insindicáveis”, a casta continua aí, resistente e heróica, a sofrer martírios enquanto espalha rigor, honestidade e valores democráticos com abundância. Imagine-se o que aconteceria se os juízes tivessem trela. Imagine-se o leite e o mel da democracia a transbordar. Imagine-se a Venezuela.

domingo, 23 de junho de 2024

The Spectator - The hardest part of climbing Mount Everest isn’t what you think

 (sublinhados meus)


The hardest part of climbing Mount Everest isn’t what you think

A string of climbers at the top of Mount Everest (Getty images)

Everest is, we’re told, ‘the highest garbage dump in the world’. It’s a place, if you believe the reports from this year’s climbing season, that is increasingly crowded. Terrifying video footage released last month showed climbers waiting their turn at the very top of the mountain shortly before two of them fell to their death. What’s the appeal?

The Sherpas are no longer the unsung heroes

For nearly two decades I’ve lived in Kathmandu, the capital of Nepal. I spend my time here gallivanting around the high Himalayas. Having made it to the top of Everest, it’s clear to me that the reason so many people want to climb the mountain is simple: it is the highest peak on earth. The majority of those who reach the summit bask in the glory for the rest of their lives.

Those who seek to climb Everest are driven by a desire to stand on top of the world and return with a tale of conquest that cements their place in the annals of human achievement – no matter in what style they reach it. During my time in the shadow of the Himalayas, I have seen people leave Everest base camp as doctors, hairdressers or engineers and return as authors, motivational speakers and sometimes expedition leaders. Yes, Everest changes lives, brings fame and, crucially, generates an income for locals. For a long time, the Sherpa without whose help most climbers would not reach their goal, remained in the background. Social media has changed that. Kami Rita Sherpa, the Nepali guide who holds the record with 30 successful climbs of Everest, has now been able to tell the world about his amazing feats: Kami Rita has finally received the recognition and financial rewards he deserves. The Sherpas are no longer the unsung heroes; they are now the bosses on the mountain.

It’s true that the race to the top of Everest has changed in recent years. Most countries have put a man or woman on top of the world, which means that becoming the first from a nation to climb the world’s highest peak has become almost impossible, unless you are from a country like Burkina Faso or Haiti.

Instead, people try to be recorded as the first certified veterinarian; the first vegan; or the first husband and wife team to climb Everest. When a young Indian lady asked me a few years ago whether she would enter the history books for being the woman with the longest hair atop of Everest, I thought we had reached the nadir. But surprises keep on coming: on 21 May 2024, the American blogger Devon Levesque topped the Indian by being the first to do the highest backflip on the summit. This left me wondering whether the term ‘Everest Circus’, which I refused to use up until then, was now legit.

Even when I climbed Everest as part of a commercial expedition in 2009, the essence of adventure had long been diluted by fixed ropes and set-up camps. These innovations made things safer but it’s hard to disagree with the term coined by the Italian mountaineer Reinhold Messner, who calls the route to the top – which is prepared by hundreds of Sherpas each season – ‘The Motorway’. Fixed ropes have become as ubiquitous on Everest as Via Ferratas, the permanently fixed steel cables that allow people to climb challenging routes without technical skills, are in the Alps.

So when did Chomolungma, as Everest is called in the local language, become so commercial? The truth is that, since it was first climbed over 70 years ago, it has almost always been this way. From the earliest expeditions in the 1920s to modern guided climbs that can cost up to $250,000 (£195,000) per climber, mountaineering has involved high finance across all peaks, including the Alps.

In the Himalayas, this huge injection of cash is a vital lifeline for Nepal, which is one of the poorest countries in the world. Revenue generated by commercial climbs has had a significant impact on the local economy. For many Nepalese, the climbing season is a vital source of income which supports not just the guides and porters but entire communities. The money from climbing permits and tourism contribute to infrastructure, education and health care in a country where many locals are desperately poor. Even though some foreign companies still make a big buck, it is the local operators who now get the biggest piece of the pie. Without Everest, many people here would be in trouble.

So, yes, Everest is increasingly crowded with tourists; but so long as they ascend the mountain’s majestic slopes with respect and humility, then good luck to them. 

Despite the influx of ‘novices’, the mountain’s appeal for ‘proper’ climbers remains undiminished. As the 2024 spring climbing season comes to an end, I head to the Himalayan Java Café, a popular hangout for coffee lovers in the heart of Kathmandu. I meet there a mountaineer who has just scaled the world’s highest peak. He did so in style, dispensing with Sherpa support and supplemental oxygen, something reserved for a handful of exceptionally skilled mountaineers. Of the more than 7,000 people who have climbed Mount Everest since 1953, only 192 have done so without an oxygen mask. OK, Piotr Krzyzowski may have used the ropes that were fixed by the Sherpa from base camp to the summit, but I am sure he would have managed to reach the top without them, which is rather rare on Himalayan peaks these days.

I am interviewing Piotr for the Himalayan Database – a compilation of records for all expeditions in the Nepalese Himalayas – and, as I do so, my respect for the Polish lawyer continues to grow. He tells me that on his way to Everest he also scaled neighbouring Lhotse, the fourth highest peak in the world. I’m gobsmacked. Scaling these two peaks in less than 48 hours without using bottled gas had never been done before – until now.

What’s most admirable about Piotr’s approach is that, unlike many other climbers, he didn’t proclaim his intentions on social media before he set out. As someone once said, ‘Climbing Everest is easy, but coming down and not talking about it is the hard part.’

The Spectator - A bloke’s guide to aftershave

 (sublinhados meus)


A bloke’s guide to aftershave

Lessons from a midlife appraisal

(Getty)

In 2020, the year of coronavirus, I came to a fork in the road. I’d just turned 50, a moment of looking back over your life, realising what you’ve failed to achieve, and accepting there’s only a finite number of years left to you. It was clearly a time for making a change of some sort, something fundamental and radical, and I duly made one. I faced reality, took myself in hand, and decided to switch to a new aftershave.  :)

Until then, it had been Dunhill Edition all the way. Launched in 1984, it had caught me in my mid-teens, was my first taste of adult sophistication (Jeremy Irons wore it!) and it hadn’t really occurred to me in the intervening decades to wear anything else. Indeed, for a man to pay too much attention to such things seemed – and still does – slightly infra dig. 

Yet in the year of my half century I became obsessed – and I mean obsessed – with finding a good replacement, and soon I was haunting the perfume-halls of large stores and spraying so many liquids onto so many strips of card it was getting embarrassing. Perhaps it was a case of mid-life madness but I took heart from some dying words from my uncle, delivered to his son. Too many people, he said, who indulged all the other four senses willy-nilly – neglected their sense of smell. Life was full of wonderful smells, there for the enjoying, and we forgot this at our peril.

This resonated with me. My own life, as I looked back, seemed to have been a succession of smells with the power to depress or delight. At prep-school, floor polish mixed with disinfectant (a combination that can still chill me) or, later, the aroma of beer in pubs or chlorine in swimming pools – two things that always make me feel, in some way, a little geed up, as though I’ve come home. On visits to provincial department stores in my childhood, the wall of perfumey smells greeting me as I walked in, along with the blast of warmth, convinced me that I was entering a finer, nobler world than anything the streets of Ipswich and Colchester had to offer. There were smells associated with specific people as well – not just the BO or halitosis of schoolmasters, but the aftershave my uncle wore (Trumper’s Portugal Water), my father’s shaving soap (Palmolive), or that intoxicating blend of wine and cigarettes girls had, in my teenage years, on their breath at parties, and which I expect vaping has now done for. 

There is of course a rabbit hole neatly prepared for people with such interests, albeit a Neroli-scented one. Fragrantica.com, the fragrance-review website, breaks down each perfume into its core components, and tells you which fragrances are good for the summer and which for the winter (an important point, as anyone who’s stood near someone wearing Kouros in August will agree). It teaches you to mistrust the ‘opening blast’ of a fragrance, designed to seduce as it leaves the bottle, and instead to wait for the ‘drydown’ 20 minutes later, which will tell you what the product is really like. A better metaphor for many relationships in life can barely be imagined. 

You also get schooled in matters such as ‘sillage’ (the strength of the aroma-stream that trails in your wake), ‘projection’ (the intensity of its emanation from the body) or ‘longevity’ – how long the perfume lasts before you’ll need to spray again. The last seemed important to me, the first two less so – I didn’t want to reek of the stuff or overpower a room and recalled, in a scene in Woody Allen’s Interiors that men should take note of, two women sniggering, behind one character’s back, at the way his aftershave permeates the house. Some colognes instantly lower the status of the wearer, and in my intensive tour of the perfume world it was instructive to find out what I personally disliked. I had an aversion, I realised, to scents that were too sweet, ingratiating or love-me-love-me (sandalwood was often a culprit here) or to those that were overpowering and could actually mar a social event (Floris Elite and Dior Fahrenheit step forward). I liked, I discovered, idiosyncratic, slightly aloof, subtle colognes, or ones that simply made you smell clean. 

If all this focus on something apparently so frivolous seems cringeworthy, I should point out there are legions of YouTubers doing it 24/7, year in, year out – people for whom fragrances hold the same fascination which Bach, New Wave cinema or the world of single malts does for others. Surrounded by bottles, experts in breaking down scent-combinations, they convince you that there are those out there who buy perfumes not to wear but simply to open and inhale as works of art. Scent specialists don’t quite persuade you to take it as earnestly as they do, but to respect the fact there are some who do, whose sense of smell is as acute as others’ ear for music or eye for visual art; those like ‘Jeremy Fragrance’, a rather cocky, feline German; Monika Cioch, the Nigella Lawson of the perfume bottle; and ‘Clemence CC’, an oh-zo-French girl broadcasting about the subject, rather charmingly, from her boudoir. And perhaps they (and my uncle) are right. Given that we rhapsodise over symphonies, paintings and dishes, why shouldn’t we treat the world of confected smells with equivalent seriousness, if only for a while? 

My own fascination with the topic – I wanted, unsurprisingly, to get back to other matters – had a strict time-limit, and ended the day I found a couple of aftershaves I could settle on. One, after much sampling, was Terre d’Hermes, an intriguingly bitter orange and grapefruity blend whose mystique – like wine or olives – grows on you, till you spend your time wondering what it is exactly you like about it and why it keeps calling you back. The other was Guerlain Homme Ideal ‘Cool’ (in the sense of temperature, not street-cred), a minty, almondy, soapy concoction which is the exact smell – as one Fragrantica reviewer pointed out – of a bathroom in childhood after your father has just shaved and brushed his teeth in it. Guerlain Cool – like so many things which are good or which you love – has now been discontinued, but I managed to buy four bottles of old stock at Tbilisi Aiport (Duty Free there hadn’t got the memo) and perhaps that’s a lifetime’s supply. More likely though is that one day it will simply run out and become a memory, never to exist in that exact form again, or will only be purchasable on eBay at ruinously inflated prices. Then my search for an alternative cologne will doubtless begin again – an inconvenience, I suppose, but one I’ll just have to take on the nose. 

Donald Sutherland (1935-2024)

 "Don't look now"...










sábado, 22 de junho de 2024

The Spectator - A love letter to the Fiat 500

 (sublinhados meus)


A love letter to the Fiat 500

The dinky cars are still driven all over Italy

(Alamy)

On visits to the continent as a child, what struck me was the strangeness of other European countries. Going to France or Italy, pre-internet, you cut off your connections to the outside world, and even got the British news a day or two late. People ate horse meat, tortellini in brodo or croque monsieurs, and the kids drank Orangina and watered down wine. The smell of black tobacco smoke – dignified and with a kind of ancient wisdom to it – seemed to permeate every public building. But what you also noticed was the cars – Renault 4s on the Riviera, Citroen DS-23s in Paris, and in Italy, overwhelmingly, the tiny, toy-like Fiat 500, a design classic thrumming with character and a part of postwar history. 

The Fiat cinquecento – or ‘cinquino’ as it’s often known – has been with us for nearly 70 years now, and in Italy older models are still very much on the road. Staying in a provincial town in Puglia, you see few Ferraris or Lamborghinis, but these vintage 500s, most now at least 50 years old (Fiat stopped production of this model in 1975) crop up each day on the streets nearby. So many of them were made in their heyday – just under four million in about 20 years – that old models are easy to pick up. There’s presumably a small Dolomite of spare parts and most Italian mechanics, I would guess, know the ways of their engines and bodywork like a blind man knows braille.

The car and its story are woven into modern Italian history. Following the success of the similarly shaped but faster, larger Fiat 600, there was high demand, in a country worn out by postwar austerity but hungering for the fruits of peace, for an affordable car for the masses. The task of designing one fell to engineer Dante Giacosa, Roman by birth but with roots in Piedmonte, where Fiat – ‘Fabbrica Italiana Automobili Torino’ (Italian Automobile Factory Turin) – still has its headquarters. Giacosa certainly looked the part: lean, immaculately tailored and – a nice touch – with a degree in classics, later crediting his knowledge of Greek and Latin for ‘a sense of measure and balance without which I could not have done my job.’ His brief wasn’t just to cut costs for Italian drivers but to use up as few of the country’s resources as possible (the sunroof which came as standard on the Fiat 500 was simply to save steel, and more a matter of austerity than hedonism). Its compact 13hp engine, located at the back of the car, was capable of a ferocious top speed of 58mph – you can still see them chugging and struggling to keep up with modern cars – and on its spartan dashboard are just a speedometer and a few switches. To the average Italian, this spelt freedom, and after a few modifications the cinquecento was selling like hot focaccia.  

A new era had begun in Italian motoring and a genuinely popular (and economical car) was bringing La Dolce Vita to more and more drivers. The ads spelt it out, showing a bright red 500 moving jauntily through a crowd of pricier, drabber vehicles, or a couple in a pastel pink version, spied through the open roof beneath a blazing Mediterranean sun. Fiat 500s were advertised against a backdrop of the Alps, the open motorway, the narrow streets of Central Rome. A beautiful girl (of the Gina Lollobrigida variety) stood up and waved through its open roof like a sex goddess. The car, in its first incarnation, would sell nearly four million models, and go on to appear onscreen countless times – from Inspector Morse to Bruce Robinson’s 2011 The Rum Diary, and last year’s film from the Mission Impossible franchise. It proved especially popular in cartoons where, with its dinky, dogged little face, it simply looks like another character (in Pixar’s Cars, both new and old editions appeared together, like nonno and grandchild). Life, you feel, would be a bit more fun with an old cinquecento, which in their home-country can be picked up, in decent nick, for about £4,000. Though you’d think twice before taking it even on the slow lane of the motorway, its status as a classic car exempts it from the Ulez charge, and its tiny length (just under 3 metres long) makes it heaven to park. 

Of course, for performance there’s no comparison with new Fiat 500 released in July 2007 (the 50th anniversary of the prototype’s launch) which is bigger, infinitely more comfortable, and has a 100hp engine eight times more powerful than the original. The launch of the reinvented cinquecento – an enduring hit since worldwide – was treated in Italy as a national event, with ad campaigns telling the people ‘If you’re Italian, you have to buy a Fiat’ and ‘The new Fiat belongs to all of us.’ In Liguria, there was a car rally of old cinquecentos into which the new model was flown by helicopter. At the official launch in Turin, 7,000 people from 63 countries attended. A special patriotic edition of the car was offered with side-stripes in the colours of the Italian flag – since then there have been versions sponsored by Gucci and Guerlain, and even one decorated by British artist Tracey Emin. There are Fiat 500 meet-ups in places like Hertfordshire and Minneapolis, and in Italy, for cinquecento owners. Like the Volkswagen Beetle and the Citroen 2CV, it belongs to that small group of foreign cars whose owners tend to hoot at each other in passing, and which are likely to be given a Christian name of their own – in a recent UK poll of drivers, ‘Fifi’ was the most popular, followed by ‘Bella’ and ‘Luigi.’ 

I barely notice Fiats in England – there’s something faintly Mr Beanish about them – but in Italy, that silver and burgundy badge, as recognisable as the Coke logo, as Italian as a Gaggia machine, starts to exert a powerful hold. So taken am I with the brand that readers won’t be surprised to learn, while in Puglia, I’ve finally succumbed and bought a Fiat 500 of my own. It’s bright red, about three inches long and purchased from a local toy-seller called Giuseppe. As souvenirs go, it’s a lot better than a plastic Colosseum or never-to-be-drunk bottle of Limoncello, and besides, as one 1950s advert for the cinquecento put it: ‘Bigger isn’t better… It’s just harder to park.’ 

quinta-feira, 20 de junho de 2024

livros - Nixon e Caetano (José Freire Antunes)

 




The Spectator - Are school reunions really that bad?

 (sublinhados meus)


Are school reunions really that bad?

Outside a visit to the dentist, there are few things in life as unappealing as a school reunion. That’s particularly the case when it marks an anniversary with a big number attached. In our case, 30 years.

On the face of it, it’s a micro-disaster in the making. The plan is to take a hundred or so men and women – many of whom are deep in the grip, knowingly or otherwise, of a mid-life crisis – wrench them away from their daily lives and transport them back to the boarding school where they were all teenagers together. You then throw in a free bar and disco – and let them get on with it.

It sounds like the pretext of a particularly cringey Channel 5 reality show, one in which Davina McCall emotes sympathetically alongside a therapist, who’s on hand to help pick up the pieces once bourgeois lives have been shattered.

Before my own big day arrived, spirits among my cohort of Old Ardinians were running high. A dedicated WhatsApp group had been set up and was being deluged with unearthed photographs. The pictures were so ancient you could scarcely recognise yourself in them, let alone anyone else. When one such snap popped up on my phone my wife peered at it closely before pointing at the wrong person and asking: ‘Is that you?’

Then there was the chit-chat, made all the more entertaining by alterations of surnames since our Ardingly schooldays. On WhatsApp one male friend asked a woman whose name rang a bell if they’d been an item at school, which was putting it politely. ‘No,’ came the response. ‘That was the other Hannah.’

As the day approached it dawned on me that a school reunion like this is the demographic equivalent of one of those mid-life medical check-ups, where you discover your levels of visceral fat and have your true biological age scientifically calculated.

By getting a before-and-after shot with 50 to 60 people you last saw when John Major was in Downing Street, you’re undergoing a brutal progression assessment -– in terms of life and career performance, as well as sheer physical upkeep or decay, and all against a cohort which in some respects is closest to you demographically in the world. It’s like having your own Ofsted report.

Moreover you have to contend with that strange psychological phenomenon which strikes when individuals return to a former social group, like the regression that occurs when siblings get together. Even if a full-on relapse isn’t on the cards, what about the fact that everyone will expect you to be the 18-year-old you once were, just with less hair, another stone or two and fewer of your actual teeth? In other words, an annual visit to the hygienist is a piece of cake.

For my own reunion last June, we had a gloriously sunny day, with the Sussex landscape every bit as beguiling as I remembered. It was mercifully easy to recognise some of my former classmates; they and their identities came back immediately, even if, like me, they had aged significantly in the interval.

It was a little odd, however. (I’m reminded of my son’s confusion after watching the Star Wars films in short order as to how it was that Mark Hamill, Harrison Ford and Carrie Fisher could all age so rapidly over the course of five or six films). Only one or two of my former contemporaries had completely fallen from my memory, but even they could be wrestled back from the off-site archive after a few excruciating seconds. Nobody likes to be forgotten, but it’s worse to be the person who entirely forgets. Some of us have gone to seed, sure. One or two were in better shape than our 18-year-old selves.

There was success in the room, too: someone does something very important for one of the world’s most influential American billionaires; another is a film producer; there were CEOs of this, that and the other; we had a landscape painter, the partner at a law firm. One old girl flew in from California, where she works for Google or Facebook. Another wore a silver sequinned onesie that, while a little over-the-top for 5 p.m., was a triumph by 10 p.m.

After a couple of glasses of champagne the trepidation was gone and people were enjoying themselves. The confirmed friendship groups disintegrated, people mixed and explored the past. The lavatories, formerly known as ‘the dykes’ in honour of what was presumably once rudimentary plumbing, were now Maoistly labelled ‘Male toilet’ and so on. Everything had signs on it; the tuckshop has been swept away for a sixth-form bar. Things once shabby had been painted.

By the third drink, most of us had established a patter to summarise the intervening decades. Quickly you realised that what you got was a snapshot of life shorn of all the horrid bits – the unmentioned first marriages, the unrequited loves, the divorces, the breakdowns; they were the ghosts at the party, as much as those from our year who didn’t attend. By the time the evening wound up at shortly after 11, my dateline on the cohort had been recalibrated. I had looked the past in the face and it really wasn’t so bad. Life-affirming? You bet. Am I looking forward to the 40th get together in 2033? Absolutely. It’ll be about time for another personal Ofsted.

The spectator - What phones are doing to reading

 (sublinhados meus)



What Phones Are Doing to Reading

It’s becoming harder, or at least less common, to read the old-fashioned way. But the new ways of reading are not all bad.

Illustration of books and digital reading devices.

For the past five years or so, I’ve read books on my phone. The practice started innocently enough. I write book reviews from time to time, and so publishers sometimes send me upcoming titles that fall roughly within my interests. When a publisher provided a choice between a PDF of a book and a physical copy, I would usually ask for the PDF, because I didn’t want my house to fill up with books that I might end up not reading. But what was at first a matter of clutter-free convenience became a habit, and now I encounter nearly every written work, regardless of its length, quality, and difficulty, on the small screen of my iPhone.

I use a variety of e-reading apps: Amazon Kindle, Apple Books, Libby. The last three books I downloaded onto the Apple Books app are Rachel Cusk’s novel “Second Place”; Malcolm Lowry’s 1947 classic “Under the Volcano,” which I bought because I wanted to see if I would enjoy it more than I did when read it twenty years ago; and Gary Indiana’s essay collection “Fire Season.” According to the little readout beneath the cover image for each book, I am nine per cent through the Cusk, a distressing three per cent through the Lowry reread, and a hundred per cent through the Indiana, a book I found liberating, both for its style and for its freeing expression of unpleasant thoughts.

The e-reading apps have their merits. At times, they become respites from the other, more addictive apps on my phone. Switching to a book from, say, Twitter, is like the phone-scroller’s version of a nice hike—the senses reorient themselves, and you feel more alert and vigorous, because you’ve spent six to eight minutes going from seven to eleven per cent of Arthur Koestler’s “Darkness at Noon.” Or you might feel a sense of pride because you’ve reached the sixty-per-cent mark in Elton John’s autobiography, “Me,” which isn’t a great work of literature but at least is better than Twitter. The book apps also seem to work as a stopgap for children, who are always lusting after screen time of any sort. My seven-year-old daughter has read hundreds of books on the Libby app, which lets you check out e-books from public libraries you belong to. As a parent, I find this wildly preferable to hearing the din of yet another stupid YouTube short or “Is it Cake?” episode coming through her iPad’s speakers.

Still, the arrival of these technologies has been accompanied by a steady decline in the number of books that get read in any form. A pair of 1999 Gallup polls, for example, found that Americans, on average, had read 18.5 books in the course of the previous twelve months. (It should be noted that these were books people had read, or said they had read, “either all or part of the way through.”) By 2021, the number had fallen to 12.6. In 2023, a National Endowment for the Arts survey found that the share of American adults who read novels or short stories had declined from 45.2 per cent in 2012 to 37.6 per cent in 2022, a record low. There are plenty of theories about why this is happening, involving broad finger-pointing toward the Internet or the ongoing influence of television, or even shifting labor conditions, as more women have entered the workforce.

We continue to spend a lot of time reading words, whether via social media or push notifications or text messages, but it can seem off to label any of that “reading,” a term that suggests something edifying or educational. Even book apps, I find, can feel like a sort of in-between, not the time suck of social media but also not the comfortable absorption of a good paperback. There’s something about scrolling and tapping that leads to a quick calcification of muscle memory. You start to tap on the same things not out of familiarity or comfort but out of sheer habit. Now that I read on my phone, I give up on new books more quickly than I used to. I go back to the same stuff over and over, in the same way that I watch the same YouTube videos over and over. I’m not entirely sure why I get mired in such a rut; part of it, I suspect, is just that I’m getting older. Of the books I’ve recently downloaded, only the Cusk came to me via recommendation algorithm, the “For You” box in Apple Books. Even so, I find that my reading habits follow a pattern that one might call algorithmic, and which I prefer to call laziness.

My colleague Kyle Chayka has written shrewdly and at length about the seduction of algorithms and the homogenizing effect they have on cultural production. But I have found myself wondering whether we actually live in a world forcibly shaped by algorithms or whether our phones themselves—their fiddly buttons, their flashing screens, their slight but satisfying heft—have other, more fundamental ways of making us lazy. If the algorithms are to blame, then we need to find ways to get outside of or otherwise away from them. But if the problem is our phones—and, of course, us—then we may have to walk away from much more.

The BOOX Palma is a new e-reader that promises an immersive experience for “reading an ebook, listening to a podcast, or perusing your favorite news feeds.” It costs about two hundred and eighty dollars and is roughly the size of a Google Pixel phone. The Palma runs on the Android platform, which means that you can add apps like Twitter to the device, but doing so is clearly not the point. The screen is matte, gray scale, and plain. Like the Kindle and other e-readers, the Palma is supposed to approximate the look of the physical page and cut down on eye fatigue.

Several years ago, there was some talk that cell-phone addiction was driven, in part, by the bright colors on our phone. Turning your phone display to gray scale would, it was suggested, make things feel less immersive and a bit drearier; this, in turn, would help you cut down on your screen time. Of course, even if this trick works, you can always change your phone back whenever you want. The Palma, though, does not have color options, nor does it have cellular service, and that means you cannot connect to the Internet without Wi-Fi. You can take the device on long, contemplative walks, listening to music or podcasts that you’ve downloaded, knowing that you will not be disturbed by a push notification while you stroll through the woods.

I have bought a handful of similar devices through the years, in the vain hope that one of them might replace my iPhone. The dream is a handheld object that renders the worst and most addictive apps unusable and perhaps even makes the good apps—which is to say, word-processing and e-reading apps—a little better. There’s always a honeymoon period with these devices, during which I envision a whole new life of information consumption. When I bought a Kindle, a few years ago, I subscribed to the Financial Times’s Kindle delivery service; I pictured myself sitting at the table in our kitchen with a bowl of oatmeal, a pot of coffee, and the gray-scale version of the F.T., which might not be as nice as the print version, with its salmon pages, but is certainly better than reading the newspaper’s iPhone app, with a notification buzzing every few minutes. That particular fantasy didn’t last a week.

A methadone-like treatment for cell-phone addiction—that is, a tamer and less addictive version of the real thing—doesn’t seem to work. Though the BOOX Palma can make the apps gray and accessible only through Wi-Fi, I will probably just spend more of my time in Wi-Fi range, watching black-and-white videos. This doesn’t mean that the Palma or other e-readers are useless. The Palma has speakers and Bluetooth compatibility, so it can work with audiobooks to create something of a patchwork of portable text: words issue from the car speakers on my drive to my younger child’s day care, pop up on the device’s screen when I’m waiting in line for coffee, and finally appear on the desktop monitor in my office, where they will get swallowed up by five separate chat platforms and the demands of my fantasy-basketball team.

This bouncing around might be clumsy and a bit tacky, but it tweaks the relationship I have with the prose on the page—and not, to my surprise, in a bad way. As a writer, I often read to remind myself that sentences can, in fact, be interesting. This multimedia method of reading creates quick little shots of prose that can loosen the writing gears. You can read a few pages of Bruce Chatwin, listen to the next chapter in your car, then bounce back to your Google Docs app to spill a bit of short-term inspiration onto your own page. Writers are not entirely different from the large language models that are supposed to replace us: we take in words with our eyes, sort them in our heads, then spit them back out in a sequence that mimics a voice. E-readers can provide a point of stylistic differentiation. Maybe the L.L.M.s will learn to mimic Nabokov better than I can, but I doubt that they will ever sense the difference between “Pale Fire” when it’s read out loud and “Pale Fire” on the page, nor can they feel out the subtle demands this new form of reading would place upon us writers who, I imagine, will soon have to adjust our prose, even subconsciously, to move from screen to speaker to second screen. Those of us who care about human interventions into style, regardless of how subtle and ultimately insignificant they may be, can perhaps take some solace, then, in the possibility that the future of reading will be across mediums, devices, and senses. If we are truly being colonized by the algorithms and A.I., we at least have more places to hide.

One of the books that I find myself tapping on repeatedly—without ever getting past forty per cent, somehow—is Richard Brautigan’s novella “Trout Fishing in America.” I’m not being compelled by an algorithm. But there’s a surf spot in Marin County that I used to go to which is very near the house where Brautigan, in 1984, died by suicide. Over the years, I told a handful of other surfers about the links between Brautigan and this spot, and later, whenever I would make it back out there, I would see the cropping of little houses on the hill overlooking the ocean, many of them with chicken runs and ruined vegetable-garden projects, and I would think to myself, with a great deal of embarrassment, that I still hadn’t actually finished “Trout Fishing in America.” Little compulsions like that one probably determine our online behavior more than we would like to admit. What’s particularly distressing to me is that, although I can imagine a world in which careful regulation and avoidance of algorithms makes phones less addictive, I cannot imagine myself freed from such stubborn vanities. ♦

Livros - Memórias II (Pedro Theotónio Pereira)

 


Futebol (Portugal - Chéquia)

0 - Tirando o facto de ter colocado 12 jogadores na minha linha inicial (não coloquei 13, tire-se o lado positivo...), não percebo puto de futebol, pronto.

1 - Não conhecia o jogador Vitinha. Tinha ouvido falar dele mas nunca o tinha visto jogar. Para mim, o melhor em campo. 

2 - Rafael Leão, o pior. Não há forma de eu engraçar nem com o jogador nem com aquele bamboleio constante levemente arrogante. O homem tem físico, tem. É fazer contas e concluir o que faz de bem e o que, simplesmente, não faz.

3 - Como habitualmente sofremos, sofremos para ganhar. Foi realmente massacrante. Só revela quão fracos somos de objectividade, de concretização. Eles marcaram, creio que no primeiro remate que fizeram à baliza. Não haverá forma de tornar a (verdadeira) eficácia, uma coisa mais simples?

4 - Quando apanharmos uma equipa "a sério", o que se passará?

5 - Pepe; a coisa correu bem, mas podia ter corrido mal depois das notícias da desvinculação do FCP.

6 - Ronaldo, com o qual não nutro particular simpatia, portou-se bem.


terça-feira, 18 de junho de 2024

Futebol - Campeonato da europa

A minha linha inicial:

Diogo, António Silva, Ruben Dias, Danilo, Daló,  Mendes, Bruno Fernandes, João Neves, Palhinha, Ronaldo, Felix e Bernardo Silva


O meu prognóstico:

ficamos nos quartos de final



The Spectator - Baltimore bridge collapsed

 

(sublinhados meus)

A Structural Engineer Explains Why the Baltimore Bridge Collapsed

A large container ship “totally removed” a critical pier from Baltimore’s Francis Scott Key Bridge

A large container ship “totally removed” a critical pier from Baltimore’s Francis Scott Key Bridge

As an enormous container ship was leaving Maryland’s Helen Delich Bentley Port of Baltimore just before 1:30 A.M. on Tuesday, it crashed into a pier supporting the Francis Scott Key Bridge. In less than a minute, the midsection of the 1.6-mile-long truss bridge plunged into the cold river below. Nothing indicates the collision was intentional, said James Wallace, chief of the Baltimore City Fire Department, at a recent press conference. The Singapore-flagged cargo ship appears to have lost propulsion—and therefore the crew’s control—while it was exiting through the harbor channel. According to the Associated Press, Maryland governor Wes Moore, who issued a state of emergency, said the crew of the ship, called the Dali, issued a mayday call with enough time to stop bridge traffic before the catastrophe.

None of the ship’s crew members were injured, but eight construction workers were on the bridge when it snapped and dropped. Maryland transportation secretary Paul Wiedefeld said that two of those workers had been rescued, according to CNN, and six are still missing as of this article’s publication. The U.S. Coast Guard and other emergency responders searched the harbor with boats and divers as helicopters circled above.

“It’s a huge tragedy,” says Benjamin Schafer, a Johns Hopkins University professor of civil and systems engineering. The collapse, he says, leaves a “stark hole” in Baltimore. Each year more than 11 million vehicles traveling along Interstate 695 crossed the Patapsco River via this bridge, according to the Maryland Transportation Authority. Some traffic could be routed to a four-lane tunnel that passes below the river—but not all of it, such as vehicles trucking hazardous materials. And until the wreckage of the bridge can be removed from the 50-foot-deep channel, it could cause shipping delays while cargo is routed away from this major mid-Atlantic hub.

Schafer spoke with Scientific American about the destruction of what he called Baltimore’s “elegant bridge in the skyline.”

[An edited transcript of the interview follows.]

Would any bridge survive this kind of impact?

I don't think so. Any bridge supported at two points like that and having one support just totally removed is going to be in the water as the next step.

What was the bridge made of?

The main span, which is the part seen [collapsing in video footage], is the steel superstructure. Each of the elements that you see are steel supported on concrete bridge piers, which connect it into the water.

Construction on this bridge began in 1972, and it opened five years later. If we were building this bridge today, what would we do differently?

The economics of bridges at that span [their pier-to-pier length] have changed since the middle of the 20th century, [as have] the aesthetics of what cities are looking for when they build a signature bridge like that. Almost for sure, if it was built today, it would be in a different form—probably a cable-stayed bridge, if you look around the country at what we’ve been building in the past 20-plus years. [Editor’s Note: In a cable-stayed bridge, cables run from high towers to the road, in contrast with the boxy metal construction of a truss bridge.]

But that reflects changing labor and materials costs. There are a lot of small pieces to make a metal truss bridge.

Did aging infrastructure contribute in any way to this collapse?

There’s nothing I’ve heard that indicates this particular structure had a critical aging issue or that such an issue was a critical piece to how this might fail. When I first saw the video the first thing this morning, I thought, “Oh, well, you know, maybe this or that [aspect of the bridge contributed to its collapse].” But then I sat down and watched it frame by frame. And, literally, the pier’s gone, and the bridge falls vertically down. So I was like, ‘Oh, maybe bridge scour had weakened the pier or something like that over the years.’ [Editor’s Note: Bridge scour results when water erodes the sediment surrounding a pier’s foundation.] But anything like that will be very second-order against the energy that was imparted into the end of the pier from this massive container ship.

Would a smaller cargo ship have destroyed the pier if it collided where the Dali did?

It’s hard to tell. It seems the pylon was completely obliterated. It wasn’t tilted, canted, bent or whatever—it was just gone. If you and I are out in a little sailboat, and we hit the bridge pier, the bridge pier is stronger than we are. But in this case [either because the bridge column lacked sufficient protections or because the ship was big enough to get through them], the entire pier is just gone.

A bridge is a carefully calculated thing. One of the major assumptions is that where I put the support points, I’m going to give it support. If I take that away, there’s not a design that’s going to allow the bridge to span anyway.

You literally just see it all erased, and then the bridge is moving vertically down as a rigid body.... It’s gravity. Its support has been removed. The places that you see it fail and then finally fail into the water are directly correlated to the loss of the support. It’s not some propagation of: one thing happens, and then that fails this member, and then that member that failed fails this member.... The whole bridge, every piece of steel, goes vertically down. There’s not a twist or bend or anything like that. Support’s gone; down it goes.

Are there any engineering lessons from this disaster?

So maybe we treat it as a full infrastructure problem, as opposed to a bridge problem, right? We need the Port of Baltimore. It’s a major shipping port for the entire Northeast Corridor. It has significant shipping traffic. If you look at the size of the ships from the 1970s, when the bridge was built, to now, it’s radically changed. When you look at the failure in the video, the container ship is as wide as the bridge is tall. It’s hard to get your mind around how big it really is! A lot has changed in terms of the environment in which that bridge operates and what we need it to do.

There are going to be lessons learned on how we manage our bridge support structures with respect to protecting it from shipping traffic.... I’m just speculating, but I can’t imagine that all of the processes that led to the accident would be allowed to be the same. So there are going to be regulations and processes for what it means to come into the port or to leave the port.

On a personal, emotional level, we know driving over bridges gives people some pause. The structural engineering community that works on these structures takes that very seriously and designs and cares for bridges with utmost seriousness. If there are lessons to be learned about actual structure, those lessons will be learned.