Wednesday early morning in Brussels, frantic political rally, flashed a discreet green symbol, echoed the phone messages signal. On the screen, bright and flat, typed in helping key lay the implausible and devastating news: he died Paulo Cunha e Silva. I do not know why, do not insist or ask, I believed. And soçobrei. And succumbed. As the city with the city, succumbed. I’m devastated, we are devastated. No one deserved this, this outcome: neither he nor her or us. Now there is no time, nor is there body. There’s only memory, which is the body of time
I can not remember when I met Paulo Cunha e Silva:. Was certainly well over 20 years. I remember first hearing about it, after the glimpse fleetingly and find in so little night of Porto. And later, not long after, to dine with him at home of Gabriela, talking to him and him with Nuno, to philosophize with him in the most disparate occasions, to dream and to project him in long, improbable phone calls. And I remember as Rui Manuel and – true lovers of culture and their addiction – and figures of the generation above – for example, Artur Santos Silva and Luis Braga da Cruz – count on it. Totaled up, however, the moments of symposia, conferences and seminars in different clothes and papers, were together to discuss, to think, to speculate or simply to vary. Could be in Rivoli or in Serralves, in the House or Palace of the Viscounts of Balsemão, he was always organizing something new, which – if astonishingly – was the same again. And among so many events, furnace us crossing over and over, here or there, in this or that house, and engender this friendship, robust and clear, capable of word and silence. If the metropolis will be missed the word, I’ll me-missing silence
Paul was not. – As many thought, with the close tag that has culture – an art man, a man the arts. Paul was a man of culture in all its fullness, in all dimensions. Paul was a man of philosophy, science and art – and, just like that, at the point of confluence of the three wisdoms, accept speaking culture, think of culture, to culture. Paul was not closed to anything, not closed the door to anything: physics and literature could “flirt”, mathematics and religion could dating, politics and painting could love, film and medicine could copulate. No field of human, from the body to the ethereal, the most learned the most common, was immune to the vocation and the provocation of culture. It all was contemporary, but future; he, more than Roman Florentine Renaissance however, he was always on top of everything. If the contemporary, unfathomable as is embodied call would Paulo Cunha e Silva. With your appetite all understand and pleasure to offer us the understanding of all, it would be the body or the installation of the contemporary. He longed for understanding, understanding, knowledge, for understanding, understanding, knowing, we could love, we could take care of. He liked to love; he loved like.
Paul was still the Port. There are no Paul Port. There was no port Paulo. It was Porto’s culture, but also and especially the counterculture. Porto who resisted and rebelled, but also sleeping, which had insomnia and what madrugava. Was the cosmopolitan port and underground , cosmopolitan because underground . A Port residing in unhealthy humidity of garage bands and housed in bare haughtiness of revivalist stores; who rebelled against the desert of ideas and freedoms and are intoxicated with the ether futile depths and deep futility. A Harbor that he loved and who was shining, bringing it and taking it, taking it and bringing it, without fear or fear of the pack. The Port was the world; . Porto was the unclean
Paul never complained: did, dreaming, summoned. Rarely say bad: advanced, invited, stretched. Paul espicaçava, willing, shook, pushing. Paul inspired. Last week, the future forum, inspired us and flooded us with more present, more contemporary themes: happiness. If the academies all think happiness, whether in the streets all to discuss, if the lives all the chase, why should we be deprived of thinking, discuss and pursue? In his last great achievement, ironically, whim or destiny of generosity, Paul left us happiness. Paul, more than anything, was a liberating culture. Freed and liberated culture to culture. He freed it to us, for the city, for everyone. Freeing and liberating, chasing us. Chasing them in a pursuit free, free and liberating. Now sad, infinitely sad, lonely me is the question made to our namesake, also Roman, also genius, also creator, also released liberating. No consolation or comfort, dare I ask you: Paul, Paul, why have not you persecute me? Paul, Paul, because we no longer persecute?
MEP (PSD)
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