The Travis Corner

[Amazoniac]

I don't think the whole 'Sicilian Brain' comment was an uncivil remark lol he was just kidding/correlating the high olive oil consumption per capital of Italy compared to the rest of the world :) the dude had me rolling with that whole convo actually!

And personally I love Cat videos AND I'm a non denominational Christian but I think Travis is hilarious and his comments make me laugh even the ones that I could take as a personal attack if I felt like getting butt hurt about something...not to mention stereotypes are founded on a truth and so when people broach stereotypes that I could belong to I just remind myself it's mostly true even if the tone is a tad harsh. We're all just parodies of ourself and if you can laugh it then all humor and good will is lost on you.

P.S. psychotic stick figures, and eloquently broken English makes me think of super villains from freakazoid

It's not that, we all knows he was in part being facetious. However! I have the impression that Travos tries to dissociate himself from anything that is synthesized by his italian stereotype. We're all subject to variances in state, but I guess for someone with extreme skull expansion such as him, you run the risk of building your identity on being the smart, and when step outside of such zone (especially against your will, after an alliamide attack for example), you's haunted by an image of turning into your antithesis: the extravagant person that's moved by emotions with immoderate behaviors as a reflect of lack of tenmal clarity.

Every mockery serves to distantiate himself from a side that he fears more than others for threatening his identity. Instead of wearing a Joy Divison shirt, Travi wears one carrying the word Vernunft or Logik, I remember commenting this with him.

Anyway, isn't it curious how I've just quoted a german to make that point?

Part of my family is italian (dammit), and it seems to me that a great deal of their behavior can be attributed to habit. Kids growing up with everyone around being expressive and warming, they must eventually adopt the same (learned) behavior; they'll for the sure try to avoid being misfits and perhaps might even exaggerate those characihetaitsics to stand out in the group. It then turns into part of their identity and they's proud of it; not being contained definitely draws more attention to you, making you hooked to it. If you ask them why they behave in such way, they'll reply by saying it's the 'italian genes' with a 'hell, yeah'.

@olive - Don't mind this thread, it's nothing personal (it can't be).

 

[Amazoniac]

I guess trapping him in a box is not the best solution because he might rebel and won't put off content unless we trade it for basic needs such as.. air or light.

I started to wonder..

Was it something we said or something we did,
did our words not come out right?

..and it occurred to me that there's no need for captivity if we can captivate the interest instead, so maybe it was our mistake somewhere along the way.

Various people were leaving him compliments for the quality of his posts and smartness, but they were generic for the most part: this might be where we lost him. It's not ideal to compliment someone for what's obvious because the person gets it a lot, at some point it doesn't even register anymore.

When he returns (and for life), there are better ways of doing it. Consider how can you tell that what you're complimenting is something special. What's about it that makes it special? It's being specific because this how it becomes meaningful for the other.

It's more considerate for you to point out something subtle that reveals his cleverness than leaving a 'you's smart' message. It's also way more impacting.

Regina. She's 200 years old but looks 160 or so younger. You can say to her that she doesn't look her age, but she probably gets it a lot already, will likely enjoy it for a moment, but then it's just another random generic and repeated comment to her compliment briefcase; there's nothing specific to stick or for her to hold on to. So how can we tell that she doesn't look her age? What stands out or sets her aside from people that you's using for comparison? Not having skin spots is something; looking lively and behaving in such way is another; and so on.

Spoiler: 'A lady' (1884 tale) by Machado de Assis

The author is a boss. If you find some parts strange, that's because it was a machine translation with minor corrections, but it's readable. The original is in spanish if I'm not wrong.

"
A lady

I never find this lady who does not remember the prophecy of a gecko to the poet Heine, ascending the Apennines: "Day will come when the stones will be plants, the animal plants, the animals men and the men gods." And I want to tell you: "The lady, Mrs. Camila, loved so much the youth and the beauty that she delayed her watch, in order to see if she could fix those two minutes of crystal. Do not let yourself go, Mrs. Camila. On the day of the gecko, you will be Hebe, goddess of youth; you will give us to drink the nectar of perenniality with your eternally young hands.

The first time I saw her, she was thirty-six, looking only thirty-two, but insisting to remain on her twenties where she felt like home. Home is a way of saying. There is no castle wider than the villa of these good friends, nor more obsequious treatment than what they know to give to their guests. Every time Mrs. Camila wanted to leave, they asked her to stay and she stayed. Then came new playfulness, chivalry, music, dancing, a succession of beautiful things invented with the sole purpose of preventing this lady from following her path.

"Mother, Mother," said her daughter growing, "let's go, we can not stay here all our lives."

Mrs. Camila looked at her mortified, then smiled, kissed her and told her to play with the other children. What other kids? Ernestina was then between fourteen and fifteen, very tall, very quiet, with natural ways of lady. She probably would not have fun with eight- and nine-year-old girls; it does not matter, once she leaves her mother calm, she could rejoice or be angry. But alas, sad! There is a limit to everything, even for twenty-nine. Mrs. Camilla decided, finally, to say goodbye to these worthy hosts, and did it grateful for longing. They still urged for a five or six month extension; the beautiful lady answered them that it was impossible and, climbing on the sorrel of time, went to lodge in her thirties.

But she was from that caste of women who laugh at the sun and the almanacs. Milk color, fresh, unalterable, left the others the job of getting old. She just wanted to exist. Black hair, brown and warming eyes. Had shoulders and neck intended for the low-cut dresses, and so did her arms, which I do not say were those of the Venus de Milo, to avoid vulgarity, but probably were not others. Mrs. Camila knew this; she knew that she was beautiful, not only because the other ladies' smiling eyes told her, but also by a certain instinct that beauty possesses, like talent and genius. It remains to be said that she was married, that her husband was redheaded, and that they both loved each other as bride and groom; finally, that she was honest. She was not, mind you, by temperament, but on principle, out of love for her husband, and I think a little out of pride.

No defect, then, except that of delaying the years; but is this a defect? It is, it does not remind me in which page of Scripture, naturally in the Prophets, a comparison of the days with the waters of a river that never return. Mrs. Camila wanted to make a dam for her use. In the tumult of this continuous march between birth and death, she clung to the illusion of stability. She could only be asked not to be ridiculous, and she was not. The reader will tell me that beauty lives by itself, and that the preoccupation of the calendar shows that this lady lived mainly with her eyes on opinion. It is true; but how do the women of our time are supposed to live?

Mrs. Camila entered her thirties and did not have to go any farther. Obviously terror was a superstition. Two or three close friends, nourished by arithmetic, continued to say that she had lost count of the years. They did not realize that nature was an accomplice in error, and that at the age of forty (true) Mrs. Camila was thirty-something. There was one thing left to do: spying on her first white hair, a thread of nothing but white. They looked in vain; the demon of the hair seemed increasingly black.

In this they deceived themselves. The white thread was there; was the daughter of Mrs. Camilla, who was entering the age of nineteen, and, for the sake of sin, beautiful. Mrs. Camila prolonged her daughter's teenage dresses as much as she could, kept her in high school until late, did everything to proclaim her a child. Nature, however, which was not only immoral but also illogical, while suffering the years of one, loosened the rein of the other, and Ernestina, a young woman, came in radiantly at the first dance. It was a revelation. Mrs. Camila adored her daughter; she savored the glory at lengthy drinks. At the bottom of the glass she found the bitter drop and made a face. She even thought of abdication; but a great prodigal of made-phrases told her that she looked like the daughter's older sister, and the project was undone. It was from this night on that Mrs. Camila went on to tell everyone that she had married at a young age.

One day, a few months later, she pointed on the horizon the first boyfriend. Mrs. Camila had thought vaguely of this calamity, without looking at it, without preparing for the defense. When she least expected it, she found a suitor at the door. She questioned her daughter; she discovered an indefinable uproar, the inclination of the twenties, and fell prostrated. Marry her was the least; but if beings are like the waters of Scripture, that they return no more, it is because behind them come others, as behind waters other waters; and to define these successive waves is that men invented this name of grandchildren. Mrs. Camila saw the first grandson imminent, and determined to postpone it. It is clear that she did not formulate the resolution, as did not formulate the idea of danger. The soul understands itself; a feeling is worth a reasoning. The ones she had were swift, dark, in the depths of her being, where she had not extracted them so as not to be forced to face them.

"But what do you think is bad about Ribeiro?" asked her husband one night at the window.

Mrs. Camila shrugged her shoulders. "I think his nose is crooked," he said.

"Bad!" You are nervous; let us speak of something else, replied the husband. And after looking at the street for a couple of minutes, humming in his throat, he returned to Ribeiro, who found an acceptable son-in-law, and if Ernestina asked him, he understood that they should concede. He was intelligent and polite. He was also the probable heir of a Cantagalo aunt. And then he had a heart of gold. There were very beautiful things about him. In academy, for example... Mrs. Camila listened to the rest, tapping her toe on the floor and drumming with her fingers the sonata of impatience; but when her husband told her that Ribeiro was waiting for an order from the foreign minister, a place for the United States, she could not contain herself and cut him off:

"What? Separate me from my daughter? No sir."

At what level the love of motherhood and personal feeling have entered into this cry is a difficult problem to solve, especially now, far from events and people. Let us suppose that in equal parts. The truth is that the husband did not know what to invent to defend the minister of foreigners, the diplomatic needs, the fatality of marriage, and, not knowing what to invent, went to sleep. Two days later came the appointment. On the third day, the girl told her boyfriend not to ask her father because she did not want to leave the family. It was the same as saying: I prefer the family to you. It was true that his voice was trembling and silent, and an air of deep consternation; but Ribeiro saw only the rejection, and embarked. So ended the first adventure.

Mrs. Camila suffered with her daughter's displeasure; but she comforted herself quickly. There won't be scarcity of candidates, she reflected. To comfort her daughter, she took her around everywhere. They were both beautiful, and Ernestina had the freshness of years; but her mother's beauty was more perfect, and despite her years, she was better than her daughter's. We do not go so far as to believe that the feeling of superiority is what encouraged Mrs. Camila to prolong and repeat the walks. No: maternal love, alone, explains everything. But let's admit that it cheered her a bit. What's bad about this? What evil is there when a brave colonel defends nobly the country, and its epaulettes? Not because of that the love of the motherland and the love of mothers will end.

Months later a second boyfriend's ear popped. This time he was a widow, lawyer, twenty-seven. Ernestina did not feel for him the same emotion that the other had given her; she simply accepted it. Mrs. Camila sniffed the new application. She could not plead anything against him; had a straight nose as his consciousness, and deep dislike towards diplomatic life. But there would be other defects, there must be others. Mrs. Camila sought them with her soul; inquired about his relationships, habits, past. She managed to find small things, just the nail of human imperfection, humor alternatives, absence of intellectual virtues, and finally a great excess of self-love. It was at this point that the beautiful lady caught him. She began to slowly raise the wall of silence; first launched the layer of pauses, more or less long, then the short phrases, then the monosyllables, the distractions, the absorptions, the complacent looks, the resigned ears, the yawns pretended behind the hand fan. He did not understand soon; but when he noticed that her mother's annoyances coincided with her daughter's absences, he thought it was too much and left. If he had been a fighter in spirit, he had jumped the wall; but he was proud and weak. Mrs. Camila gave thanks to the gods.

There was a resting quarter. Then came some flirtations of one night, ephemeral insects, which left no history. Mrs. Camila understood that they had to multiply, until some decisive one that forced her to yield; but at least, she told herself, she wanted a son-in-law to bring to her daughter the same happiness that her husband gave her. And, once, or to strengthen this decree of will, or for another reason, she repeated the concept aloud, though only she could hear it. You, subtle psychologist, can imagine that she wanted to convince herself; I'd rather tell you what happened to you in 186...

It was morning. Mrs. Camila stood in the mirror, the window open, the green chateau and the sound of cicadas and birds. She felt in herself the harmony that connected her with external things. Only intellectual beauty is independent and superior. Physical beauty is landscape's sister. Mrs. Camila savored this intimate, secret fraternity, a sense of identity, a remembrance of former life in the same divine womb. No unpleasant memories, no occurrences would cloud this mysterious expansion. On the contrary, everything seemed to imbibe her from eternity, and her forty-two years did not weigh her more than so many rose-leaves. She looked out, looked at the mirror. Suddenly, as if a snake had come out to her, she recoiled in terror. She had seen, on the left fountain, a white hair. She still blamed on the husband; but she quickly recognized that it was hers, a telegram of old age [XIX], that she was marching against her will. The first feeling was of prostration. Mrs. Camila felt she was missing everything, everything, pictured herself gray and over by the end of a week.

"Mother, Mother," Ernestina cried, entering the parlor. Here's the cabin Dad sent.

Mrs. Camila had a jolt of pudency, and instinctively returned to her daughter the side that did not had the white thread. She had never found her so graceful and vivid. She stared at her with longing. She looked at her with envy as well, and, to suppress this bad feeling, she took the note from the cabin. It was for that very night. One idea expels another; Mrs. Camilla foresaw herself in the midst of the lights and the people, and quickly raised her heart. Standing alone, she looked at the mirror again, and boldly tore off her white hair, and laid it in the house. Out, damned spot! Out! More happy than the other Lady Macbeth, she saw the stain disappear in the air, because in her spirit, old age was a remorse, and ugliness a crime. Get out, damn stain! Leave!

But if remorse comes back, why should not white hair come back? A month later, Mrs. Camila discovered another, hinted at the beautiful and rich black hair, and amputated it without mercy. Five or six weeks later, another. This third coincided with a third candidate in the hand of the daughter, and both found Mrs. Camila in an hour of prostration. Beauty, which had supplanted her youth, seemed to be about to go, as a dove went out in search of the other. The days rushed. Children she had seen in her lap, or a trolley carted for by the mistresses, now danced at dancefloors. Those who were men smoked; the women sang on the piano. Some of them presented her with their babies, chubby, a second generation who getting ready to go dancing too someday, singing or smoking, presenting other babies to others, and so on.

Mrs. Camilla only twitched a little, then gave in. What remedy, if not accepting a son-in-law? But as an old habit is not lost from day to day, Mrs. Camila saw in parallel, at that festival of the heart, a scenery and great scenery. She prepared herself gallantly, and the effect corresponded to the effort. In the church, among other ladies; in the living room, sitting on the sofa (the upholstery that lined the furniture, as well as the wall paper were always dark to make Mrs. Camila's complexion stand out), dressed at the whim, without the refinement of extreme youth, but also without the matronal rigidity, a half-term only, meant to highlight her graciousness, laughing, and happy, in short, the recent mother-in-law has won the best votes. It was certain that a patch of purple still hung from her shoulders.

Purple supposes dynasty. Dynasty demands grandchildren. It remained that the Lord blessed the union, and he blessed it the following year. Mrs. Camila had become accustomed to the idea; but it was so painful to abdicate, that she waited for the grandson with love and repugnance. Was this importunate embryo, curious about life and pretentious, needed on earth? Of course, no; but it appeared one day, with the flowers of September. During the crisis, Mrs. Camila only had to think about her daughter; after the crisis, she thought of his daughter and his grandson. Only days later she could think of herself. Anyway, grandma. There was no doubt; she was grandmother. Neither the features which were still arranged, nor the hair, which were black (save half a dozen hidden threads), could in themselves denounce reality; but reality existed; she was, in fact, grandmother.

She wanted to retreat; and to have the grandson nearest her, she called his daughter home. But the house was not a monastery, and the streets and newspapers with their thousand rumors awoke the echoes of another time. Mrs. Camila tore the act of abdication and returned to the tumult.

One day, I found her next to a black woman, who carried a five- to six-month-old child on her lap. Mrs. Camila held the little sun hat open to cover the child. I met her eight days later, with the same child, the same black and the same sun hat. Twenty days later, and thirty days later, I saw her again, entering the train with the black woman and the child. "Have you breastfed yet?" she would say to the black woman. Look at the sun. Do not fall. Do not over tighten the boy. Woke up? Do not mess with him. Cover the face, etc., etc.

It was the grandson. But she was going so tightly, so careful of the child, so young, so without another lady, that she looked like a mother rather than a grandmother; and many people thought she was the mother. That is was Mrs. Camila's intention, I do not swear it. ("Thou shalt not swear," Matthew, V, 34). I only say that no other mother would be more unveiled than Mrs. Camila with her grandson; to attribute to her a simple son was the most likely thing in the world.
"

 

[Terma]

@Travis Hey, made it to 2019. You? Some stuff right up your alley

https://www.researchgate.net/public...lyamine_metabolic_enzymes_involved_in_obesity (January 2018)

The natural polyamines, putrescine, spermidine and spermine are distributed widely in all cells including adipocytes. They are involved in several physiological processes involving gene expression and cell proliferation. The body pool of polyamines is maintained by endogenous biosynthesis, intestinal microorganisms and the diet. A correlation between fat metabolism and polyamine metabolism has been reported in several studies. It was shown that the inhibition of polyamine metabolism enzymes had been associated with increased adipose tissue and weight gain in human and animal models. Ornithine decarboxylase (ODC) and S-adenosylmethionine decarboxylase (AdoMetDC) are anabolic enzymes; and spermidine/ spermine N1-acetyltransferase (SSAT) and polyamine oxidase (PAO) are catabolic enzymes which regulate polyamine homoeostasis. Genetically altered polyamine metabolic enzymes resulted in higher tissue adipose content and weight gain indicating potential links between obesity and polyamine metabolism. This review aims to provide details on previously reported sources of data published on polyamine metabolism and obesity.

SSAT- deficient mice developed insulin resistance at old age, possibly indicating that polyamine catabolism has a role in the regulation of glucose and energy me- tabolism. 17

The activation of PGC-1α, the master regulator of mitochondrial biogenesis and energy expendi- ture, in the WAT and liver of mice resulted that WAT-specific SSAT over expres- sion was sufficient to increase the number of mitochondria, reduce WAT mass and protect the mice from high-fat diet-induced obesity. 2

SSAT consumes Acetyl-CoA, so you want to actually increase polyamines in order to break them down to consume energy, while also robbing methyl groups from NNMT (though they argue from the reverse, that NNMT is a polyamine synthesis limiter and should be killed directly). This is the futile cycle the other articles were talking about, but this article does a much better job.


Paradoxically it appears that Spermidine increases autophagy and lifespan, and is in lots of plant foods.

https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/15548627.2018.1530929 (Received 16 Aug 2018)

Spermidine is a natural polyamine that stimulates cytoprotective macroautophagy/autophagy. External supplementation of spermidine extends lifespan and health span across species, including in yeast, nematodes, flies and mice. In humans, spermidine levels decline with aging, and a possible connection between reduced endogenous spermidine concentrations and age-related deterioration has been suggested. Recent epidemiological data support this notion, showing that an increased uptake of this polyamine with spermidine-rich food diminishes overall mortality associated with cardiovascular diseases and cancer. Here, we discuss nutritional and other possible routes to counteract the age-mediated decline of spermidine levels.

Spermidine induces autophagy through the inhibition of several acetyltransferases [ 7 ], including EP300 [ 21 ], one of the main negative regulators of autophagy [ 22 ]. Its potency has been recently quantified to be equivalent to that of rapamycin

So there is a new fad of trialing spermidine on animals.

I couldn't find an article to address this directly, but I make the assumption that for exogenous Spermidine to be beneficial it would still require Methionine Restriction. I assume either spermine or some other methionine product, or the abundance of polyamines in cellular milieu, would continue to lead to cell proliferation, cancer, obesity, etc. Maybe a different restriction could also work or contribute, unknown.

I'm not sure, I thought I read this but it might be false: MR might be the thing that upregulates SSAT and polyamine breakdown? Memory failure. If not that, it can't be too hard to upregulate SSAT, I figure anything that tells the cell it has insufficient nutrients to proliferate should logically end up breaking down the polyamines (unless it relies much more heavily on preventing their synthesis block via NNMT or other?). I might have just read this and already forgotten. Next time. [or perhaps SSAT doesn't need to upregulate too much for this to work?]

So for obesity, solution is high spermidine foods with no methionine (plant-based diet + isolated aminos and gelatin with no methionine - note though this can end up fairly high in Arginine, which may also improve obesity yet other ways incl. helping to consume the methyl - adding lysine is likely to help ensure success stealing the methyl to form carnitine).

I'm not sure what happens with spermine in this case (spermidine->spermine requires methyl, so depends on cellular priority? I'd tend to think spermine stays low in this case, but I may be very wrong, can't read all the references)

Note: Counter-intuitively, methionine restriction can actually increase spermidine:
Methionine Restriction Extends Lifespan in Progeroid Mice and Alters Lipid and Bile Acid Metabolism

Conversely, MR caused an increase in the polyamine spermidine by 10-fold in LmnaG609G/G609G livers (Figure 4B).

Spermidine itself contributes to triggering MAPK(ERK) and cell proliferation, but it seems to promote autophagy in part through Akt(/mTorC1) suppression (cellular growth suppression), which I didn't expect. So it appears that in the right circumstances, spermidine switches from growth+proliferation promoting to autophagy+proliferation promoting and vice-versa, which is interesting to the say the least (I write "autophagy+proliferation" in terms of a partial view of signals received by the cell from these substances, as I'm picturing it; not sure how far proliferation can go from here - another topic?). Perhaps something simple like insulin is enough for the switch. Lost my picture, here's a link:
Reactivation of autophagy by spermidine ameliorates the myopathic defects of collagen VI-null mice

Of note, high-dose spermidine i.p. treatment led to decreased AKT phosphorylation levels in tibialis anterior of wild-type mice even under fed conditions. Yet, AKT phosphorylation was restored when spermidine treatment was followed by 24-h starvation (Fig. 3A) [due to FoxO rebound].

Reactivation of autophagy by spermidine ameliorates the myopathic defects of collagen VI-null mice

Our data indicate that high-dose i.p. spermidine treatment is capable of normalizing AKT phosphorylation in col6a1−/− tibialis anterior leading to increased expression of FOXO target genes upon starvation, which is sufficient to induce autophagy in skeletal muscle.

https://www.mdpi.com/2076-3271/6/1/14/pdf

(I didn't check the doses to make sure they're physiological, but FoxO is classically associated with autophagy so probably this)

Maybe you already read tons of this, but several fresh from 2018 and significant. Bordering on consciousness now so could have got something wrong; I started to mixup the NNMT and MR studies in my head 3 mins ago. This'll have to do.

Cheers

 

[LeeLemonoil]

Thanks for sharing @Terma

@Amazoniac

Travis ingenuity to connect lots of physiological dots that seemed never connected before always impressed me much. Based on his similarly impressive broad knowledge of diverse topics that enabled him to see those connections in the first place.

 

[LeeLemonoil]

I hope he is deliberately abstaining from the forum so he can concentrate on consolidating some of his work and ingenuity into e-books or something similar.

I‘d like to see some form of adequate synopsis of Travis more novel and unique thoughts on the RPF. His ideas about biogenic amines, cancer, methylation and so forth .... granted, his posts are already exudats of complex subjects, but due to the nature of the forum it’s all a bit scattered.

 

[SB4]

Big pharma took care of him.

 

[Blossom]

Big pharma took care of him.

Or extraterrestrial beings...(joking)

 

[milk_lover]

Anybody knows what Travis thinks of glycine?

 

[Amazoniac]

Big pharma took care of him.

 

[Jon]

Hahahaha is this another Sicilian thing? @Amazoniac

 

[Amazoniac]

Hahahaha is this another Sicilian thing? @Amazoniac

?

 

[Jon]

?

You faded out the h in pharma to spell Parma (as in Parmesan cheese) lmao at least that's how I saw it

 

[Amazoniac]

You faded out the h in pharma to spell Parma (as in Parmesan cheese) lmao at least that's how I saw it

Maybe he was prosciutted for racialism.

 

[Jon]

Maybe he was prosciutted for racialism.

Where are you getting this Leeked information??

 

[LeeLemonoil]

Chees(k)y stuff

 

[Jon]

Chees(k)y stuff

Maybe, but it's just one pizzaf the pie

 

[Mossy]

Change of plans: we need a park, a Travo park.

For now I can think of an abacus with letters o-u-l-d- fixed and you can choose between -c/w/sh-.
Also, floating balloon dogs, but you have to earn one by guessing right each segment that's representing a dash.

The Travacus.

 

[olive]

https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/026217468590126X

“Dietary riboflavin deficiency increased biosynthesis rates in vitro of both PGE2 and PGF2α in rat renal medulla and papilla. When both control and riboflavin deficient rats were treated with flurbiprofen for a 10 day period, PGE2 biosynthesis in vitro was markedly inhibited.”

Riboflavin (vitamin b2) deficiency increased PGE2 (pro hair growth) and PGF2a.

During flurbiprofen (COX inhibitor, like aspirin is) treatment PGE2 (pro hair growth) was inhibited.

@Travis @LeeLemonoil

 

[Broken man]

I like reading this thread even he is not here.

 

[Steven Bussinger]

Spoiler: 'A lady' (1884 tale) by Machado de Assis

The author is a boss. If you find some parts strange, that's because it was a machine translation with minor corrections, but it's readable. The original is in spanish if I'm not wrong.

"
A lady

I never find this lady who does not remember the prophecy of a gecko to the poet Heine, ascending the Apennines: "Day will come when the stones will be plants, the animal plants, the animals men and the men gods." And I want to tell you: "The lady, Mrs. Camila, loved so much the youth and the beauty that she delayed her watch, in order to see if she could fix those two minutes of crystal. Do not let yourself go, Mrs. Camila. On the day of the gecko, you will be Hebe, goddess of youth; you will give us to drink the nectar of perenniality with your eternally young hands.

The first time I saw her, she was thirty-six, looking only thirty-two, but insisting to remain on her twenties where she felt like home. Home is a way of saying. There is no castle wider than the villa of these good friends, nor more obsequious treatment than what they know to give to their guests. Every time Mrs. Camila wanted to leave, they asked her to stay and she stayed. Then came new playfulness, chivalry, music, dancing, a succession of beautiful things invented with the sole purpose of preventing this lady from following her path.

"Mother, Mother," said her daughter growing, "let's go, we can not stay here all our lives."

Mrs. Camila looked at her mortified, then smiled, kissed her and told her to play with the other children. What other kids? Ernestina was then between fourteen and fifteen, very tall, very quiet, with natural ways of lady. She probably would not have fun with eight- and nine-year-old girls; it does not matter, once she leaves her mother calm, she could rejoice or be angry. But alas, sad! There is a limit to everything, even for twenty-nine. Mrs. Camilla decided, finally, to say goodbye to these worthy hosts, and did it grateful for longing. They still urged for a five or six month extension; the beautiful lady answered them that it was impossible and, climbing on the sorrel of time, went to lodge in her thirties.

But she was from that caste of women who laugh at the sun and the almanacs. Milk color, fresh, unalterable, left the others the job of getting old. She just wanted to exist. Black hair, brown and warming eyes. Had shoulders and neck intended for the low-cut dresses, and so did her arms, which I do not say were those of the Venus de Milo, to avoid vulgarity, but probably were not others. Mrs. Camila knew this; she knew that she was beautiful, not only because the other ladies' smiling eyes told her, but also by a certain instinct that beauty possesses, like talent and genius. It remains to be said that she was married, that her husband was redheaded, and that they both loved each other as bride and groom; finally, that she was honest. She was not, mind you, by temperament, but on principle, out of love for her husband, and I think a little out of pride.

No defect, then, except that of delaying the years; but is this a defect? It is, it does not remind me in which page of Scripture, naturally in the Prophets, a comparison of the days with the waters of a river that never return. Mrs. Camila wanted to make a dam for her use. In the tumult of this continuous march between birth and death, she clung to the illusion of stability. She could only be asked not to be ridiculous, and she was not. The reader will tell me that beauty lives by itself, and that the preoccupation of the calendar shows that this lady lived mainly with her eyes on opinion. It is true; but how do the women of our time are supposed to live?

Mrs. Camila entered her thirties and did not have to go any farther. Obviously terror was a superstition. Two or three close friends, nourished by arithmetic, continued to say that she had lost count of the years. They did not realize that nature was an accomplice in error, and that at the age of forty (true) Mrs. Camila was thirty-something. There was one thing left to do: spying on her first white hair, a thread of nothing but white. They looked in vain; the demon of the hair seemed increasingly black.

In this they deceived themselves. The white thread was there; was the daughter of Mrs. Camilla, who was entering the age of nineteen, and, for the sake of sin, beautiful. Mrs. Camila prolonged her daughter's teenage dresses as much as she could, kept her in high school until late, did everything to proclaim her a child. Nature, however, which was not only immoral but also illogical, while suffering the years of one, loosened the rein of the other, and Ernestina, a young woman, came in radiantly at the first dance. It was a revelation. Mrs. Camila adored her daughter; she savored the glory at lengthy drinks. At the bottom of the glass she found the bitter drop and made a face. She even thought of abdication; but a great prodigal of made-phrases told her that she looked like the daughter's older sister, and the project was undone. It was from this night on that Mrs. Camila went on to tell everyone that she had married at a young age.

One day, a few months later, she pointed on the horizon the first boyfriend. Mrs. Camila had thought vaguely of this calamity, without looking at it, without preparing for the defense. When she least expected it, she found a suitor at the door. She questioned her daughter; she discovered an indefinable uproar, the inclination of the twenties, and fell prostrated. Marry her was the least; but if beings are like the waters of Scripture, that they return no more, it is because behind them come others, as behind waters other waters; and to define these successive waves is that men invented this name of grandchildren. Mrs. Camila saw the first grandson imminent, and determined to postpone it. It is clear that she did not formulate the resolution, as did not formulate the idea of danger. The soul understands itself; a feeling is worth a reasoning. The ones she had were swift, dark, in the depths of her being, where she had not extracted them so as not to be forced to face them.

"But what do you think is bad about Ribeiro?" asked her husband one night at the window.

Mrs. Camila shrugged her shoulders. "I think his nose is crooked," he said.

"Bad!" You are nervous; let us speak of something else, replied the husband. And after looking at the street for a couple of minutes, humming in his throat, he returned to Ribeiro, who found an acceptable son-in-law, and if Ernestina asked him, he understood that they should concede. He was intelligent and polite. He was also the probable heir of a Cantagalo aunt. And then he had a heart of gold. There were very beautiful things about him. In academy, for example... Mrs. Camila listened to the rest, tapping her toe on the floor and drumming with her fingers the sonata of impatience; but when her husband told her that Ribeiro was waiting for an order from the foreign minister, a place for the United States, she could not contain herself and cut him off:

"What? Separate me from my daughter? No sir."

At what level the love of motherhood and personal feeling have entered into this cry is a difficult problem to solve, especially now, far from events and people. Let us suppose that in equal parts. The truth is that the husband did not know what to invent to defend the minister of foreigners, the diplomatic needs, the fatality of marriage, and, not knowing what to invent, went to sleep. Two days later came the appointment. On the third day, the girl told her boyfriend not to ask her father because she did not want to leave the family. It was the same as saying: I prefer the family to you. It was true that his voice was trembling and silent, and an air of deep consternation; but Ribeiro saw only the rejection, and embarked. So ended the first adventure.

Mrs. Camila suffered with her daughter's displeasure; but she comforted herself quickly. There won't be scarcity of candidates, she reflected. To comfort her daughter, she took her around everywhere. They were both beautiful, and Ernestina had the freshness of years; but her mother's beauty was more perfect, and despite her years, she was better than her daughter's. We do not go so far as to believe that the feeling of superiority is what encouraged Mrs. Camila to prolong and repeat the walks. No: maternal love, alone, explains everything. But let's admit that it cheered her a bit. What's bad about this? What evil is there when a brave colonel defends nobly the country, and its epaulettes? Not because of that the love of the motherland and the love of mothers will end.

Months later a second boyfriend's ear popped. This time he was a widow, lawyer, twenty-seven. Ernestina did not feel for him the same emotion that the other had given her; she simply accepted it. Mrs. Camila sniffed the new application. She could not plead anything against him; had a straight nose as his consciousness, and deep dislike towards diplomatic life. But there would be other defects, there must be others. Mrs. Camila sought them with her soul; inquired about his relationships, habits, past. She managed to find small things, just the nail of human imperfection, humor alternatives, absence of intellectual virtues, and finally a great excess of self-love. It was at this point that the beautiful lady caught him. She began to slowly raise the wall of silence; first launched the layer of pauses, more or less long, then the short phrases, then the monosyllables, the distractions, the absorptions, the complacent looks, the resigned ears, the yawns pretended behind the hand fan. He did not understand soon; but when he noticed that her mother's annoyances coincided with her daughter's absences, he thought it was too much and left. If he had been a fighter in spirit, he had jumped the wall; but he was proud and weak. Mrs. Camila gave thanks to the gods.

There was a resting quarter. Then came some flirtations of one night, ephemeral insects, which left no history. Mrs. Camila understood that they had to multiply, until some decisive one that forced her to yield; but at least, she told herself, she wanted a son-in-law to bring to her daughter the same happiness that her husband gave her. And, once, or to strengthen this decree of will, or for another reason, she repeated the concept aloud, though only she could hear it. You, subtle psychologist, can imagine that she wanted to convince herself; I'd rather tell you what happened to you in 186...

It was morning. Mrs. Camila stood in the mirror, the window open, the green chateau and the sound of cicadas and birds. She felt in herself the harmony that connected her with external things. Only intellectual beauty is independent and superior. Physical beauty is landscape's sister. Mrs. Camila savored this intimate, secret fraternity, a sense of identity, a remembrance of former life in the same divine womb. No unpleasant memories, no occurrences would cloud this mysterious expansion. On the contrary, everything seemed to imbibe her from eternity, and her forty-two years did not weigh her more than so many rose-leaves. She looked out, looked at the mirror. Suddenly, as if a snake had come out to her, she recoiled in terror. She had seen, on the left fountain, a white hair. She still blamed on the husband; but she quickly recognized that it was hers, a telegram of old age [XIX], that she was marching against her will. The first feeling was of prostration. Mrs. Camila felt she was missing everything, everything, pictured herself gray and over by the end of a week.

"Mother, Mother," Ernestina cried, entering the parlor. Here's the cabin Dad sent.

Mrs. Camila had a jolt of pudency, and instinctively returned to her daughter the side that did not had the white thread. She had never found her so graceful and vivid. She stared at her with longing. She looked at her with envy as well, and, to suppress this bad feeling, she took the note from the cabin. It was for that very night. One idea expels another; Mrs. Camilla foresaw herself in the midst of the lights and the people, and quickly raised her heart. Standing alone, she looked at the mirror again, and boldly tore off her white hair, and laid it in the house. Out, damned spot! Out! More happy than the other Lady Macbeth, she saw the stain disappear in the air, because in her spirit, old age was a remorse, and ugliness a crime. Get out, damn stain! Leave!

But if remorse comes back, why should not white hair come back? A month later, Mrs. Camila discovered another, hinted at the beautiful and rich black hair, and amputated it without mercy. Five or six weeks later, another. This third coincided with a third candidate in the hand of the daughter, and both found Mrs. Camila in an hour of prostration. Beauty, which had supplanted her youth, seemed to be about to go, as a dove went out in search of the other. The days rushed. Children she had seen in her lap, or a trolley carted for by the mistresses, now danced at dancefloors. Those who were men smoked; the women sang on the piano. Some of them presented her with their babies, chubby, a second generation who getting ready to go dancing too someday, singing or smoking, presenting other babies to others, and so on.

Mrs. Camilla only twitched a little, then gave in. What remedy, if not accepting a son-in-law? But as an old habit is not lost from day to day, Mrs. Camila saw in parallel, at that festival of the heart, a scenery and great scenery. She prepared herself gallantly, and the effect corresponded to the effort. In the church, among other ladies; in the living room, sitting on the sofa (the upholstery that lined the furniture, as well as the wall paper were always dark to make Mrs. Camila's complexion stand out), dressed at the whim, without the refinement of extreme youth, but also without the matronal rigidity, a half-term only, meant to highlight her graciousness, laughing, and happy, in short, the recent mother-in-law has won the best votes. It was certain that a patch of purple still hung from her shoulders.

Purple supposes dynasty. Dynasty demands grandchildren. It remained that the Lord blessed the union, and he blessed it the following year. Mrs. Camila had become accustomed to the idea; but it was so painful to abdicate, that she waited for the grandson with love and repugnance. Was this importunate embryo, curious about life and pretentious, needed on earth? Of course, no; but it appeared one day, with the flowers of September. During the crisis, Mrs. Camila only had to think about her daughter; after the crisis, she thought of his daughter and his grandson. Only days later she could think of herself. Anyway, grandma. There was no doubt; she was grandmother. Neither the features which were still arranged, nor the hair, which were black (save half a dozen hidden threads), could in themselves denounce reality; but reality existed; she was, in fact, grandmother.

She wanted to retreat; and to have the grandson nearest her, she called his daughter home. But the house was not a monastery, and the streets and newspapers with their thousand rumors awoke the echoes of another time. Mrs. Camila tore the act of abdication and returned to the tumult.

One day, I found her next to a black woman, who carried a five- to six-month-old child on her lap. Mrs. Camila held the little sun hat open to cover the child. I met her eight days later, with the same child, the same black and the same sun hat. Twenty days later, and thirty days later, I saw her again, entering the train with the black woman and the child. "Have you breastfed yet?" she would say to the black woman. Look at the sun. Do not fall. Do not over tighten the boy. Woke up? Do not mess with him. Cover the face, etc., etc.

It was the grandson. But she was going so tightly, so careful of the child, so young, so without another lady, that she looked like a mother rather than a grandmother; and many people thought she was the mother. That is was Mrs. Camila's intention, I do not swear it. ("Thou shalt not swear," Matthew, V, 34). I only say that no other mother would be more unveiled than Mrs. Camila with her grandson; to attribute to her a simple son was the most likely thing in the world.
"

Nice. The author is from Brazil; the original is in Portuguese.

After a Century, a Literary Reputation Finally Blooms