& Moira Bianchi: março 2014

domingo, 30 de março de 2014


these days I have been busy with work & life and have been reflecting on how much we sacrifice for the ones we love. We put up with people who usually wouldn't have a second oportunity to get on our nerves, endless hours of cartoons and torturing kids' parties, bad movies that you would never had chosen to watch on a saturday night, etc...

As if on cue, here I had this post almost ready, it's the 36th page 40, THE adult Austen.

Jane Austen

page 40
Chapter 8

"From this time Captain Wentworth and Anne Elliot were repeatedly in the same circle. They were soon dining in company together at Mr Musgrove's, for the little boy's state could no longer supply his aunt with a pretence for absenting herself; and this was but the beginning of other dinings and other meetings.
Whether former feelings were to be renewed must be brought to the proof; former times must undoubtedly be brought to the recollection of each; they could not but be reverted to; the year of their engagement could not but be named by him, in the little narratives or descriptions which conversation called forth. His profession qualified him, his disposition lead him, to talk; and "That was in the year six;" "That happened before I went to sea in the year six," occurred in the course of the first evening they spent together: and though his voice did not falter, and though she had no reason to suppose his eye wandering towards her while he spoke, Anne felt the utter impossibility, from her knowledge of his mind, that he could be unvisited by remembrance any more than herself. There must be the same immediate association of thought, though she was very far from conceiving it to be of equal pain.
They had no conversation together, no intercourse but what the commonest civility required. Once so much to each other! Now nothing! There had been a time, when of all the large party now filling the drawing-room at Uppercross, they would have found it most difficult to cease to speak to one another. With the exception, perhaps, of Admiral and Mrs Croft, who seemed particularly attached and happy, (Anne could allow no other exceptions even among the married couples), there could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison, no countenances so beloved. Now they were as strangers; nay, worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted. It was a perpetual estrangement.
When he talked, she heard the same voice, and discerned the same mind. There was a very general ignorance of all naval matters throughout the party; and he was very much questioned, and especially by the two Miss Musgroves, who seemed hardly to have any eyes but for him, as to the manner of living on board, daily regulations, food, hours, &c., and their surprise at his accounts, at learning the degree of accommodation and arrangement which was practicable, drew from him some pleasant ridicule, which reminded Anne of the early days when she too had been ignorant, and she too had been accused of supposing sailors to be living on board without anything to eat, or any cook to dress it if there were, or any servant to wait, or any knife and fork to use.
From thus listening and thinking, she was roused by a whisper of Mrs Musgrove's who, overcome by fond regrets, could not help saying--
"Ah! Miss Anne, if it had pleased Heaven to spare my poor son, I dare say he would have been just such another by this time."

Anne suppressed a smile, and listened kindly, while Mrs Musgrove relieved her heart a little more; and for a few minutes, therefore, could not keep pace with the conversation of the others."

That's another good line masterly penned by the genius... 
half agony, half hope 
that by sacrificing we are doing something nice for the ones we love...

Disclaimer: 40 pages 40 is my way to come to terms with celebrate my 40th birthday. By promoting 40 awesome books I like in no way I intend to dupe the original authors. If you, as me, like what you read, buy them!
All 40 books can be found on the right side bar. ►
All images found on Google. Kudos to the original poster.

domingo, 23 de março de 2014

Mansfield Park

today it is rainy and cloudy in Rio - Yeah! At least one day bellow 38°C - and it is an Austen day!
WE'll be having a gettogether and I looove our meetings.

To celebrate,  a sad Austen...

Jane Austen


page 40

""You could not be expected to have thought on the subject before; but when you _do_ think of it, you must see the importance of getting in the grass. The hire of a cart at any time might not be so easy as you suppose: our farmers are not in the habit of letting them out; but, in harvest, it must be quite out of their power to spare a horse."

"I shall understand all your ways in time; but, coming down with the true London maxim, that everything is to be got with money, I was a little embarrassed at first by the sturdy independence of your country customs. However, I am to have my harp fetched to-morrow. Henry, who is good-nature itself, has offered to fetch
it in his barouche. Will it not be honourably conveyed?"

Edmund spoke of the harp as his favourite instrument, and hoped to be soon allowed to hear her. Fanny had never heard the harp at all, and wished for it very much.

"I shall be most happy to play to you both," said Miss Crawford; "at least as long as you can like to listen: probably much longer, for I dearly love music myself, and where the natural taste is equal the player must always be best off, for she is gratified in more ways than one. Now, Mr. Bertram, if you write to your brother, I entreat you to tell him that my harp is come: he heard so much of my misery about it. And you may say, if you please, that I shall prepare my most plaintive airs against his return, in compassion to his feelings, as I know his horse will lose."

"If I write, I will say whatever you wish me; but I do not, at present, foresee any occasion for writing."

"No, I dare say, nor if he were to be gone a twelvemonth, would you ever write to him, nor he to you, if it could be helped. The occasion would never be foreseen. What strange creatures brothers are! You would not write to each other but upon the most urgent necessity in the world; and when obliged to take up the pen to say that such a horse is ill, or such a relation dead, it is done in the fewest possible words. You have but one style among you. I know it perfectly. Henry, who is in every other respect exactly what a brother should be, who loves me, consults me, confides in me, and will talk to me by the hour together, has never yet turned the page in a letter; and very often it is nothing more than--'Dear Mary, I am just arrived. Bath seems full, and everything as usual. Yours sincerely.' That is the true manly style; that is a complete
brother's letter."

"When they are at a distance from all their family," said Fanny, colouring for William's sake, "they can write long letters."

"Miss Price has a brother at sea," said Edmund, "whose excellence as a correspondent makes her think you too severe upon us.""
Today is Austen day!
happy, happy day indeed!

Disclaimer: 40 pages 40 is my way to come to terms with celebrate my 40th birthday. By promoting 40 awesome books I like in no way I intend to dupe the original authors. If you, as me, like what you read, buy them!
All 40 books can be found on the right side bar. ►
All images found on Google. Kudos to the original poster.

quarta-feira, 19 de março de 2014

The Dead Zone

after days suffering from a cold, today I'm a mess as my neck has given up on me. 

From my twilight zone of dizziness to a serious King zone: It was not my first, but it sure is a pretty good Stephen King.

Stephen King

Chapter FOUR
page 40

"Alma's face went tight and she turned to go so quickly that she almost got by the killer. 'That's not very funny...'

He grabbed her and threw her back. 'Where do you think you're going?'

Her eyes were suddenly watchful and frightened. 'Let me out of here. Or you'll be sorry. I don't have any time for sick jokes...

'It's no joke,' he said. 'It's no joke, you nasty-fucker.' He was light-headed with the joy of naming her, naming her for what she was. The world whirled.

Alma broke left, heading for the low railing that surrounded the bandstand, meaning to leap over it. The killer caught the back of her cheap cloth coat at the collar and yanked her back again. The cloth ripped with a low purring sound and she opened her mouth to scream.

He slammed his hand over her mouth, mashing her lips back against her teeth. He felt warm blood trickle over his palm. Her other hand was beating at him now, clawing for purchase, but there was no purchase. There was none because he... he was...


He threw her to the board floor. His hand came off her mouth, which was now smeared with blood, and she opened her mouth to scream again, but he landed on top of her, panting, grinning, and the air was driven out of her lungs in a soundless whoosh. She could feel him now, rock hard, gigantic and throbbing, and she quit trying to scream and went on struggling. Her fingers caught and slipped, caught and slipped. He forced her legs rudely apart and lay between them. One of her hands glanced off the bridge of his nose, making his eyes water.

'You nasty-fucker,' he whispered, and his hands closed on her throat. He began to throttle her, yanking her head up from the bandstand's board flooring and then slamming it back down. Her eyes bulged. Her face went pink, then red, then a congested purple. Her struggles began to weaken.

'Nasty-fucker, nasty-fucker, nasty-fucker,' the killer panted hoarsely. He really was the killer now, Alma Frechette's days of rubbing her body all over people at Serenity Hill were done now. Her eyes bugged out like the eyes of some of those crazy dolls they sold along carnival midways. The killer panted hoarsely. Her hands lay limp on the boards now. His fingers had almost disappeared from sight.

He let go of her throat, ready to grab her again if she stirred. But she didn't. After a moment he ripped her coat open with shaking hands and shoved the skirt of her pink waitress uniform up.

The white sky looked down. The Castle Rock town common was deserted. In fact, no one found the strangled, violated corpse of Alma Frechette until the next day. The sheriff's theory was that a drifter had done it. There were statewide newspaper headlines, and in Castle Rock there was general agreement with the sheriff's idea.

Surely no hometown boy could have done such a dreadful thing."


Oh boy...

That's a page 40...

Disclaimer: 40 pages 40 was my way to celebrate my 40th birthday. It's not easy to accept that 'youth' no longer describes me...
By promoting 40 awesome books I like in no way I intend to dupe the original authors. If you, as me, like what you read, buy them!
All 40 books can be found on the right side bar. ►
All images found on Google. Kudos to the original poster.

segunda-feira, 17 de março de 2014

The beach

another week starting and the heat promises to be just as high as before.

Who wouldn't want to escape to a magnificent paradise? Especilly this one... Such and intriguing movie, I had to read the book...

hot rio chick great books

Alex Garland

page 40
In Country

"We set off immediately after breakfast: half a bar of chocolate each and cold noodles, soaked in most of the water from our canteens. There wasn't any point in hanging around. We needed to find a freshwater source, and according to Mister Duck's map, the beach was on the other side of the island.

At first we walked along the beach, hoping to circle the coast, but the sand soon turned to jagged rocks, which turned to impassable cliffs and gorges. Then we tried the other end, wasting precious time while the sun rose in the sky, and found the same barrier. We were left with no choice but to try inland. The pass between the peaks was the obvious goal so we slung our bin-liners over our shoulders and picked our way into the jungle.

The first two or three hundred metres from the shore were the hardest. The spaces between the palm trees were covered in a strange rambling bush with tiny leaves that sliced like razors, and the only way past them was to push through. But as we got further inland and the ground began to rise, the palms became less common than another kind of tree — trees like rusted, ivy-choked space rockets, with ten-foot roots that fanned from the trunk like stabilizer fins. With less sunlight coming through the canopy, the vegetation on the forest floor thinned out. Occasionally we were stopped by a dense spray of bamboo, but a short search would find an animal track or a path cleared by a fallen branch.

After Zeph's description of the jungle, with Jurassic plants and strangely coloured birds, I was vaguely disappointed by the reality. In many ways I felt like I was walking through an English forest, I'd just shrunk to a tenth of my normal size. But there were some things that felt suitably exotic. Several times we saw tiny brown monkeys scurrying up the trees, Tarzan-style lianas hung above us like stalactites — and there was the water: it dripped on our necks, flattened our hair, stuck our T-shirts to our chests. There was so much of it that our half-empty canteens stopped being a worry.

Standing under a branch and giving it a shake provided a couple of good gulps, as well as a quick shower. The irony of having kept my clothes dry over the swim, only to have them soaked when we turned inland, didn't escape me.

After two hours of walking we found ourselves at the bottom of a particularly steep stretch of slope. We virtually had to climb it, pulling ourselves up on the tough fern stems to keep us from slipping down on the mud and dead leaves. Étienne was the " rst to get to the top and he disappeared over the ridge, then reappeared a few seconds later, beckoning enthusiastically.

"Hurry up!" he called. "Really, it is amazing!"

"What is it?" I called back, but he'd disappeared again.

I redoubled my efforts, leaving Françoise behind.

The slope led to a football-pitch-sized shelf on the mountainside, so flat and neat that it seemed unnatural in the tangle of the surrounding jungle. Above us the slope rose again to what appeared to be a second shelf, and past that it continued straight up to the pass.

Étienne had gone further into the plateau and was standing in some bushy plants, gazing around with his hands on his hips.

"What do you think?" he said. I looked behind me. Far below I could see the beach we had come from, the island where our hidden rucksacks lay, and the many other islands beyond it.

"I didn't know the marine park was this big," I replied.

"Yes. Very big. But that is not what I mean."

I turned back to the plateau, putting a cigarette in my mouth. Then, as I patted down my pockets looking for my lighter, I noticed something strange. All the plants in the plateau looked vaguely familiar.

"Wow," I said, and the cigarette dropped from my lips, forgotten.


"… Dope?"

Étienne grinned. "Have you ever seen so much?"

"Never…" I pulled a few leaves from the nearest bush and rubbed them in my hands.""

I wouldn't mess up with this if I were you guys...
tsk, tsk
the HOT guy is just to please my friends...
But, seriously: don't mees up with dope fields. Like, ever!

Disclaimer: 40 pages 40 is my way to come to terms with celebrate my 40th birthday. By promoting 40 awesome books I like in no way I intend to dupe the original authors. If you, as me, like what you read, buy them!
All 40 books can be found on the right side bar. ►
All images found on Google. Kudos to the original poster.

quarta-feira, 12 de março de 2014

A ladeira da Saudade

Outro dia alguém me perguntou no Facebook qual foi o livro que me fez gostar de ler. Nem respondi o post, mas fiquei alguns minutos sonhando com Marília de Dirceu...

Ah, o amor adolescente... 
Já tentei escrever sobre o amor jovem algumas vezes como na minha versão de Eduardo e Mônica Orgulho-e-Preconceitualizado, mas nunca o amor adolescente. 
Ah, como era bom... né?

Essa viagem através das 40 páginas 40 está quase no fim e eu não poderia encerrar esses 40 livros incríveis sem ESSE:

Ganymédes José

Capítulo 14
A Ladeira da Saudade

página 40

"      — Porque você é Marília, eu já disse! Agora, vamos! Quero mostrar-lhe uma coisa! — e, agarrando-a pela mão, puxou-a ladeira acima.
      Dirceu era ágil, elástico, cheio de vida.
      — Já viu a casa de Tiradentes? — perguntou, quando chegaram ao topo da ladeira.
      — Onde foi a casa de Tiradentes — corrigiu ela. — Tampinha me disse que a verdadeira casa dele era baixa e pequena. Como era Tiradentes, Dirceu? O homem, quero dizer; não o herói.
      Dirceu franziu a testa:
      — Foi soldado, minerador, mineralogista, bufarinheiro, almocreve, físico, dentista, um sujeito honesto com ele próprio, apesar de ter-se desiludido com os homens. Vivia com uma mulher, tinha uma filha, era pobre. Um idealista, um sonhador, um romântico. Tiradentes acreditava em um mundo livre, com oportunidades iguais para todos, sem distinção entre o pobre e o rico. . . porque ele próprio era pobre e sofria com os preconceitos. Foi um injustiçado que acreditava naquilo que você viu em nosso teatrinho: na paz que os gregos cantaram em seus versos. Ele acreditava nas colinas, nas flores, na natureza. Veja bem a paisagem aqui de Ouro Preto: não é cheia de paz como as paisagens da antiga Grécia? Os morros... as pedras... as ruas... o ouro... oh, o ouro!
      Os olhos de Dirceu faiscaram.
      — Joaquim José não era de família rica. O ouro extraído deste solo custou muitas vidas e era todo levado para Portugal. O Brasil, os brasileiros, todos viviam escravizados ao ouro... Os homens sempre serão escravos do ouro! Tiradentes foi um tímido, um gigante, um homem que carregou a culpa pelos pecados de muitos, sei lá. A História está aí, viva em Ouro Preto. Pergunte a ela!
      — Não! — respondeu Lília. — Na História os vultos são impessoais como as figuras de cera de museus. Prefiro perguntar a você, porque aqui em Ouro Preto os nomes têm vida, calor e... garra! Eles continuarão vivos para sempre!
      Atravessando a cidade, os dois tomaram a direção do bairro onde morava a tia Ninota — a Lapa. Dirceu explicou que ali ficava a saída para Mariana e para a mina do Chico Rei. Enquanto andavam, ele ia apontando, falando, mostrando, explicando. Era como se a história de Ouro Preto fosse a sua própria.
      — Sabe que antigamente os negros tinham uma igreja só deles?
      — Verdade? Mas se eram escravos, como tinham dinheiro para construir sua própria igreja?
      — Os negros que bateavam, isto é, que procuravam ouro, escondiam pepitas de ouro nos cabelos. À noite, ao chegarem em casa, abriam um pano, passavam as mãos no cabelo, e as pepitas caíam dentro. Com esse ouro, eles iam comprando material para erguerem a capela.
      Continuaram descendo, passaram pelas últimas casas da cidade. Para a frente, os morros. A seu pé, o córrego do Sobreira, em cujas margens cresciam folhas de plantas aquáticas verde-ervilha. Em longas hastes, os perfumados lírios brancos eram embalados pelo vento. Pouco adiante, uma ponte. Dirceu parou e olhou para a frente:
      — Está vendo aquele prédio? — apontou. — É a escola das normalistas. E aquele outro? — mostrou à direita. — O Clube Recreativo 15 de Novembro. Dizem que em um destes lugares existia uma construção imponente, de telhado avançado, sustentado por “cachorros” e com oito janelões. Era toda circundada por palmeiras. Bem ao meio, existia uma frondosa árvore: uma olaia. Havia uma gigantesca porta que desembocava em uma escada de nove degraus, mais largos na parte térrea. Era ali a Casa Grande."

Pensando bem, meu amor por Austen, Darcy e romances açucarados já estava definido quando me apaixonei por 
Dirceu de Marília, né?
ganymedes josé livro romance fofo marília de dirceu

Com licença, vou (re)ler esse livro fofo.

Anúncio: 40 páginas 40 é meu jeitinho de engolir celebrar meu aniversário de 40 anos. 
Divulgando esses 40 livros bacanérrimos, de maneira nenhuma quero prejudicar os autores. 
Se você, como eu, gosta do que lê, compre o livro! 
Todos os 40 livros estão listados aqui na barra lateral. ►
Achei as imagens no Google. Créditos a quem postou primeiro.

sexta-feira, 7 de março de 2014

Lady Susan

A small Austen that's about to be adapted to a movie. Very confusing, actually. The movie will tell Lady Susan 's story BUT will have another Austen's story title: 'Love and Friendship '.

Anyway, here's what Wikipedia has to say: Austen's "most wicked tale" Lady Susan is a short epistolary² novel by Jane Austen, possibly written in 1794 but not published until 1871. Lady Susan is a selfish, attractive woman, who tries to trap the best possible husband while maintaining a relationship with a married man. She subverts all the standards of the romantic novel; she has an active role, she's not only beautiful but intelligent and witty, and her suitors are significantly younger³ than she is.

I comment:
¹- Austen + wicked : Only this would make me run to read it!
²- Epistolary: Mmmm... that could be tricky. My next Darcy&Lizzy has some letters but I don't believe I could pull a 84 Charing Cross Road ...
³- A sassy woman who can play with silly men... Yummy.

I've played with all these contents on my first authoral novel and I loved it.

But now, let's read Austen wickedness...

hot rio chick sassy woman

Jane Austen

page 40

Letter XV

           Mr. Vernon declares that he never saw deeper distress than hers, on the receipt of the letter; and is his judgment inferior to mine? She was very unwilling that Frederica should be allowed to come to Churchhill, and justly enough, as it seems a sort of reward to behaviour deserving very differently; but it was impossible to take her anywhere else, and she is not to remain here long. "It will be absolutely necessary," said she, "as you, my dear sister, must be sensible, to treat my daughter with some severity while she is here; a most painful necessity, but I will ENDEAVOUR to submit to it. I am afraid I have often been too indulgent, but my poor Frederica's temper could never bear opposition well: you must support and encourage me; you must urge the necessity of reproof if you see me too lenient." All this sounds very reasonable. Reginald is so incensed against the poor silly girl. Surely it is not to Lady Susan's credit that he should be so bitter against her daughter; his idea of her must be drawn from the mother's description. Well, whatever may be his fate, we have the comfort of knowing that we have done our utmost to save him. We must commit the event to a higher power.

Yours ever, &c.,
Catherine Verno


Portrait of the Hon. Emily Mary Lamb

1803, Sir Thomas Lawrence

Disclaimer: 40 pages 40 is my way to come to terms with celebrate my 40th birthday. By promoting 40 awesome books I like in no way I intend to dupe the original authors. If you, as me, like what you read, buy them!
All 40 books can be found on the right side bar. ►
All images found on Google. Kudos to the original poster.

quarta-feira, 5 de março de 2014


E o Carnaval passou...
Eu adoro Carnaval, especialmente os blocos de rua. Fizeram parte da minha infância e adolescência e agora tento fazer meu filho gostar (sem muito sucesso. Meu marido também não gosta, só me acompanhava -e se divertia- antes do nosso filho nascer.).

Para fugir da tentação de seguir qualquer bloco que passe por mim, tenho saído do Rio. Esse ano fomos novamente ao Hopi Hari em SP e... vou muito legal. Mas não como os blocos de rua da minha infância, aquilo era Carnaval!

Outra boa memória de infância é o livro de hoje 
nas minhas 40 páginas 40.

Quando minha professora de Português nos pediu para ler Pollyanna Menina para ler, torci o nariz porque tinha algumas amigas chamadas 'Poliana' e nenhuma me era particularmente querida. Era 1983, eu tinha 10 anos, era o início da quinta série (nem sei que série é essa hoje... 6º ano?) e ler um livrão desses era um suplício.

Mas advinha? Antes que a turma terminasse eu já estava na Moça...

Puxa, que viagem ao passado... O jogo do contente!

Eleanor H Porter

Capítulo IX
O que se fala do “homem”

página 40

"– Como vai o senhor? Estou contente que hoje não seja ontem, não acha?
                O homem parou bruscamente. Tinha uma expressão zangada.
                – Olha, minha menina, vamos resolver isto de uma vez por todas. Eu tenho mais no que pensar, além do tempo que faz. Nem reparo se o sol está brilhando ou não.
                Pollyanna respondeu alegremente.
                – Isso mesmo, senhor. Eu sei que não presta atenção no tempo, e é justamente por este motivo que eu digo todas as vezes como o tempo está.
                – O quê? – perguntou, olhando espantado.
                – Eu sei, é por isso que eu digo, para o senhor ficar sabendo se o sol está brilhando ou se está nublado. Eu sei que ficaria bem contente se parasse de pensar nas suas coisas. Se não repara no sol é porque não para de pensar!
                – E o que mais? – rosnou o homem com um gesto de impotência. Continuou andando, mas logo se deteve. – Escute, por que não procura alguém da sua idade para conversar?
                – Eu gostaria, senhor, mas não há ninguém da minha idade por aqui – respondeu ela. – Mas eu não me importo muito. Gosto das pessoas mais velhas, mais do que das da minha idade. Me acostumei com as senhoras da Caridade.
                – Ah, as senhoras da Caridade? E me acha parecido com elas?
                O homem tentava esboçar um sorriso, mas o resto do rosto não deixava. Pollyanna percebeu e começou a rir.
                – Ah, não, senhor. Não se parece nada com as senhoras da Caridade, mas decerto é tão bom como elas, talvez até melhor – acrescentou ela, tentando ser educada. – Tenho certeza de que é muito melhor do que parece!
                O homem engasgou com alguma coisa e só pode murmurar: – Está bem – e continuou no seu caminho.
                Da próxima vez que Pollyanna encontrou “o homem”, os olhos dele se fixaram diretamente nos dela com uma franqueza que tornou o rosto dele agradável, pensou Pollyanna.
                – Boa tarde – cumprimentou-a rigidamente. – Talvez seja melhor eu dizer que já sei que hoje o sol está brilhando.
                – Não era preciso – respondeu Pollyanna alegremente. – Eu já sabia que o senhor sabia.
                – Ah, sim, sabia?
                – Sim senhor, vi nos seus olhos e fiquei sabendo pelo seu sorriso.
                – Hum! – resmungou o homem enquanto se afastava.
                Depois disto, o homem sempre falava com Pollyanna e era ele que, frequentemente, falava primeiro, se bem que, normalmente, pouco mais do que um “Boa tarde”. No entanto, mesmo isso foi uma grande surpresa para Nancy, que estava com Pollyanna num dos dias em que eles se cruzaram.
                – Pelo amor de Deus, Miss Pollyanna! Esse homem a cumprimentou?
                – Sim, cumprimenta sempre, agora – respondeu Pollyanna com um sorriso.
                – Cumprimenta sempre! Meu Deus! Sabe quem ele é? – perguntou Nancy.
                Pollyanna ficou séria e abanou a cabeça."

Bom mesmo é ser criança.
Não me leve a mal, hoje ainda é Carnaval!
Vou procurar um bloco atrasado...

Anúncio: 40 páginas 40 é meu jeitinho de engolir celebrar meu aniversário de 40 anos. 
Divulgando esses 40 livros bacanérrimos, de maneira nenhuma quero prejudicar os autores. 
Se você, como eu, gosta do que lê, compre o livro! 
Todos os 40 livros estão listados aqui na barra lateral. ►
Achei as imagens no Google. Créditos a quem postou primeiro.