Vim para casa. Prefiro a cama à vida. Oiço Uri Caine sublimar as Variações Goldberg, se tanto é que sublimar é o verbo adequado. Não tenho a certeza. Não tenho a certeza de nada, aliás, com a possível excepção de que este vírus é uma fraude, de que o meu cansaço não se resolve só com sono e de que a cerveja que comprei não estará fria a tempo. Um monte de certezas, para alguém tão dubitativo. Pergunto-me: o que exige mais energia, a dúvida ou a certeza? Na dúvida, vou buscar um copo de vinho tinto. A garrafa está a meio e é uma pena deixar este vinho estragar-se. Devemos ater-nos às certezas simples, as certezas incontestáveis: o vinho tinto, a cama, a organização de eventos culturais em Palma. (Dia 25 vamos organizar o dia do marinheiro no Abrakadabra e na Ler por Aí..., com um programa similar: rum, sea chanties, leitura de excertos do Nigger of the Narcissus.)
«Next morning, at daylight, the Narcissus went to sea.
A slight haze blurred the horizon. Outside the harbour the measureless expanse of smooth water lay sparkling like a floor of jewels, and as empty as the sky. The short black tug gave a pluck to windward, in the usual way, then let go the rope, and hovered for a moment on the quarter with her engines stopped; while the slim, long hull of the ship moved ahead slowly under lower top-sails. The loose upper canvas blew out in the breeze with soft round contours, resembling small white clouds snared in the maze of ropes. Then the sheets were hauled home, the yards hoisted, and the ship became a high and lonely pyramid, gliding, all shining and white, through the sunlit mist. The tug turned short round and went away towards land. Twenty-six pairs of eyes watched her low broad stern crawling languidly over the beating water with fierce hurry. She resembled an enormous and aquatic blackbeetle, surprised by the light, overwhelmed by the sunshine, trying to escape with ineffectual effort into the distant gloom of the land. She left a lingering smudge of smoke on the sky, and two vanishing trails of foam on the water. On the place where she had stopped a round black patch of soot remained undulating on the swell -- an unclean mark of the creature's rest.
The Narcissus left alone, heading south, seemed to stand resplendent and still upon the restless sea, under the moving sun. Flakes of foam swept past her sides; the water struck her with flashing blows; the land glided away, slowly fading; a few birds screamed on motionless wings over the swaying mastheads. But soon the land disappeared, the birds went away; and to the west the pointed sail of an Arab dhow running for Bombay, rose triangular and upright above the sharp edge of the horizon, lingered, and vanished like an illusion. Then the ship's wake, long and straight, stretched itself out through a day of immense solitude. The setting sun, burning on the level of the water, flamed crimson below the blackness of heavy rain clouds. The sunset squall, coming up from behind, dissolved itself into the short deluge of a hissing shower. It left the ship glistening from trucks to waterline, and with darkened sails. She ran easily before a fair monsoon, with her decks cleared for the night; and, moving along with her, was heard the sustained and monotonous swishing of the waves, mingled with the low whispers of men mustered aft for the setting of watches; the short plaint of some block aloft; or, now and then, a loud sigh of wind.» (Conrad, The Nigger of the Narcissus.)
Desafio seja quem for a encontrar uma frase mais bonita do que «Outside the harbour the measureless expanse of smooth water lay sparkling like a floor of jewels, and as empty as the sky» para descrever uma largada. Continua: «The short black tug gave a pluck to windward, in the usual way, then let go the rope, and hovered for a moment on the quarter with her engines stopped; while the slim, long hull of the ship moved ahead slowly under lower top-sails.» Com a possível excepção destas: «The Narcissus left alone, heading south, seemed to stand resplendent and still upon the restless sea, under the moving sun. Flakes of foam swept past her sides; the water struck her with flashing blows; the land glided away, slowly fading; a few birds screamed on motionless wings over the swaying mastheads», claro.
Talvez seja só na literatura que encontramos certezas, não é?
«Going up that river was like travelling back to the earliest beginnings of the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees were kings. An empty stream, a great silence, an impenetrable forest. The air was warm, thick, heavy, sluggish. There was no joy in the brilliance of sunshine. The long stretches of the waterway ran on, deserted, into the gloom of overshadowed distances. On silvery sandbanks hippos and alligators sunned themselves side by side. The broadening waters flowed through a mob of wooded islands; you lost your way on that river as you would in a desert, and butted all day long against shoals, trying to find the channel, till you thought yourself bewitched and cut off forever from everything you had known once -somewhere- far away in another existence perhaps. There were moments when one's past came back to one, as it will sometimes when you have not a moment to spare to yourself; but it came in the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream, remembered with wonder amongst the overwhelming realities of this strange world of plants, and water, and silence. And this stillness of life did not in the least resemble a peace. It was the stillness of an implacable force brooding over an inscrutable intention. It looked at you with a vengeful aspect.» (Conrad, Heart of Darkness)
«Não havia alegria no brilho do Sol.» Pode parafrasear-se isto para «Não havia alegria nas suas certezas»? «Não havia alegria nas suas dúvidas»? «Não havia alegria no seu horror»?
.........
As rosas perderam o vigor; Parece que estão a rezar. Hoje cortei-lhes o caule, mas não serviu para nada. Continuam de cabeça murcha, como se estivessem a estudar a mesa em vez de olhar para o ar, que é o lugar para o olhar das flores. Talvez estejam com medo.
«How does one kill fear, I wonder? How do you shoot a spectre through the heart, slash off its spectral head, take it by its spectral throat?» (Conrad, Lord Jim.)
E se escrevesses, em vez de citar os teus escritores favoritos? Vai pôr a vida na cama, como ontem puseste o Sol. Ou anteontem, pouco importa. Põe a vida na cama, apaga o Uri Caine, não deixa ningém dormir, deixa de olhar para as rosas, não te ligam nenhuma. Bebe o vinho tranquilamente. Deixa tudo isto escorrer por ti. Não ligues nenhuma a nada do que por aí vai. Amanhã o trabalho espera-te, o Conrad estará esquecido na sombra de um porão qualquer, o vinho continuará bom, o vírus continuará a assustar os que não sabem apertar-lhe a garganta espectral. Ou preferem não a apertar, com medo da vingança. O medo vinga-se, é bem conhecido: se o afrontarmos deixa-nos desarmados. Nu como um homem corajoso face à ameaça.
Nu como um homem face à vida.
.........
Chora tudo o que tens a chorar, mas chora sozinho. Contrariamente ao amor, o choro não se partilha.
«Next morning, at daylight, the Narcissus went to sea.
A slight haze blurred the horizon. Outside the harbour the measureless expanse of smooth water lay sparkling like a floor of jewels, and as empty as the sky. The short black tug gave a pluck to windward, in the usual way, then let go the rope, and hovered for a moment on the quarter with her engines stopped; while the slim, long hull of the ship moved ahead slowly under lower top-sails. The loose upper canvas blew out in the breeze with soft round contours, resembling small white clouds snared in the maze of ropes. Then the sheets were hauled home, the yards hoisted, and the ship became a high and lonely pyramid, gliding, all shining and white, through the sunlit mist. The tug turned short round and went away towards land. Twenty-six pairs of eyes watched her low broad stern crawling languidly over the beating water with fierce hurry. She resembled an enormous and aquatic blackbeetle, surprised by the light, overwhelmed by the sunshine, trying to escape with ineffectual effort into the distant gloom of the land. She left a lingering smudge of smoke on the sky, and two vanishing trails of foam on the water. On the place where she had stopped a round black patch of soot remained undulating on the swell -- an unclean mark of the creature's rest.
The Narcissus left alone, heading south, seemed to stand resplendent and still upon the restless sea, under the moving sun. Flakes of foam swept past her sides; the water struck her with flashing blows; the land glided away, slowly fading; a few birds screamed on motionless wings over the swaying mastheads. But soon the land disappeared, the birds went away; and to the west the pointed sail of an Arab dhow running for Bombay, rose triangular and upright above the sharp edge of the horizon, lingered, and vanished like an illusion. Then the ship's wake, long and straight, stretched itself out through a day of immense solitude. The setting sun, burning on the level of the water, flamed crimson below the blackness of heavy rain clouds. The sunset squall, coming up from behind, dissolved itself into the short deluge of a hissing shower. It left the ship glistening from trucks to waterline, and with darkened sails. She ran easily before a fair monsoon, with her decks cleared for the night; and, moving along with her, was heard the sustained and monotonous swishing of the waves, mingled with the low whispers of men mustered aft for the setting of watches; the short plaint of some block aloft; or, now and then, a loud sigh of wind.» (Conrad, The Nigger of the Narcissus.)
Desafio seja quem for a encontrar uma frase mais bonita do que «Outside the harbour the measureless expanse of smooth water lay sparkling like a floor of jewels, and as empty as the sky» para descrever uma largada. Continua: «The short black tug gave a pluck to windward, in the usual way, then let go the rope, and hovered for a moment on the quarter with her engines stopped; while the slim, long hull of the ship moved ahead slowly under lower top-sails.» Com a possível excepção destas: «The Narcissus left alone, heading south, seemed to stand resplendent and still upon the restless sea, under the moving sun. Flakes of foam swept past her sides; the water struck her with flashing blows; the land glided away, slowly fading; a few birds screamed on motionless wings over the swaying mastheads», claro.
Talvez seja só na literatura que encontramos certezas, não é?
«Going up that river was like travelling back to the earliest beginnings of the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees were kings. An empty stream, a great silence, an impenetrable forest. The air was warm, thick, heavy, sluggish. There was no joy in the brilliance of sunshine. The long stretches of the waterway ran on, deserted, into the gloom of overshadowed distances. On silvery sandbanks hippos and alligators sunned themselves side by side. The broadening waters flowed through a mob of wooded islands; you lost your way on that river as you would in a desert, and butted all day long against shoals, trying to find the channel, till you thought yourself bewitched and cut off forever from everything you had known once -somewhere- far away in another existence perhaps. There were moments when one's past came back to one, as it will sometimes when you have not a moment to spare to yourself; but it came in the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream, remembered with wonder amongst the overwhelming realities of this strange world of plants, and water, and silence. And this stillness of life did not in the least resemble a peace. It was the stillness of an implacable force brooding over an inscrutable intention. It looked at you with a vengeful aspect.» (Conrad, Heart of Darkness)
«Não havia alegria no brilho do Sol.» Pode parafrasear-se isto para «Não havia alegria nas suas certezas»? «Não havia alegria nas suas dúvidas»? «Não havia alegria no seu horror»?
.........
As rosas perderam o vigor; Parece que estão a rezar. Hoje cortei-lhes o caule, mas não serviu para nada. Continuam de cabeça murcha, como se estivessem a estudar a mesa em vez de olhar para o ar, que é o lugar para o olhar das flores. Talvez estejam com medo.
«How does one kill fear, I wonder? How do you shoot a spectre through the heart, slash off its spectral head, take it by its spectral throat?» (Conrad, Lord Jim.)
E se escrevesses, em vez de citar os teus escritores favoritos? Vai pôr a vida na cama, como ontem puseste o Sol. Ou anteontem, pouco importa. Põe a vida na cama, apaga o Uri Caine, não deixa ningém dormir, deixa de olhar para as rosas, não te ligam nenhuma. Bebe o vinho tranquilamente. Deixa tudo isto escorrer por ti. Não ligues nenhuma a nada do que por aí vai. Amanhã o trabalho espera-te, o Conrad estará esquecido na sombra de um porão qualquer, o vinho continuará bom, o vírus continuará a assustar os que não sabem apertar-lhe a garganta espectral. Ou preferem não a apertar, com medo da vingança. O medo vinga-se, é bem conhecido: se o afrontarmos deixa-nos desarmados. Nu como um homem corajoso face à ameaça.
Nu como um homem face à vida.
.........
Chora tudo o que tens a chorar, mas chora sozinho. Contrariamente ao amor, o choro não se partilha.
........
Vai dar de comer à noite e cala-te.
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