Clarice Lispector

Foi atraves da Luisa e do Juan que cheguei a escrita da Clarice Lispector – it will blow your mind disse o Juan e a Luisa transcrevia pequenas frases no mural do facebook. Li o meu primeiro livro “Lacos de familia” e achei que aquilo era a Clarice. Nao era. O seguinte “Perto do coracao selvagem” custou-me mais e o terceiro “A paixao segundo G.H.” e claramente dificil. Mistico, denso, quase impenetravel. Desisti e comecei a ler a fabulosa biografia escrita por Benjamin Moser “Why this world”. Nao tenho por habito ler biografias mas esta e incrivelmente eficaz a “traduzir” os varios momentos, contextos, traumas, duvidas e paradoxos que definem a Clarice Lispector e que ela destila numa escrita peculiar em acentuacao e sintaxe. Quando acabar, volto a carga e hei-de perceber, assim as sinapses me ajudem, um centesimo da obra dela.

Not mesmerized...

Pior do que ignorancia total e ter um conhecimento tao vasto que se torna quase doloroso explicar porque quero continuar a ler Amis ou que nao gostei do “Travesulas de una nina mala”, e que insisto em encontrar frases fantasticas em Saramago…e que tambem nao me incomodam nem a densidade pastosa do Lobo Antunes nem o declinio da Isabel Allende (chicks like her). “O velho que lia romances de amor” tem um lugarzinho cativo no meu coracao mesmo que seja considerado mediocre pelos senhores entendidos com doutoramentos em Jorge Luis Borges.
E agora, so para meter nojo, vou continuar a ler o "Time's arrow", que tedio. Mas no dia em que ler um e-book, please take me out of my misery.
Ja agora, fica aqui a confissao de que tambem nao posso ouvir o Pedro Aznar em Dream of the return sem me emocionar.

There's a hole in reality

“What is it you want?”
“I’ve tried to think,” said Doc. “I want to take everything I’ve seen and thought and learned and reduce them and relate them and refine them until I have something of meaning, something of use. And I can’t seem to do it.”
“Maybe you aren’t ready. And maybe you need help.”
“What kind of help?”
“There are some things a man can’t do alone. I wouldn’t think of trying anything so big without-“ He stopped. The heavy waves beat the hard beach, and the yellow light of the setting sun illuminated a cloud to the eastward, a clot of gold.
“Without what?” Doc asked.
“Without love,” said the seer.


John Steinbeck, Sweet Thursday

Dos livros

"Um belo dia, acordei, sentei-me na cama e sorri. Nao sentia ja dor. E, subitamente, percebi que nao existe a pessoa certa. Nem na terra, nem no ceu. Nem seja la onde for, podes ter a certeza. Existem somente pessoas, e, em todas elas, um pedacinho da pessoa certa, mas em nenhuma se concentra tudo o que se aguarda e dela esperamos. Nenhuma pessoa reune em si tudo isso, nem existe a certa, a unica, a maravilhosa, essa figura singular que nos traz felicidade. Existem somente pessoas, e em todas elas, ha escorias e um raio de luz, tudo..."

Sandor Marai
A Mulher certa

Leitura da manha...

"He speaks dutch, said the expriest.
Dutch?
Aye.
The kid looked at the expriest, he bent to his mending.
He does for I heard him do it. We cut a parcel of crazy pilgrims down off the Llano and the old man in the lead of them he spoke right up in dutch like we were all of us in dutchland and the judge give him right back. Glanton come near fallin off his horse. We none of us knew him to speak it. Asked where he'd learned it you know what he said?
What did he say.
Said off a dutchman.
The expriest spat. I coudnt of learned it off ten dutchmen. What about you?
The kid shook his head."


Blood Meridian, Cormac McCarthy


Ate agora o unico pedaco de texto que me fez sorrir. E ja vou na pagina 218 de 335. Algo me diz que nao havera um encore.

Happy end

“It’s Darling,” they said. “She’s sick.”
“What’s the matter with her?”
“Mack says it’s distemper.”
“I’m no veterinarian,” said Doc. “I don’t know how to treat these things.”
Hazel said, “Well, couldn’t you just take a look at her? She’s sick as hell.”
They stood in a circle while Doc examined Darling. He looked at her eyeballs and her gums and felt in her ear for fever. He ran his finger over the ribs that stuck out like spokes and at the poor spine. “She won’t eat?” he asked.
“Not a thing,” said Mack.
“You’ll have to force feed her – strong soup and eggs and cod liver oil.”
They thought he was cold and professional. He went back to his tide charts and his stew.
But Mack and the boys had something to do now. They boiled meat until it was as strong as whiskey. They put cod liver oil far back on her tongue so that some of it got down her. They held up her head and made a little funnel of her chops and poured the cool soup in. She had to swallow or drown. Every two hours they fed her and gave her water. Before they had slept in shifts – now no one slept. They sat silently and waited for Darling’s crisis.
It came early that morning. The boys sat in their chairs half asleep and Mack was awake and his eyes were on the puppy. He saw her ears flip twice, and her chest heave. With infinite weakness she climbed slowly to her spindly legs, dragged herself to the door, took four laps of water and collapsed on the floor.
Mack shouted the others awake. He danced heavily. All the boys shouted at one another. (…)
By nine o’clock Darling had eaten a raw egg and half a pint of whipped cream by herself. By noon she was visibly putting on weight. In a day she romped a little and by the end of the week she was a well dog.


John Steinbeck, "Cannery row"


Anounced tragedy turns into happiness. Puppies and all. Love it, love it, love it. I miss my Ngozi. She is a swell dog.