Aurora Borealis

Friday, July 21, 2006

ANTHONY: Cousin, it would be a long work to per use every comfort that a man may well take in tribulation. For as many comforts, you know, may a man take thereof, as there be good commodities therein. And of those there are surely so many that it would be very long to rehearse and treat of them. But me seemeth we cannot lightly better perceive what profit and commodity, and thereby what comfort, they may take of it who have it, than if we well consider what harm the lack of it is, and thereby what discomfort the lack should be to them that never have it.

So is it now that all holy men agree, and all the scripture is full, and our own experience proveth before our eyes, that we are not come into this wretched world to dwell here. We have not, as St. Paul saith, our dwelling-city here, but we are seeking for the city that is to come. And St. Paul telleth us that we do seek for it, because he would put us in mind that we should seek for it, as good folk who fain would come thither. For surely whosoever setteth so little by it that he careth not to seek for it, it will I fear be long ere he come to it, and marvellous great grace if ever hecome thither. "Run," saith St. Paul, "so that you may get it." If it must then be gotten with running, when shall he come at it who lifteth not one step toward it?

Now, because this world is, as I tell you, not our eternal dwelling, but our little-while wandering, God would that we should use it as folk who were weary of it. And he would that we should in this vale of labour, toil, tears, and misery not look for rest and ease, game, pleasure, wealth, and felicity. For those who do so fare like a foolish fellow who, going towards his own house where he should be wealthy, would for a tapster's pleasure become a hostler by the way, and die in a stable, and never come home.

And would God that those that drown themselves in the desire of this world's wretched wealth, were not yet more fools than he! But alas, their folly as far surpasseth the foolishness of that silly fellow as there is difference between the height of heaven and the very depth of hell. For our Saviour saith, "Woe may you be that laugh now, for you shall wail and weep." And "There is a time of weeping," saith the scripture, "and there is a time of laughing."But, as you see, he setteth the weeping time before, for that is the time of this wretched world, and the laughing time shall come after in heaven. There is also a time of sowing and a time of reaping, too. Now must we in this world sow, that we may in the other world reap. And in this short sowing time of this weeping world, must we water our seed with the showers of our tears. And then shall we have in heaven a merry laughing harvest forever."They went forth and sowed their seeds weeping," saith the prophet.But what, saith he, shall follow thereof? "They shall come again more than laughing, with great joy and exultation, with their handfuls of corn in their hands." Lo, they that in their going home towards heaven sow their seeds with weeping, shall at the day of judgment come to their bodies again with everlasting plentifullaughing. And to prove that this life is no laughing time, but rather the time of weeping, we find that our Saviour himself wept twice or thrice, but never find we that he laughed so much as once.I will not swear that he never did, but at least he left us no example of it. But on the other hand, he left us example of weeping.

Of weeping have we matter enough, both for our own sins and for other folk's, too. For surely so should we do--be wail their wretched sins, and not be glad to detract them nor envy the meither. Alas, poor souls, what cause is there to envy them who are ever wealthy in this world, and ever out of tribulation? Of them Job saith, "They lead all their days in wealth, and in a moment of an hour descend into their graves and are painfully buried in hell." St. Paul saith unto the Hebrews that those whom God loveth he chastiseth, "And he scourgeth every son of his that he receiveth." St. Paul saith also, "By many tribulations must we go into the kingdom of God." And no marvel, for our Saviour Christ said of himself unto his two disciples that were going into the village of Emaus, "Know you not that Christ must suffer and so go into his kingdom?" And would we who are servants look for more privilege in our master's house than our master himself? Would we get into his kingdom with ease, when he himself got not into his own but by pain? His kingdom hath he ordained for his disciples, and he saith unto us all, "If any man will be my disciple, let him learn of me to do as I have done, take his cross of tribulation upon his back and follow me." He saith not here, lo, "Let him laugh and make merry." Now if heaven serve but for Christ's disciples, and if they be those who take their cross of tribulation, when shall these folk come there who never have tribulation? And if itbe true, as St. Paul saith, that God chastiseth all them that he loveth and scourgeth every child whom he receiveth, and that to heaven shall not come but such as he loveth and receiveth, when shall they come thither whom he never chastiseth, nor never doth vouchsafe to defile his hands upon them or give them so much as one lash? And if we cannot (as St. Paul saith we cannot) come to heaven but by many tribulations, how shall they come thither who never have none at all? Thus see we well, by the very scripture itself,how true the words are of old holy saints, who with one voice (in a manner) say all one thing--that is, that we shall not have continual wealth both in this world and in the other too. And therefore those who in this world without any tribulation enjoy their long continual course of never-interrupted prosperity have a great cause of fear and discomfort lest they be far fallen out of God's favour, and stand deep in his indignation and displeasure.For he never sendeth them tribulation, which he is ever wont to send them whom he loveth. But they that are in tribulation, I say,have on the other hand a great cause to take in their grief great inward comfort and spiritual consolation.

(St. Thomas More, A Dialogue of Comfort against Tribulation)

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

IT IS MY GIFT AND IT IS MY CURSE


"Não sei o que isso significa. Apenas sei que é muito assustador, e não tenho nenhuma dúvida de que a poesia do filme vai se tornar uma realidade específica, de que a verdade à qual ele se refere irá se materializar, far-se-á conhecida por si mesma, e - quer eu goste ou não - irá afetar a minha vida. Uma pessoa não pode permanecer passiva depois de ter se apoderado de verdades de tal ordem, pois elas chegam até nós sem que o desejamos, e subvertem todas as idéias anteriores em relação ao significado do mundo. Em um sentido muito real, a pessoa se divide, consciente de que é responsável por outros; é um instrumento, um meio, obrigado a viver e a agir para o bem do próximo.

Assim, Alexander Puchkin considerava que todo poeta, todo verdadeiro artista - independentemente de querê-lo ou não - é um profeta. Puchkin encarava a capacidade de olhar através do tempo e predizer o futuro como um dom terrível, e o papel que lhe coube causou-lhe indizível tormento. Ele tinha uma posição supersticiosa em relação a sinais e augúrios. Basta que recordemos como, quando estava correndo de Pskov para Petersburgo no momento do Levante Decembrista, o poeta tomou o caminho de volta porque uma lebre havia cruzado seu caminho; aceitou a crença popular de que isso era um presságio. Em um dos seus poemas, escreveu sobre a tortura que sofreu por ser consciente do seu dom da presciência, e da responsabilidade de ter sido escolhido para poeta e profeta. Eu me esquecera das suas palavras, mas o poema voltou-me com nova significação, quase que como uma revelação. Sinto que a pena que escreveu esses versos, em 1826, não era empunhada somente por Alexander Puchkin:

Cansado da fome espiritual
Em meio a um deserto triste meu caminho fiz,
E um anjo de seis asas veio a mim
Num lugar onde havia uma encruzilhada.
Com dedos leves como o sono
Tocou as pupilas de meus olhos
E minhas proféticas pupilas abriu
Como olhos de águia assustada.
Quando seus dedos tocaram meus ouvidos,
Estes se encheram de rugidos e clangores
E ouvi o tremor do céu
E o vôo do anjo da montanha
E animais marinhos nas profundezas
E crescer a videira do vale.
E, então, pressionou-me a boca
E arrancou-me a língua pecadora,
E toda a sua malícia e palavras vãs,
E tomando a língua de uma sábia serpente
Introduziu-a em minha boca gelada
Com sua mão direita encarnada.
Então, com sua espada, abriu meu peito
E arrancou-me o coração fremente,
E no vazio do meu peito colocou
Um pedaço de carvão em chamas.
Fiquei como um cadáver, deitado no deserto,
E ouvi a voz de Deus clamar:
"Levanta, profeta, e vê e ouve,
Sê portador da minha vontade -
Atravessa terras e mares
E incendeia o coração dos homens com o verbo".

(ANDREI TARKOVSKI, Esculpir o Tempo, pgs. 265-266)

Sunday, July 09, 2006

I Sit By The Window

Joseph Brodsky

I said fate plays a game without a score,
and who needs fish if you've got caviar?
The triumph of the Gothic style would come to pass
and turn you on--no need for coke, or grass.
I sit by the window. Outside, an aspen.
When I loved, I loved deeply. It wasn't often.

I said the forest's only part of a tree.
Who needs the whole girl if you've got her knee?
Sick of the dust raised by the modern era,
the Russian eye would rest on an Estonian spire.
I sit by the window. The dishes are done.
I was happy here. But I won't be again.

I wrote: The bulb looks at the flower in fear,
and love, as an act, lacks a verb; the zer-
o Euclid thought the vanishing point became
wasn't math--it was the nothingness of Time.
I sit by the window. And while I sit
my youth comes back. Sometimes I'd smile. Or spit.

I said that the leaf may destory the bud;
what's fertile falls in fallow soil--a dud;
that on the flat field, the unshadowed plain
nature spills the seeds of trees in vain.
I sit by the window. Hands lock my knees.
My heavy shadow's my squat company.

My song was out of tune, my voice was cracked,
but at least no chorus can ever sing it back.
That talk like this reaps no reward bewilders
no one--no one's legs rest on my sholders.
I sit by the window in the dark. Like an express,
the waves behind the wavelike curtain crash.

A loyal subject of these second-rate years,
I proudly admit that my finest ideas
are second-rate, and may the future take them
as trophies of my struggle against suffocation.
I sit in the dark. And it would be hard to figure out
which is worse; the dark inside, or the darkness out.

Saturday, July 08, 2006

A IMITAÇÃO DO AMANHECER


Toda a obra de Bruno Tolentino é uma busca pelo ponto de equilíbrio, o ponto em que o instante e o movimento se tocam, mas nunca se encontram definitivamente. “A Imitação do Amanhecer” não é exceção. Se nos livros anteriores Tolentino mostrava todos os lados desta busca, agora temos em mãos a dramatização da impossibilidade deste equilíbrio e sua impertinente recusa, já diagnosticada em “O mundo como Idéia” (2002). Quatro anos depois, o poeta retorna com uma história, meditada durante duas décadas, sobre as cidades cicatrizadas na alma, representadas numa Alexandria que assombra a memória de um narrador incapaz de se libertar do seu passado e aceitar um amanhecer tecido por epifanias.

A epifania é o eixo temático para compreender a experiência radical da leitura de “A Imitação do Amanhecer”. Composta por 538 sonetos alexandrinos, esta odisséia de instantes apenas vislumbrados provoca a sensação de que há algo além do cosmos quase caótico onde vivemos. Eles são apreendidos numa velocidade alucinante pela melodia dos versos; o pensamento é modelado em uma lírica que se movimenta em giros sinfônicos dignos de Sibelius; e o rigor da linguagem é um artifício para intensificar a plasticidade das imagens, permitindo ao leitor que tenha acesso à mesma luz da qual o cervo da Lapônia (emblema de um momento capital do livro) se despede com altivez assustadora.

Isso não significa que se apresenta um alívio para a precariedade humana. Pelo contrário: Tolentino perturba ainda mais ao refletir sobre a incompetência da criatura em respeitar as epifanias. As conseqüências disso são perturbadoras e, entre elas, o infecundo e o estéril são somente algumas das alternativas. Mas deve-se desistir? Eis a grandeza da poesia de Tolentino: o triunfo, se há algum, está na tentativa - e as epifanias, os instantes que devemos tratar com carinho, são as ruínas onde se abriga a alegria dos náufragos. Aceitar este fato não se trata de um problema moral; é principalmente uma questão de sobrevivência.

O poeta faz o seu personagem caminhar por uma Alexandria real e mítica, irmã do iceberg imaginário que seduz a civilização ocidental até hoje. Ela abriga as ruas da desolação e as vielas do desejo que, por não compreenderem as exigências de uma epifania, nos transforma em moscas na redoma – e onde, apesar do aviso de Tolentino, queremos continuar presos. Impotentes entre o êxtase dos versos e a quietude do fim, tudo depende de como entendemos o silêncio que nos envolve, como bem disse Lawrence Durrell, outro amante da cidade-peste que une o Ocidente e o Oriente. Substituir a imitação que se debate contra o instantâneo do real pelo verdadeiro amanhecer – este é o dever de quem atravessar as páginas deste livro ímpar na poesia brasileira.