Tuesday, April 16, 2013

"Who is the third who walks always beside you?"

"Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
—But who is that on the other side of you?"

em The Waste Land. provavelmente e, apesar de tudo o que rodeia Eliot, o meu livro de todos os tempos, talvez aquele que li mais vezes, aquele que quase sei de cor. nem tem a ver com Eliot com quem posso envolver-me em discussões unilaterais por vezes agressivas, mas com as palavras e com o que elas foram em certa altura da minha leitura. talvez quem as tenha lido na mesma altura que eu tenha um sentimento semelhante e não se tenha deixado abafar (a si, pessoalmente, a sua leitura intransmissível, o seu momento de leitura no tempo) pela piada e pelo escárnio que a pop e o pós-modernismo verteram em cima do conservador Eliot, apesar de merecido, afinal.

aqui a leitura oficial das aulas de literatura, com recurso à auto-referência e à referência literária mais básica, o livro dos livros. este outro foi sempre para mim duas coisas, o outro que não sou eu, o do lado de fora, e os ausentes que fazem parte de mim, vivos, mortos, longe, passados, o mundo dos espectros que cresce com os anos.

o outro do lado de fora é um dos temas recorrentes de Pamuk, bem como a identidade (talvez mais em White Castle, em que debateu talvez mais os seus fantasmas pessoais de reconciliação com a sua própria história de fronteira e de desejo. gosto deste tema, de olhar para ele a partir de várias origens, da exclusão, da narrativa que se usa para excluir os outros (estranhos, ameaçadores, o árabe), da fronteira, da possibilidade de diálogo, da cegueira, da identidade.

aqui, Pamuk numa breve homenagem a outros literários:
"The novelist will also know that thinking about this other whom everyone knows and believes to be his opposite will help to liberate him from the confines of his own persona. The history of the novel is the history of human liberation: by putting ourselves in other’s shoes, by using our imaginations to free ourselves from our own identities, we are able to set ourselves free.


So Defoe’s great novel conjures up not just Robinson Crusoe but also his slave, Friday. As powerfully as Don Quixote conjures up a knight who lives in the world of books, it also conjures up his servant Sancho Pancho. I enjoy reading Anna Karenina, Tolstoy’s most brilliant novel, as a happily married man’s attempt to imagine a woman who destroys her unhappy marriage, and then herself. Tolstoy’s inspiration was another male novelist who, though he himself never married, found his way into the mind of the discontented Madame Bovary. In the greatest allegorical classic of all time, Moby Dick, Melville explores the fears gripping the America of his day – and particularly its fear of alien cultures – through the intermediary of the white whale. Those of us who come to know the world through books cannot think of the American South without also thinking of the blacks in Faulkner’s novels. In the same way, we might feel that a German novelist who wishes to speak to all of Germany, and who fails, explicitly or implicitly, to imagine the country’s Turks along with the unease they cause, is somehow lacking. Likewise, a Turkish novelist who fails to imagine the Kurds and other minorities, and who neglects to illuminate the black spots in his country’s unspoken history, will, in my view, produce work that has a hole at its centre."
em "In Kars and Frankfurt", em Other Colors.

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por falar nos grandes criadores de 'outros':  it can happen anywhere (not really) ou a frase do momento "Investigators warned police to be on the lookout for a "darker-skinned or black male" with a possible foreign accent" (...)







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