tão cega tão esquecida

que nunca vi a ponte Poe - Hawthone e Twain - Zola.

e sobre a ordenação do mundo (ainda): "I had no Monarch in my life, and cannot rule myself, and when I try to organize - my little Force explodes - and leaves me bare and charred" (Dickinson).

porque não

Nathaniel Hawthorne: contos e esboços

e não faço ideia se os contos estão publicados em português. vale o paper pela panorâmica sobre a obra completa.

- - -

"Three little hills stood near each other, and down in the midst of
them sunk a hollow basin, almost mathematically circular, two or three
hundred feet in breadth, and of such depth that a stately cedar might but
just be visible above the sides. Dwarf pines were numerous upon the
hills, and partly fringed the outer verge of the intermediate hollow, with-
in which there was nothing but the brown grass of October, and here
and there a tree trunk that had fallen long ago, and lay mouldering with
no green successsor from its roots. One of these masses of decaying
wood, formerly a majestic oak, rested close beside a pool of green and
sluggish water at the bottom of the basin. Such scenes as this (so gray
tradition tells) were once the resort of the Power of Evil and his plighted
subjects; and here, at midnight or on the dim verge of evening, they were
said to stand round the mantling pool, disturbing its putrid waters in the
performance of an impious baptismal rite. The chill beauty of an autum-
nal sunset was now gilding the three hill-tops, whence a paler tint stole
down their sides into the hollow."
The Hollow of the Three Hills, de Hawthorne. (link em .pdf)

de onde uns vampiros travestidos para usar uma palavra recente copiam sem vergonha. era 1837.

"soft nurse"

"O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down And steep my sense in forgetfulness", o mestre em Henry IV. por nada, a propósito de "David Swan". ideia - ilustração.

- - -
David Swan
Nathaniel Hawthorne

We can be but partially acquainted even with the events which actually influence our course through life, and our final destiny. There are innumerable other events--if such they may be called--which come close upon us, yet pass away without actual results, or even betraying their near approach, by the reflection of any light or shadow across our minds. Could we know all the vicissitudes of our fortunes, life would be too full of hope and fear, exultation or disappointment, to afford us a single hour of true serenity. This idea may be illustrated by a page from the secret history of David Swan.

We have nothing to do with David until we find him, at the age of twenty, on the high road from his native place to the city of Boston, where his uncle, a small dealer in the grocery line, was to take him behind the counter. Be it enough to say that he was a native of New Hampshire, born of respectable parents, and had received an ordinary school education, with a classic finish by a year at Gilmanton Academy. After journeying on foot from sunrise till nearly noon of a summer's day, his weariness and the increasing heat determined him to sit down in the first convenient shade, and await the coming up of the stage-coach. As if planted on purpose for him, there soon appeared a little tuft of maples, with a delightful recess in the midst, and such a fresh bubbling spring that it seemed never to have sparkled for any wayfarer but David Swan. Virgin or not, he kissed it with his thirsty lips, and then flung himself along the brink, pillowing his head upon some shirts and a pair of pantaloons, tied up in a striped cotton handkerchief. The sunbeams could not reach him; the dust did not yet rise from the road after the heavy rain of yesterday; and his grassy lair suited the young man better than a bed of down. The spring murmured drowsily beside him; the branches waved dreamily across the blue sky overhead; and a deep sleep, perchance hiding dreams within its depths, fell upon David Swan. But we are to relate events which he did not dream of.

While he lay sound asleep in the shade, other people were wide awake, and passed to and fro, afoot, on horseback, and in all sorts of vehicles, along the sunny road by his bedchamber. Some looked neither to the right hand nor the left, and knew not that he was there; some merely glanced that way, without admitting the slumberer among their busy thoughts; some laughed to see how soundly he slept; and several, whose hearts were brimming full of scorn, ejected their venomous superfluity on David Swan. A middle-aged widow, when nobody else was near, thrust her head a little way into the recess, and vowed that the young fellow looked charming in his sleep. A temperance lecturer saw him, and wrought poor David into the texture of his evening's discourse, as an awful instance of dead drunkenness by the roadside. But censure, praise, merriment, scorn, and indifference were all one, or rather all nothing, to David Swan.

He had slept only a few moments when a brown carriage, drawn by a handsome pair of horses, bowled easily along, and was brought to a standstill nearly in front of David's resting-place. A linchpin had fallen out, and permitted one of the wheels to slide off. The damage was slight, and occasioned merely a momentary alarm to an elderly merchant and his wife, who were returning to Boston in the carriage. While the coachman and a servant were replacing the wheel, the lady and gentleman sheltered themselves beneath the maple-trees, and there espied the bubbling fountain, and David Swan asleep beside it. Impressed with the awe which the humblest sleeped usually sheds around him, the merchant trod as lightly as the gout would allow; and his spouse took good heed not to rustle her silk gown, lest David should start up all of a sudden.

"How soundly he sleeps!" whispered the old gentleman. "From what a depth he draws that easy breath! Such sleep as that, brought on without an opiate, would be worth more to me than half my income; for it would suppose health and an untroubled mind."

"And youth, besides," said the lady. "Healthy and quiet age does not sleep thus. Our slumber is no more like his than our wakefulness."

The longer they looked the more did this elderly couple feel interested in the unknown youth, to whom the wayside and the maple shade were as a secret chamber, with the rich gloom of damask curtains brooding over him. Perceiving that a stray sunbeam glimmered down upon his face, the lady contrived to twist a branch aside, so as to intercept it. And having done this little act of kindness, she began to feel like a mother to him.

"Providence seems to have laid him here," whispered she to her husband, "and to have brought us hither to find him, after our disappointment in our cousin's son. Methinks I can see a likeness to our departed Henry. Shall we waken him?"

"To what purpose?" said the merchant, hesitating. "We know nothing of the youth's character."

"That open countenance!" replied his wife, in the same hushed voice, yet earnestly. "This innocent sleep!"


While these whispers were passing, the sleeper's heart did not throb, nor his breath become agitated, nor his features betray the least token of interest. Yet Fortune was bending over him, just ready to let fall a burden of gold. The old merchant had lost his only son, and had no heir to his wealth except a distant relative, with whose conduct he was dissatisfied. In such cases, people sometimes do stranger things than to act the magician, and awaken a young man to splendor who fell asleep in poverty.

"Shall we not waken him?" repeated the lady persuasively.

"The coach is ready, sir," said the servant, behind.

The old couple started, reddened, and hurried away, mutually wondering that they should ever have dreamed of doing anything so very ridiculous. The merchant threw himself back in the carriage, and occupied his mind with the plan of a magnificent asylum for unfortunate men of business. Meanwhile, David Swan enjoyed his nap.

The carriage could not have gone above a mile or two, when a pretty young girl came along, with a tripping pace, which showed precisely how her little heart was dancing in her bosom. Perhaps it was this merry kind of motion that caused--is there any harm in saying it?--her garter to slip its knot. Conscious that the silken girth--if silk it were--was relaxing its hold, she turned aside into the shelter of the maple-trees, and there found a young man asleep by the spring! Blushing as red as any rose that she should have intruded into a gentleman's bedchamber, and for such a purpose, too, she was about to make her escape on tiptoe. But there was peril near the sleeper. A monster of a bee had been wandering overhead--buzz, buzz, buzz--now among the leaves, now flashing through the strips of sunshine, and now lost in the dark shade, till finally he appeared to be settling on the eyelid of David Swan. The sting of a bee is sometimes deadly. As free hearted as she was innocent, the girl attacked the intruder with her handkerchief, brushed him soundly, and drove him from beneath the mapleshade. How sweet a picture! This good deed accomplished, with quickened breath, and a deeper blush, she stole a glance at the youthful stranger for whom she had been battling with a dragon in the air.

"He is handsome!" thought she, and blushed redder yet.

How could it be that no dream of bliss grew so strong within him, that, shattered by its very strength, it should part asunder, and allow him to perceive the girl among its phantoms? Why, at least, did no smile of welcome brighten upon his face? She was come, the maid whose soul, according to the old and beautiful idea, had been severed from his own, and whom, in all his vague but passionate desires, he yearned to meet. Her, only, could he love with a perfect love; him, only, could she receive into the depths of her heart; and now her image was faintly blushing in the fountain, by his side; should it pass away, its happy lustre would never gleam upon his life again.

"How sound he sleeps!" murmured the girl.

She departed, but did not trip along the road so lightly as when she came.

Now, this girl's father was a thriving country merchant in the neighborhood, and happened, at that identical time, to be looking out for just such a young man as David Swan. Had David formed a wayside acquaintance with the daughter, he would have become the father's clerk, and all else in natural succession. So here, again, had good fortune--the best of fortunes--stolen so near that her garments brushed against him; and he knew nothing of the matter.

The girl was hardly out of sight when two men turned aside beneath the maple shade. Both had dark faces, set off by cloth caps, which were drawn down aslant over their brows. Their dresses were shabby, yet had a certain smartness. These were a couple of rascals who got their living by whatever the devil sent them, and now, in the interim of other business, had staked the joint profits of their next piece of villany on a game of cards, which was to have been decided here under the trees. But, finding David asleep by the spring, one of the rogues whispered to his fellow,"Hist!--Do you see that bundle under his head?"

The other villain nodded, winked, and leered.

"I'll bet you a horn of brandy," said the first, "that the chap has either a pocket-book, or a snug little hoard of small change, stowed away amongst his shirts. And if not there, we shall find it in his pantaloons pocket."

"But how if he wakes?" said the other.

His companion thrust aside his waistcoat, pointed to the handle of a dirk, and nodded.

"So be it!" muttered the second villain.

They approached the unconscious David, and, while one pointed the dagger towards his heart, the other began to search the bundle beneath his head. Their two faces, grim, wrinkled, and ghastly with guilt and fear, bent over their victim, looking horrible enough to be mistaken for fiends, should he suddenly awake. Nay, had the villains glanced aside into the spring, even they would hardly have known themselves as reflected there. But David Swan had never worn a more tranquil aspect, even when asleep on his mother's breast.

"I must take away the bundle," whispered one.

"If he stirs, I'll strike," muttered the other.

But, at this moment, a dog scenting along the ground, came in beneath the maple-trees, and gazed alternately at each of these wicked men, and then at the quiet sleeper. He then lapped out of the fountain.

"Pshaw!" said one villain. "We can do nothing now. The dog's master must be close behind."

"Let's take a drink and be off," said the other

The man with the dagger thrust back the weapon into his bosom, and drew forth a pocket pistol, but not of that kind which kills by a single discharge. It was a flask of liquor, with a block-tin tumbler screwed upon the mouth. Each drank a comfortable dram, and left the spot, with so many jests, and such laughter at their unaccomplished wickedness, that they might be said to have gone on their way rejoicing. In a few hours they had forgotten the whole affair, nor once imagined that the recording angel had written down the crime of murder against their souls, in letters as durable as eternity. As for David Swan, he still slept quietly, neither conscious of the shadow of death when it hung over him, nor of the glow of renewed life when that shadow was withdrawn.

He slept, but no longer so quietly as at first. An hour's repose had snatched, from his elastic frame, the weariness with which many hours of toil had burdened it. Now he stirred--now, moved his lips, without a sound--now, talked, in an inward tone, to the noonday spectres of his dream. But a noise of wheels came rattling louder and louder along the road, until it dashed through the dispersing mist of David's slumber-and there was the stage-coach. He started up with all his ideas about him.

"Halloo, driver!--Take a passenger?" shouted he.

"Room on top!" answered the driver.

Up mounted David, and bowled away merrily towards Boston, without so much as a parting glance at that fountain of dreamlike vicissitude. He knew not that a phantom of Wealth had thrown a golden hue upon its waters--nor that one of Love had sighed softly to their murmur--nor that one of Death had threatened to crimson them with his blood--all, in the brief hour since he lay down to sleep. Sleeping or waking, we hear not the airy footsteps of the strange things that almost happen. Does it not argue a superintending Providence that, while viewless and unexpected events thrust themselves continually athwart our path, there should still be regularity enough in mortal life to render foresight even partially available?

- - -

(daqui)

8 dias

e estarão encerradas as festas de primavera. no final da Letra Escarlate que se tornou um monumento de si próprio, como os nossos Maias. o que se deve dizer sobre isto e o que é suposto significar esta personagem. chega a ser difícil olhar para a personagem através do fumo espesso do texto sobre o texto sobre o texto. ultrapassando o final, já em segunda e terceira volta, tentando olhar para a criança-elfo que é suposto ser um símbolo, é suposto que eu diga que é um símbolo, talvez até o autor tenha afirmado que a criança-pérola era um símbolo e mesmo assim vejo nela as características de uma doença comum do comportamento. não se pode discutir a história, como fazem as vizinhas no café umas sobre as outras, os homens no café uns sobre os outros. porque não é uma história mas um propósito, um efeito. alguns autores têm o vício da história, eu tenho esse vício sem ser autora (é só uma história, não é, diz ele a meia-dúvida). assim se fazem muitos escritores de livros infanto-juvenis. outros maltratam a história como se fosse um defeito, um mal congénito. o que me apetecia mesmo era estar numa praia onde pudesse apanhar vidros polidos pelo rolar das ondas. aqui canas, cordas verdes (são cordas ou cabos?), restos de sacos, de redes, garrafas, tudo plástico. foi na praia das Maçãs. a maior parte das vezes vem sem til: ouvi que era pecado maior que a queda do paraíso, roubar a maçã à Eva e dar-lhe uma maça. latim vulgar *matea, do latim mateola, -ae, bastão, pau, cabo. hoje foi dia do teatro, dia de toda a gente fingir que gosta e que vai e que vê, até os canais tv e os noticiários. mas não há teatro na tv. sopa sumo de laranja e peça de fruta. e Pearl, em reflexo de água:

"By this time Pearl had reached the margin of the brook, and stood on the further side, gazing silently at Hester and the clergyman, who still sat together on the mossy tree-trunk waiting to receive her. Just where she had paused, the brook chanced to form a pool so smooth and quiet that it reflected a perfect image of her little figure, with all the brilliant picturesqueness of her beauty, in its adornment of flowers and wreathed foliage, but more refined and spiritualized than the reality. This image, so nearly identical with the living Pearl, seemed to communicate somewhat of its own shadowy and intangible quality to the child herself. It was strange, the way in which Pearl stood, looking so steadfastly at them through the dim medium of the forest gloom, herself, meanwhile, all glorified with a ray of sunshine, that was attracted thitherward as by a certain sympathy. In the brook beneath stood another child--another and the same--with likewise its ray of golden light." Hawthorne em The Scarlet Letter.

mas não é plana. "19th-century Romanticism attempted to restore them to full stature, often depicting them as very young, probably adolescent (lack of facial hair on male elves), men and women of great beauty.", os elfos na wiki. porque é que um elfo, nesse caso, é a representação de um crime, crime de pecado, elfin beauty. na 2 uma onda de pombos-correio no filme Lavado em Lágrimas. sea glass, apanhar e incrustá-las em anéis e pulseiras, mas nunca lhes chamar lágrimas do mar porque há nomes que matam a ideia da coisa, como há palavras que acabam com as histórias ou imagens que destroem intenções, boas ou más, e os elfos no deviant art (de onde vem tudo aquilo?) mataram os elfos românticos. no filme, um jovem João Cabral fuma cigarros nervosos no jardim do Príncipe Real a meio de uma história sem encanto. e agora. perdi-me.

a imaginar histórias

como observava Lobo Antunes. aqui entre uma alegada realidade e uma alegada virtualidade-

"To represent the process by which sober truth gradually strips off all
the beautiful draperies with which imagination has enveloped a beloved
object, till from an angel she turns out to be a merely ordinary woman.
This to be done without caricature, perhaps with a quiet humor
interfused, but the prevailing impression to be a sad one. The story
might consist of the various alterations in the feelings of the absent
lover, caused by successive events that display the true character of his
mistress; and the catastrophe should take place at their meeting, when he
finds himself equally disappointed in her person; or the whole spirit of
the thing may here be reproduced.

Last evening, from the opposite shore of the North River, a view of the
town mirrored in the water, which was as smooth as glass, with no
perceptible tide or agitation, except a trifling swell and reflux on the
sand, although the shadow of the moon danced in it. The picture of the
town perfect in the water,--towers of churches, houses, with here and
there a light gleaming near the shore above, and more faintly glimmering
under water,--all perfect, but somewhat more hazy and indistinct than the
reality. There were many clouds flitting about the sky; and the picture
of each could be traced in the water,--the ghost of what was itself
unsubstantial. The rattling of wheels heard long and far through the
town. Voices of people talking on the other side of the river, the tones
being so distinguishable in all their variations that it seemed as if
what was there said might be understood; but it was not so."

Hawthorne em Passages From The American Notebooks, Volume 1

"was existence worth accepting"?

"the same dark question often rose into her mind with
reference to the whole race of womanhood. Was existence worth
accepting even to the happiest among them? As concerned her own
individual existence, she had long ago decided in the negative,
and dismissed the point as settled. A tendency to speculation,
though it may keep women quiet, as it does man, yet makes her
sad. She discerns, it may be, such a hopeless task before her.
As a first step, the whole system of society is to be torn down
and built up anew. Then the very nature of the opposite sex, or
its long hereditary habit, which has become like nature, is to
be essentially modified before woman can be allowed to assume
what seems a fair and suitable position. Finally, all other
difficulties being obviated, woman cannot take advantage of
these preliminary reforms until she herself shall have undergone
a still mightier change"(...)
na Scarlet Letter de Hawthorne.

não só traduzida por Fernando Pessoa como escolhida por António Lobo Antunes para a sua selecção de genialidades. podia-se enganar um aqui e o outro ali mas nunca os dois ao mesmo tempo. e que não tivessem dito nada, nenhuma diferença faria. tenho a certeza de que esta Letter tem sido um festim para o feminismo, como o está a ser para mim. quantas letras teria eu coladas ao corpo, quantos Salems, quantas fogueiras no Terreiro do Paço para que me sente hoje no café Saudade frente à meia de leite e à Letra Escarlate.. a mightier change chegou e está lentamente em curso. ipod hoje, carrocita de madeira que já foi. aqui não há grandes lágrimas.

- - -

«Embora eu prefira os seus inumeráveis rascunhos, apontamentos, esboços e pequenos textos de toda a ordem, A Letra Encarnada é um livro admirável daquele que foi, a par de Melville, o grande escritor americano do século dezanove. Aliás amigos íntimos (alguns insinuam que mais do que isso) professavam admiração recíproca. Hawthorne era um homem estranho. De beleza física invulgar foi um puritano toda a vida, sujeito a crises de desânimo e insegurança constantes. Valia-lhe o apoio da mulher, muito mais forte psicologicamente do que ele e que se manteve a seu lado numa dedicação inalterável. Este romance dramático e intenso é uma obra--prima, como praticamente tudo o que o autor deixou. Curioso o facto de uma novela tão americana na sua trama essencial tocar o leitor de cultura muito diferente pelo jogo de emoções e temas. Apesar de, no fundo da alma, Hawthorne ser um moralista severo, é capaz de flagelar com arrebatamento a severidade essa parte de si mesmo, na autocrítica arrepiante a que procedeu toda a sua vida.»

António Lobo Antunes
a propósito: e o resto da "biblioteca"?

scarlet letter

a ler a letra escarlate. bom, a ouvir a Scarlet Letter. ["In our nature, however, there is a provision, alike marvellous and merciful, that the sufferer should never know the intensity of what he endures by its present torture, but chiefly by the pang that rankles after it. "]