Estou a ter alguma dificuldade com este The Moravian Night de Handke, custa-me entrar na sua linguagem que me parece cheia de tropeções, e não percebo se é dele ou da tradução ou de mim. Mas depois tem estas irrupções luminosas:
“Reading and a Germany [o lugar onde está nesse momento da narrativa, e conseguiu voltar a ler] in which objects said to be inanimate filled one with amazement, as if they had been resurrected after a century in an antechamber to hell devoid of form and color. Objects, meaning (...) not the omnipresent crutches, wheelchairs, ambulances, and burial racks but rather the things that blossomed in the interstices still open and probably also opened up as a result of the reading, objects that blossomed without actually blossoming, billowing, arching, asserting themselves, surviving, which included the interstices as well.”
Também ajudam as correspondências pessoais, claro. A ideia dos interstícios e das fendas é-me muito próxima. Chegou pela fotografia, cresceu com as leituras e transumâncias e ganhou contornos muitos específicos. Handke tem outra passagem sobre isto na parte inicial do livro, quando a personagem principal fica presa na beleza de um lugar esquecido:
“the debris-strewn space suddenly appeared not as empty as it had seemed at first. The huge block of stone in the farthest corner of the former farm was in reality the last intact structure of those that had once rimmed the courtyard — the sheds, the stables, the barns, the wine cellar. It was the hut where at one time the local brandy had been distilled. The stone block formed a dome that rose out of the debris, leaving an opening into a hollow space with just room enough for a still and-how could there not be one here in your Balkans — a bench, short and narrow, but nonetheless. (...) He felt carried away, knew he was carried away at the sight of that bench in the former brandy-distilling cave, shimmering in the early morning light. Carried away? Did such raptures still happen nowadays?
Being carried away was certainly not the same as losing touch with reality. To be carried away in this fashion did not mean being torn away from the world, or, as far as I am concerned, from the present. How real everything (everything?) appeared in this rapture, not only the bench, not only the structure. That was it. That is it. That will have been it. This form of being carried away whisked things into their proper place”
Eu sei exactamente ao que ele se refere, porque é a casa do forno, a das ferramentas, a casa das batatas, a adega: os anexos utilitários e desarrumados da casa dos meus avós e das casas de qualquer aldeia de agricultura de subsistência, que de tão usadas e invisíveis guardam no seu interior um tempo diferente, e muitas vezes uma luz também. E poucas vezes vi o que torna estes lugares especiais tão bem descrito como aqui. Estas correspondências chegam para continuar uma leitura surpreendentemente morosa? Veremos.
“Reading and a Germany [o lugar onde está nesse momento da narrativa, e conseguiu voltar a ler] in which objects said to be inanimate filled one with amazement, as if they had been resurrected after a century in an antechamber to hell devoid of form and color. Objects, meaning (...) not the omnipresent crutches, wheelchairs, ambulances, and burial racks but rather the things that blossomed in the interstices still open and probably also opened up as a result of the reading, objects that blossomed without actually blossoming, billowing, arching, asserting themselves, surviving, which included the interstices as well.”
Também ajudam as correspondências pessoais, claro. A ideia dos interstícios e das fendas é-me muito próxima. Chegou pela fotografia, cresceu com as leituras e transumâncias e ganhou contornos muitos específicos. Handke tem outra passagem sobre isto na parte inicial do livro, quando a personagem principal fica presa na beleza de um lugar esquecido:
“the debris-strewn space suddenly appeared not as empty as it had seemed at first. The huge block of stone in the farthest corner of the former farm was in reality the last intact structure of those that had once rimmed the courtyard — the sheds, the stables, the barns, the wine cellar. It was the hut where at one time the local brandy had been distilled. The stone block formed a dome that rose out of the debris, leaving an opening into a hollow space with just room enough for a still and-how could there not be one here in your Balkans — a bench, short and narrow, but nonetheless. (...) He felt carried away, knew he was carried away at the sight of that bench in the former brandy-distilling cave, shimmering in the early morning light. Carried away? Did such raptures still happen nowadays?
Being carried away was certainly not the same as losing touch with reality. To be carried away in this fashion did not mean being torn away from the world, or, as far as I am concerned, from the present. How real everything (everything?) appeared in this rapture, not only the bench, not only the structure. That was it. That is it. That will have been it. This form of being carried away whisked things into their proper place”
Eu sei exactamente ao que ele se refere, porque é a casa do forno, a das ferramentas, a casa das batatas, a adega: os anexos utilitários e desarrumados da casa dos meus avós e das casas de qualquer aldeia de agricultura de subsistência, que de tão usadas e invisíveis guardam no seu interior um tempo diferente, e muitas vezes uma luz também. E poucas vezes vi o que torna estes lugares especiais tão bem descrito como aqui. Estas correspondências chegam para continuar uma leitura surpreendentemente morosa? Veremos.
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