De tarde a lareira acesa, o Quebra-nozes na televisão, rabanadas quentes, à noite o Assalto ao arranha céus, um caldo verde com chouriço e pão de ló de Alfeizerão.
““I have never been one of those people—I know you aren’t, either—who feels that the love one has for a child is somehow a superior love, one more meaningful, more significant, and grander than any other. I didn’t feel that before Jacob, and I didn’t feel that after. But it is a singular love, because it is a love whose foundation is not physical attraction, or pleasure, or intellect, but fear. You have never known fear until you have a child, and maybe that is what tricks us into thinking that it is more magnificent, because the fear itself is more magnificent. Every day, your first thought is not “I love him” but “How is he?” The world, overnight, rearranges itself into an obstacle course of terrors. I would hold him in my arms and wait to cross the street and would think how absurd it was that my child, that any child, could expect to survive this life. It seemed as improbable as the survival of one of those late-spring butterflies—you know, those little white ones—I sometimes saw wobbling through the air, always just millimeters away from smacking itself against a windshield.
“And let me tell you two other things I learned. The first is that it doesn’t matter how old that child is, or when or how he became yours. Once you decide to think of someone as your child, something changes, and everything you have previously enjoyed about them, everything you have previously felt for them, is preceded first by that fear. It’s not biological; it’s something extra-biological, less a determination to ensure the survival of one’s genetic code, and more a desire to prove oneself inviolable to the universe’s feints and challenges, to triumph over the things that want to destroy what’s yours.”
“The second thing is this: when your child dies, you feel everything you’d expect to feel, feelings so well-documented by so many others that I won’t even bother to list them here, except to say that everything that’s written about mourning is all the same, and it’s all the same for a reason—because there is no real deviation from the text. Sometimes you feel more of one thing and less of another, and sometimes you feel them out of order, and sometimes you feel them for a longer time or a shorter time. But the sensations are always the same.
But here’s what no one says—when it’s your child, a part of you, a very tiny but nonetheless unignorable part of you, also feels relief. Because finally, the moment you have been expecting, been dreading, been preparing yourself for since the day you became a parent, has come.”
“Ah, you tell yourself, it’s arrived. Here it is.
And after that, you have nothing to fear again.”
A Little Life (2015)
Confiem em mim, é brutal. Não é para estômagos fracos.
Se não me falha a memória, o poeta Manuel António Pina disse uma vez que conhecia vários bons escritores, mas que bons homens eram cada vez mais difíceis de encontrar. Ultimamente tem se discutido muito sobre se a obra de um artista deve ser confrontada ou não com o carácter e conduta do mesmo, tal é a quantidade de heróis que temos vindo a ver ruir por causa de comportamentos censuráveis. Sou co-responsável pela educação de um pequeno homem e mais do que ser responsável, trabalhador e um bom profissional, quero que o meu filho seja um bom homem. Nunca achei que fosse possível alguém ser considerado um bom homem de forma unânime, mas hoje provaram-me o contrário. Porque mais raro e importante do que ser um bom artista, é ser generoso, gentil, disponível, é isso de que todos se lembram quando morremos. E apesar de não ser o mais adequado para uma banda punk dos anos 80, o primeiro nome dos Xutos e Pontapés era o que lhe assentava melhor: morreu ontem o guitarrista dos Beijinhos e Parabéns.
Que o Jumbo está a vender perucas para os miúdos se mascararem de Durão Barroso no Halloween.