In Brazil, when a true writer is born, he is required to possess an extraordinary strength of character: from the outset, he already knows that his life’s work will be nothing more than a testament of love. There will be no recognition for his work, nor could there be, because one cannot expect someone to acknowledge something that holds no importance for him. There is nothing to regret. Brazilians do not read and do not like books; books are not part of their lives. Therefore, regardless of the seriousness and caliber of the Brazilian writer, his work will have neither relevance nor influence, as one might expect. That, however, is not the end of the story. He can also be certain in advance that, even if he studies more than writers from other countries, even if he endures greater hardships, overcomes greater obstacles, and practices his craft with greater dedication, even if the monument he erects proves irrefutably more worthy and moving, there will be, after his death, one of those journalists who pretend to be intellectuals, dazzled by their knowledge of English, to spew, from the heights of their ineptitude and terrible command of the language, phrases like “nothing is any good in Brazilian literature,” “nothing good has ever been produced here.” The Brazilian writer is doomed to be despised by fools and insulted by imbeciles.