Luciano Duarte | Literature and philosophy

Solemnity While Praying

Why do evangelicals — there I go where I should not… — improvise prayers? I think and the conclusion is inevitable: Whenever, listening to an evangelical praying, the phrase withers, the word fails or the feeling is not expressed with power, I see the seriousness of prayer thrown to ridicule. I wonder if only I am repairing the mismatch of the unplanned phrase that, showing helpless, uses intonation to express itself and — excuse me of sincerity — should be ashamed. So much more beautiful is ready prayer, and more when silent. It must be some defect of discernment, but I see as clear the relationship between silence and reflection, silence and respect, silence and solemnity. And I am concerned with the unanswered question: why does the man of faith not follow God’s example and shut up?

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The Substance of These Lines

I throw these notes like I am smoking, and my pleasure is nothing but seeing them get lost in the air. To me, the grace to write seems to know the uselessness of words, knowing that they dissolve and fly. There is in art, however, something noble: the renunciation of life. Hitting the keyboard I abstain myself from the boredom of living, in genuine and utter disinterest. Life can not offer me nothing, and I hope nothing from it. I joke about the phrases, alternating the placement of words, thinking about images and laughing when talking to the computer. Beyond the window, the world proceeds as usual. But the world does not instill me but revulsion. I therefore take refuge here as in a cave, a retreat, where I find grace saying in silence, to no one, far from the unbearable rumor of life. I know I am building sand castles, but there is the substance that permeates these lines: disinterest.

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Gulliver’s Travels, by Jonathan Swift

First, the specialist; then the amateur. Let’s see some of Otto Maria Carpeaux’s comments about the book and the author, in my translation:

Jonathan Swift — a humanist cleric, faithful-unfaithful to the Church of which he was a priest —is one of the greatest satirists of universal literature, perhaps the greatest of all. Gulliver’s Travels is the cruelest book there is. Lilliput’s warp and useless activities ridicule parliamentary life in 18th-century England and in all countries and times of constitutional and professional politics. Sketching this political landscape, Swift remembered his pamphleteer times in the service of the Conservative Party, the Tories; it’s a scathing satire against the Whigs. But soon after, Swift describes the patriarchal regime in the kingdom of Brobdingnag giants; and this is nothing better. On the contrary, the size of the giants grotesquely makes all the details enormous, that is, the infamy of the “conservative classes”. Nor are the intellectuals who, in the country of Laputa, vegetate as complete imbeciles. In the last part, the praise of the Houyhnhms, that is, the horses, nobler and smarter than men, is the absolute condemnation of the human race in totum. Finally, the episode of the Struldbrugs, which owe scientific progress to the immortality of life, not escaping, but to the diseases, weaknesses and senility of extreme old age, and who cannot die, already condemns life itself. The countless spirited and biting digressions — the description of the horrors of war as if they were the most natural things in the world, the mockery of Christian dogmas and rites, incredible in the mouth of a high dignitary of the Church — reveal in Swift the most radical representative rationalism in Illustration; not even Voltaire dared so much.

There are Carpeaux’s lucid words — and there are many more of them about Swift in História da Literatura Universal (vol. 2). — For my part, I say this: Gulliver’s Travels was perhaps the book that marked me the most. I always come back to it, reread excerpts, and have it throbbing in me. When I write and, for a moment, I think I am exaggerating in my judgments, I think of Swift. I remember Nelson Rodrigues once said that fiction, to purify, needs to be atrocious. According to this reasoning, few books purify as much as Gulliver’s Travels; and I share the trial. Swift’s “great soul, noble and wound” — still using Carpeaux’s words —can impregnate us with deep discomfort and revulsion towards our nature; however, no doubt, it ends up making us better people.

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My Maternal Great-grandfather

Here we are again: in front of the blank screen, thinking about life, smiling and snacking peanuts. I know that I do not like the theme of the day; or rather, I deeply dislike it. But I have two options: shut up or write. The second holds back silence and helps me against boredom. Let’s go then.

There is a philosophical reflection that bothers me with amazing regularity, and can be summed up in the following question, “What is the name of my maternal great-grandfather?” It always occurs to me the same way. At first, the question takes my mind; I understand and silence. So by refusing to answer it — and I already know that I know the answer — I try to think of something else, anything. But the question turns back, restive and unbearable. I find myself obliged to replicate the obvious, “I don’t know.”

I have to admit: this reflection is of great value to me when I see my mind holding hands to stupidity, thinking my life have some importance. My mind is also cynical… I am sometimes judging, “This can be useful to someone,” but it comes and asks me, “And how is the name of your maternal great-grandfather?” Every time I answer in amazement, “I don’t know.”

And reflection always proceeds likewise. I am looking for the answer, I can not find it. I think, “It’s not possible!” And I force the memory, looking for common contacts: “Someone must have told me…” I insist until I give up, when a flash comes to me: “My great-grandfather’s name I don’t know, but certainly the name of my maternal great-grandmother is on the tip of my tongue!” I ask myself the new question, “What’s my maternal great-grandmother’s name?”. The answer delays, but it comes obvious and identical: “I don’t know.”

Then I start torturing myself, “You know what, I need a cigarette!” I get up from the chair: “Cigarette is good for memory!” I go to the window and start smoke. It is impossible that I do not know the names of my maternal great-grandparents. I must have a problem, and the cigarette will help me release him. I am smoking watching the smoke: I am fascinated by the smoke. It springs, vigorously and thick, from the tip of the cigarette; ascends to heaven as if dancing; but before the dance can entertain, can exhibit some rhythm, suddenly the smoke fades, lost, leaving itself no trace.

Cigarette take effect; I have a new idea: “Surely the problem is in my maternal family!” I articulate a new question, happy, expecting a different result: “What is the name of my paternal great-grandfather?” I reflect. In a few seconds, I lose my face smile. The brain still works, hardworking. And I put myself restless, trying to deny the obvious answer. I chew peanuts and think, “Great-grandfather is the father of my grandfather, or my grandmother’s. Of both, one I need to know!” But the answer is the same, rigid and impenetrable: “I don’t know.”

I begin to meditate that it is a matter of honor: I need to know if I descend from a priest or a thief! But I force the memory and I do not remember anything, no remnant of a relative saying my great-grandfather being a stowager, sailor, priest or brothel owner. And there is everything: I do not know my great-grandparents’ names, I just do not know and there is no solution.

Angry, I throw stones at my mind: “Why always the same question? Why the insistence?” But I know I will continue to ask myself, like a stupid, to see if I ever find a different answer. I will not find it.

Finally I sigh, powerless, losing any illusion. There are no peanuts and I reflect, prevented from chewing: “What, then, is the reason for all this?” The conclusion is obvious, and also always the same. I cling to the shards: “I hope the conscience worth, because there will not be a single sparse word about me.”

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