Luciano Duarte

Thorny theme… But there is nothing to be afraid of. I have been seeking the answer for years: why can an Englishman dispense Machado, but a Brazilian cannot dispense Shakespeare? I am saying about one of my masters, one of the authors who I have the most affection… And, reflecting, I essay the following answer: the greatness of an author can be synthesized, ultimately, in the sum between style and theme of the work. Machado is a top score in style, leaving us the theme. Does the theme of Machado’s work fall short? I do not think so… even when comparing with the greatest: there is amplitude in Machado, there is conflict in Machado. Then I realize something is missing from my proposition. What would Tolstoy have that has no Machado? What would Dostoevsky or Shakespeare have? Style, again, could not be: Machado is master in the highest degree. But fatally our artist does not share the hall of the greatest authors of all time worldwide. Why? I risk another option that seems reasonable to me: lack of vigor, lack of action in Machado’s characters. But is that a demerit? Does great literature require an active character or a great author? I am still unresponsive. Another proposition comes to me: if the translations, whether or not admitted, scratch the style of the work, what is left of it? The arc of action. But why, exactly, should the great work have a well-defined arc of action? Here, I feel that we have advanced… The works of Tolstoy, Shakespeare or Dostoevsky can be summarized in a diagram, simplified as in acts of a play; already in Machado, not all are so… But I ask: Is this a qualitative criterion? What does a well-defined arc of action provide? To a good understanding of the reader. And do the artistic work must to do that service? I do not know, I do now know… I thought here to conclude that the text should purify the reader, that the work should fascinate him, that the stories should instruct him, that the themes should be comprehensive and that the characters should mark. But all this I find in Machado and I say more: well I would spend my days in exclusive contact with his work. So I see it: I am unable to consider him at a lower level. To me, may the problem be in readers, in critics, in translators… but from my mouth will not come out that Machado is below anyone!

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Absolute loneliness, I mean: knowing be the only and last of men would be unbearable. Only this way, and only in this hypothesis. That is not the case, if we consider literature. A single book is a source of eternal companionship, since literature establishes a real and fruitful dialogue between reader and author. Write to dialogue with readers? To be read in the future? Unnecessary motivations… Writing is to give the necessary sequence to the dialog started at the read. Dialogue that, by itself, does not allow us to ever classify ourselves as “alone”.

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Perhaps it is The burrow the strongest work of Kafka. In this concise and powerful story, Kafka vertically explores despair, in a technique similar to that used in The Judgment, but reaching the summit in very few pages. The following happens: a mouse builds, in a work of a lifetime, his own house (the burrow). Extremely cautious, he diligently devises a structure that protects him from invaders. He thinks of all the possibilities, defends himself from all of them, thus structuring an extremely complex constructive plan. The place is the first of the precautions: aiming tranquility, he selects a quiet place, away from the movement. But can somewhere be far enough away that no one will ever find it? Difficult… anyway, there is no such certainty. Then it is necessary a camouflage at the entrance of the burrow; so even if possible invaders approached, they would not notice the door of the abode. But what if they did? What if, for once, an invader noticed it and entered the building? It is a huge risk that would compromise everything. A single invader has the power to destroy the work of a lifetime. Thus, a defense mechanism is required after entry… Reasoning in this way, imagining always possible situations, fearing the risk and desirous of eliminating the possibility of invasion, the mouse builds a gigantic labyrinth, divided into sections, full of corridors and crossroads, practically impenetrable. However, tranquility does not come. Obsessively, the mouse begins to imagine increasingly unlikely situations. He comes out of the building, start monitoring it and taking notes. He imagines that, when looking for food, he can be seen: and draws up a plan for leaving and entering the burrow. When, exhausted and still undecided, he decides to give himself a rest. He enters the burrow and nap. When he wakes up, however, he hears a noise. Small, yes; but it is necessary to know where it comes from. Would that be a threat? He needs to find out. But our mouse built around him an endless, gigantic maze, and the inspection work would take days, maybe weeks. For now, only uncertainty: it may be nothing, but it may be the end. The mouse despairs, it is no longer possible to tranquility; the noise continues, it is no longer possible to know where it comes from. Thus Kafka, with unusual mastery, presents us with a character who, to defend himself an uncertain threat, due to constant and insurmountable fear, dedicates his life to build a defense mechanism, dedicates his life in search for peace. He encounters, however, terror, disbelief: in his world, peace is impossible, the threat is constant noise and his building will always be about to collapse.

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