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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História de Dom Pedro II, by Heitor Lyra [2]

I said a few words yesterday about this book; insufficient, though. I emphasized my respect for the author, but I forgot the protagonist. I redeem myself on this note: Dom Pedro II is the greatest example of honor and prudence in the history of Brazil. He ruled for more than half a century, always being an icon of tolerance and detachment from power; Brazil was able, thanks to his temperament, to make an exchange of regime peacefully — how many countries can say the same? — and in return, he was expelled from the country as a thief, condemned to exile and sorrow, spending his last days in a bleak solitude. When he died, lonely, having a sachet with sand from Copacabana in his pocket, the military, led by abject Floriano Peixoto, denied him even a diplomatic representation at the funeral, which was monumental, but paid by France, gratefully, between other things, for being Dom Pedro II the first statesman to visit the country after devastated by the Franco-Prussian War. The poignant of the whole story is that the “grandson of Marcus Aurelius”, as Victor Hugo referred to him, resigned stoically in being the target of cruel injustice, believing the story would reward him. Today, we well know, the memory of Dom Pedro II is non-existent; our students learn only half a note about his life and his character. And there is one of the beautiful ironies of history, very well represented by the fire of the Museu Nacional: being the museum, the character; and the fire, the reward.

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História de Dom Pedro II, by Heitor Lyra

This is undoubtedly the best storybook I have ever read in my entire life. In this work, divided into three volumes that add up to just over 700 pages, Heitor Lyra traces, in a light, precise and passionate writing, the most glorious period in all Brazilian history. Who indicated it to me? The answer is for all those who bother me by asking: “How are you so smart and admire Olavo de Carvalho?”. This book, like many others, I only had access because of the teacher’s recommendation, which classified it as “wonderful”. If depended on the publishers, I would never have access to this work, only available in sebums and in very rare units. I remember that to gather all three volumes, I had to fish in Rio de Janeiro, Porto Alegre and São Paulo. Well, it was worth every penny. And I reflect: What do schools give young Brazilians to study the 19th century? — I do not remember what I studied myself… — Heitor Lyra had access to the best possible documentation on the period and especially on the greatest symbol of Imperial Brazil. The book, according to the author, “was written in Europe”, where he had access to the vast documentation of the emperor’s foreign correspondents and, moreover, had opened to himself the “priceless archive of the Brazilian imperial family”, arranged at the time at Castle D’Eu , in the care of Dom Pedro de Orléans e Bragança, grandson of Dom Pedro II. At the time, Heitor Lyra was the first and only historian that had access to this archive, which is now reduced to ashes after the fire at the Museu Nacional. I think, think and hesitate to put into words my frustration… What bothers me is not only not seeing new editions of this work and almost all the good history books I have had access to; is to contrast what I find in good books with the vague and stupid vision that I unconsciously nourished from the period; is to find out, suddenly, that I was unaware of almost all the great figures that my country has produced. So I reflect: Why do not we find Heitor Lyra, or Varnhagen, or José Maria Bello on Amazon? It seems to me that, blatantly, there was and there is an effort to tell an alternative history of Brazil.

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The Venom of Schopenhauer

In almost everything I do, Schopenhauer is admonished me: “Be indifferent! Deny your wish! Deny life!”. And practically Schopenhauer’s influence on my life can be summed up in the following: I am a monster of indifference to most things, among them those I would not like to be; already with the things that I would most wish to be indifferent, with these I am not, I cannot, and I feel, finally, absolutely defeated by my very nature.

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