Arquivo de literature | Page 102 of 111

The Red and the Black, by Stendhal

The Red and the Black, by Stendhal… Novel certainly among the best of all time. Magnificent plot, which approaches the flat refusal of Julien Sorel, son of a humble carpenter, to follow a mediocre peasant life and to be the mirror of his father. The story runs in France in the vicinity of the Revolution of 1830. Julien, raised by an uneducated father, is a young man who from an early age has prominence in reading the sacred texts: he knows Latin and recites excerpts from the Bible by heart. But the father, stern, feels ashamed of his youngest son, unfit for manual labor, envying him, moreover, for the intellectual skills he does not possess. One day this rude peasant sells his son to be the preceptor of some children, not failing to remind him of the debt he left open for the food he received at home, which one day will have to pay. The father still manifests to the son the contempt for the function he will perform. Julien, however, sees in the obligation an opportunity: daily contact with the Bible, preaching to a family of higher social class, can open the way for an ecclesiastical career, which has numerous advantages. Here we have a very revealing conflict of Julien Sorel’s personality: desirous of the military career, an intimate admirer of Napoleon, he has to opt for the religious, since it is the way that the condition allows him. Abandons the dream of the red uniform, going on to pursue that of the black cassock. Julien impresses, pleases, and quickly enters a seminary. The work, therefore, takes shape: the young man, despite his knowledge of Christian doctrine, does not enter the seminary by faith, but by the desire for anything that takes him away from the peasant reality, anything that brings him social ascension. We notice attitudes, words of our protagonist and see, in short, a good boy, pious and austere, intelligent and hardworking. But Julien wears a mask: he is willing to do anything to satisfy his desire. Stendhal, in this magnificent and emblematic example of what has been called a “psychological novel,” sinks into the analysis of the thoughts and motivations of the protagonist, who falls into traps all the time, put himself hostage to his own passions, unable to dominate his instinct. Julien finds himself a hypocrite, dependent on simulation, on falsehood to progress in his goals. The narrative runs and the young man, little by little, once after another, suffocates his human dimension, his moral dimension. The affections he nurtures, sincere, always end in the background when opposed to opportunities of ascension. Thus Julien advances, acquires respect, voice among upper classes of society, inaccessible to the son of a peasant. And he quickly ceases, in fact, to be only the son of a peasant. Stendhal gives us a character bathed in resilience, talent, envy, hypocrisy, intelligence, passions, ambition, remorse, and we cannot help but feel close to the young man, to machinate and reflect according to his reflections. The problem appears, however, when we realize the essence of Julien Sorel’s personality — and perhaps ours: — slave to desire, extremely proud, Julien seems moved by an acute resentment against the world, seems to wish to give back. And he ends up falling because desire could not lead to another end. Burning himself in all the relationships he built, having his ambition uncovered, classified as vile and bad character, Julien finds himself condemned to the penalty of blood. In a savage and evil rapture, he fails; incarcerated, immersed in melancholy, he feels his love resurface. But it is only the spasm of flesh that is already born condemned. Julien Sorel ends up decapitated. His name, however, will last as long as the human species exists.

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Faust, by Goethe

I had the pleasure of reading Faust, by Goethe, in the translation of one of the masters of Portuguese language: António Feliciano de Castilho. First, on translation: historically, my almost unique criterion for choosing translations has been to seek them directly from the original, judging that, thus, the new work garners greater fidelity to the basis-work. Today I see that, undoubtedly, I have always neglected the determining factor of a translation: the quality of the translator as a poet. Petty habit of looking for the cheapest books… Translations are distinct works, almost separate from the original ones, so the translator, if he risks the difficult work of putting in his language the verses of great foreign poets, must also be a great poet. And Castilho, repeating, is one of the masters of the Portuguese language. It was surprising to me to know that in his Portuguese version of Faust, Castilho did not derive from the original German, but mediating three Portuguese and four French versions. The result was a beautiful poem. In fact, if we see the expressive resources, the melody of languages as irreplicable, — and they are, — derive or not from the original loses preponderance over the quality of the translator poet. Now on Faust: the work, composed over sixty years by Goethe, dates from almost two centuries ago. How not to empathize, or: how not to take on Dr. Faust’s problem like ours? At first, the obsessive search for knowledge: to some extent, it is impossible for us not to judge it as fruitless and vain. Then the perhaps natural consequence: the loss of pleasure, satisfaction, charm for the earthly life. After: the absence of fear, insubmission, the revolt of the spirit and, of course, helplessness. What to expect from this life? Does it make sense to act? Is the earthly life somehow virtuous? Is there, at last, redemption for this sick species who has become known as a modern man? Goethe, in Faust, makes music while risking admirable answers.

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Short Clauses and Pace

I flip through some writing manuals, read articles by scholars of letters, and perceive a certain obsession with short clauses as style formers. I do not deny: short clauses, in fact, add dynamism to any text. But style is a mixture between expressiveness, concision and rhythm, and if we can say that short clauses dynamize, the long ones, in turn, deepen. Let’s see: Nelson Rodrigues. This master, especially in his fictional narratives, made use of the short clauses with extreme expertise. Meanwhile, we have to think: how are Rodriguian novels? Soon we will see that Nelson purposely imprinted dynamism to the narratives, since the plots are developed in accelerated progression, generating apprehension and expectation. It is a technique, instigates the reader. But Nelson knew, like few, to print rhythm to his texts, and the clauses in which the master wanders, extends, diluting the germinated tension in previous clauses are not rare. Now let’s look at the other side: I think of Dostoevsky, Thomas Mann, Hermann Broch. What would these authors be without their long clauses? Or rather: how to print depth in the narrative without using robust paragraphs and long constructions? Is it possible? Evident… but it is undeniable that this is an accurate technique. It is all a question of asking ourselves: what do we want to write? An objective narration? Describe the sequence of an action? Or sink a character in a reflection? Evoke reverie in the reader? They are different goals. And if, as I have read more than once, long clauses may suggest affectation, provoke boredom, stir up futile details, no doubt a narrative developed exclusively in short clauses will sound like shallow, broken and banal.

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Very Simple Precept

I see my production swelling, the work of these days taking shape and, systematically, the progress appearing. Gone are 25,000 words that came out light, — please do not remind me of the review… — from seven hundred to a thousand per working session, with good days — and them has been the majority — adding two daily sessions, no major problems with the plot outlined, the characters taking dynamism, all going very well… I see that all this is due to a very simple precept: to sit and write. If I lose the morning, patience, but the night will never fail. And if I find myself unwell, again patience, but I have to write, because writing is an inflexible priority for me. So I can make progress, I find myself in just over twenty days with almost half a volume written — I know, I know, not yet revised… — and everything seems to be moving better and better. I do not know at what level the experience will carry my productivity in a few years, but for now I feel with manifest satisfaction.

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