Segunda-feira, 14 de Junho de 2010
Rui Passos Rocha

Where I lived at Pencey, I lived in the Ossenburger Memorial Wing of the new dorms. It was only for juniors and seniors. I was a junior. My roommate was a senior. It was named after this guy Ossenburger that went to Pencey. He made a pot of dough in the undertaking business after he got out of Pencey. What he did, he started these undertaking parlors all over the country that you could get members of your family buried for about five bucks apiece. You should see old Ossenburger. He probably just shoves them in a sack and dumps them in the river. Anyway, he gave Pencey a pile of dough, and they named our wing alter him. The first football game of the year, he came up to school in this big goddam Cadillac, and we all had to stand up in the grandstand and give him a locomotive—that's a cheer. Then, the next morning, in chapel, he made a speech that lasted about ten hours. He started off with about fifty corny jokes, just to show us what a regular guy he was. Very big deal. Then he started telling us how he was never ashamed, when he was in some kind of trouble or something, to get right down his knees and pray to God. He told us we should always pray to God—talk to Him and all—wherever we were. He told us we ought to think of Jesus as our buddy and all. He said he talked to Jesus all the time. Even when he was driving his car. That killed me. I can just see the big phony bastard shifting into first gear and asking Jesus to send him a few more stiffs. The only good part of his speech was right in the middle of it. He was telling us all about what a swell guy he was, what a hotshot and all, then all of a sudden this guy sitting in the row in front of me, Edgar Marsalla, laid this terrific fart. It was a very crude thing to do, in chapel and all, but it was also quite amusing. Old Marsalla. He damn near blew the roof off. Hardly anybody laughed out loud, and old Ossenburger made out like he didn't even hear it, but old Thurmer, the headmaster, was sitting right next to him on the rostrum and all, and you could tell he heard it. Boy, was he sore. He didn't say anything then, but the next night he made us have compulsory study hall in the academic building and he came up and made a speech. He said that the boy that had created the disturbance in chapel wasn't fit to go to Pencey. We tried to get old Marsalla to rip off another one, right while old Thurmer was making his speech, but he wasn't in the right mood. Anyway, that's where I lived at Pencey. Old Ossenburger Memorial Wing, in the new dorms.

 

J. D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye


7 comentários:
De Herr Flick a 15 de Junho de 2010 às 18:14
Falemos então!

http://www.sparkleinmylife.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/Brooklyn1.jpg

(...)
He stood still as soon as he had closed the main door behind him, and it was the way he took in the hall, surveying the scene with shyness and a sort of mild delight, that made Eilis sure, for one moment, that her father had come into her presence. She felt as though she should move towards him as she saw him hesitantly opening his overcoat and loosening his scarf. It was how he stood, taking full slow possession of the room, searching almost shyly for the place where he might be most comfortable and at ease, or looking around carefully to see if he knew anybody. As she realized that it could not be him, that she was dreaming, he took off his cap and she saw that the man did not look like her father at all. She glanced around her, embarrassed, hoping that no one had noticed her. It was something, she thought, that she could tell no one, that she had imagined for an instant that she had seen her father, who was, she remembered quickly, dead for four years. "

Depois de já há muito ter ficado em "delírio" com the Portrait of a Lady do Henry James e estarrecida com o poema do Eliot... (sigh).
Este é tão parecido na diferença.
Mera sugestão, claro está.


De RPR a 15 de Junho de 2010 às 18:57
Leva a mal se lhe disser que não conheço o Colm Toibin e que essa citação não me convenceu? Mas veja, fez-me pesquisar umas coisas: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/may/09/colm-toibin-brooklyn. Diga lá, perco muito não o lendo?



De Herr Flick a 15 de Junho de 2010 às 22:27
Provavelmente vou dar-lhe a resposta mais básica possível.
A citação não era para o convencer a si. Eu é que, entre outras que poderia ter transcrito, fui permeável àquela.
E se perde ou não em não ler, não sei, talvez perca. Perde a possibilidade de ler alguém que escreve escorreitamente sem artifícios linguísticos rebuscados e recursos pirotécnicos. Perde uma história simples e até banal narrada pelos olhos e emoções da protagonista; verosímil, imprevisível e last but not least : sem alusões a guerras e política (excelente para mim).
Aqui no Porto na Flup exemplificou mais ou menos assim (entre muito mais):

“For instance, you could write a sentence like: 'He hated his mother more in that moment than he had ever hated her before.’ But, alternatively, you could say: 'When his mother turned away from him, he looked out and he noticed that the branches of the tree were swaying. He held his eyes on it for a moment, and when he looked back she was staring at him.’ See? It doesn’t really matter who hates who anymore, but something has occurred. There’s something there that makes the reader shiver. All writing is a form of manipulation, of course, but you realise that a plain sentence can actually do so much.”


De RPR a 15 de Junho de 2010 às 23:01
Bem, deixou-me um nome (Colm Toibin) na cabeça; um dia talvez leia ou me seja dito algo que me faça lembrar isto e pensar que tem razão.


De RPR a 16 de Junho de 2010 às 12:06
http://ipsilon.publico.pt/livros/texto.aspx?id=258658


De Herr Flick a 16 de Junho de 2010 às 13:50
No Expresso também.
Este Brooklin é o 2º que leio dele. O 1º foi "the master" por outras razões. Fiquei definitivamente leitora.


De A. F. F a 19 de Junho de 2010 às 23:00
Livro fabuloso. É com muito agrado que vejo alguém a postar sobre esse preciosidade de tom coloquial.


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Bruno Vieira Amaral

Priscila Rêgo

Rui Passos Rocha

Tiago Moreira Ramalho

Vasco M. Barreto

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