Livro III - Saga A Torre Negra
Autor: Maiquel Knechtel | Publicado: 2014-07-13T19:26:00-07:00


Hoje terminei de ler mais um livro da saga de A Torre Negra
do famoso escritor S. King.O livro é o terceiro da série e o nome é as terras
devastadas.



Gostei da história, o livro 3 &nbsp;é divida em duas fases, uma seria: 



&nbsp;Jake – Medo num
punhado de pó 

Neste pedaço do livro conta como Jake volta do seu mundo
para o mundo médio.



E a outra parte: 

&nbsp;Lud – um monte de
imagens quebradas.

Aqui Roland e seus companheiros seguem pelo mundo médio e
acabam entrando em uma cidade que possui maquinas com alta tecnologia e dois
grupos de pessoas os Grays e os Pubs



Eu considero o final do livro 1 melhor que o final do livro
3 mas posso dizer que o final desse livro é bom, &nbsp;já o inicio e o desenvolvimento dos 3
primeiros livros da série na minha opinião meio que se equivalem.

S. King deixa alguns enigmas não respondidos nesse terceiro
livro, mas revela o porquê de Roland querer chegar a torre Negra e de certa
forma esse motivo me despertou &nbsp;curiosidade
e &nbsp;a minha próxima leitura será o livro 4
J. Apesar de que eu
estou com um livro de contos do Edgar Allan Poe que também muito me agrada.



Enfim recomendo a leitura desta obra que junta Horror e
ficção cientifica + romance que na verdade, o que tem de romance nesta saga
seria a parte mais fraca da obra. Já a parte que envolve ficção cientifica é
perfeita. A história se baseia naquela famosa teoria de múltiplos universos lá
da física e sim, aquela mesma teoria que nós estamos acostumados a ver nas
história em quadrinhos do homem aranha outra grande jogada interessante é que
existem maquinas capazes de ter sentimentos outro assunto de ficção cientifica que
muito me agrada



Aqui eu deixo o poema que inspirou esta saga:









"Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came"





My first thought was, he lied in every word,

&nbsp; &nbsp; That hoary cripple, with malicious eye

&nbsp; &nbsp; Askance to watch the working of his lie

On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford

Suppression of the glee that pursed and scored

&nbsp; &nbsp; Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.



What else should he be set for, with his staff?

&nbsp; &nbsp; What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare

&nbsp; &nbsp; All travellers who might find him posted there,

And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh

Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph

&nbsp; &nbsp; For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,



If at his counsel I should turn aside

&nbsp; &nbsp; Into that ominous tract which, all agree,

&nbsp; &nbsp; Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly

I did turn as he pointed: neither pride

Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,

&nbsp; &nbsp; So much as gladness that some end might be.



For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,

&nbsp; &nbsp; What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope

&nbsp; &nbsp; Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope

With that obstreperous joy success would bring,

I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring

&nbsp; &nbsp;My heart made, finding failure in its scope.



As when a sick man very near to death

&nbsp; &nbsp; Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end

&nbsp; &nbsp; The tears and takes the farewell of each friend,

And hears one bid the other go, draw breath

Freelier outside ("since all is o'er," he saith,

&nbsp; &nbsp; "And the blow fallen no grieving can amend;")



While some discuss if near the other graves

&nbsp; &nbsp; Be room enough for this, and when a day

&nbsp; &nbsp; Suits best for carrying the corpse away,

With care about the banners, scarves and staves:

And still the man hears all, and only craves

&nbsp; &nbsp; He may not shame such tender love and stay.



Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,

&nbsp; &nbsp; Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ

&nbsp; &nbsp; So many times among "The Band" - to wit,

The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed

Their steps - that just to fail as they, seemed best,

&nbsp; &nbsp; And all the doubt was now--should I be fit?



So, quiet as despair, I turned from him,

&nbsp; &nbsp; That hateful cripple, out of his highway

&nbsp; &nbsp; Into the path he pointed. All the day

Had been a dreary one at best, and dim

Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim

&nbsp; &nbsp; Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.



For mark! no sooner was I fairly found

&nbsp; &nbsp; Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two,

&nbsp; &nbsp; Than, pausing to throw backward a last view

O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round:

Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.

&nbsp; &nbsp; I might go on; nought else remained to do.



So, on I went. I think I never saw

&nbsp; &nbsp; Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:

&nbsp; &nbsp; For flowers - as well expect a cedar grove!

But cockle, spurge, according to their law

Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,

&nbsp; &nbsp; You'd think; a burr had been a treasure trove.



No! penury, inertness and grimace,

&nbsp; &nbsp; In some strange sort, were the land's portion. "See

&nbsp; &nbsp;Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly,

"It nothing skills: I cannot help my case:

'Tis the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place,

&nbsp; &nbsp; Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free."



If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk

&nbsp; &nbsp; Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents

&nbsp; &nbsp; Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents

In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk

All hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk

&nbsp; &nbsp; Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.



As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair

&nbsp; &nbsp; In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud

&nbsp; &nbsp; Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.

One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,

Stood stupefied, however he came there:

&nbsp; &nbsp; Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!



Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,

&nbsp; &nbsp; With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,

&nbsp; &nbsp; And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;

Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;

I never saw a brute I hated so;

&nbsp; &nbsp; He must be wicked to deserve such pain.



I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.

&nbsp; &nbsp; As a man calls for wine before he fights,

&nbsp; &nbsp; I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,

Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.

Think first, fight afterwards - the soldier's art:

&nbsp; &nbsp; One taste of the old time sets all to rights.



Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face

&nbsp; &nbsp; Beneath its garniture of curly gold,

&nbsp; &nbsp; Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold

An arm in mine to fix me to the place

That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!

&nbsp; &nbsp; Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.



Giles then, the soul of honour - there he stands

&nbsp; &nbsp; Frank as ten years ago when knighted first.

&nbsp; &nbsp; What honest men should dare (he said) he durst.

Good - but the scene shifts - faugh! what hangman hands

Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands

&nbsp; &nbsp;Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!



Better this present than a past like that;

&nbsp; &nbsp; Back therefore to my darkening path again!

&nbsp; &nbsp; No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.

Will the night send a howlet or a bat?

I asked: when something on the dismal flat

&nbsp; &nbsp; Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.



A sudden little river crossed my path

&nbsp; &nbsp; As unexpected as a serpent comes.

&nbsp; &nbsp; No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms;

This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath

For the fiend's glowing hoof - to see the wrath

&nbsp; &nbsp; Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.



So petty yet so spiteful! All along

&nbsp; &nbsp; Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;

&nbsp; &nbsp; Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit

Of mute despair, a suicidal throng:

The river which had done them all the wrong,

&nbsp; &nbsp; Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.



Which, while I forded, - good saints, how I feared

&nbsp; &nbsp; To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek,

&nbsp; &nbsp; Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek

For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard!

--It may have been a water-rat I speared,

&nbsp; &nbsp; But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.



Glad was I when I reached the other bank.

&nbsp; &nbsp; Now for a better country. Vain presage!

&nbsp; &nbsp; Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage,

Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank

Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank,

&nbsp; &nbsp; Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage--



The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque.

&nbsp; &nbsp; What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?

&nbsp; &nbsp; No foot-print leading to that horrid mews,

None out of it. Mad brewage set to work

Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk

&nbsp; &nbsp; Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.



And more than that - a furlong on - why, there!

&nbsp; &nbsp; What bad use was that engine for, that wheel,

&nbsp; &nbsp; Or brake, not wheel - that harrow fit to reel

Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air

Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware,

&nbsp; &nbsp; Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.



Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood,

&nbsp; &nbsp; Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth

&nbsp; &nbsp; Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth,

Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood

Changes and off he goes!) within a rood--

&nbsp; &nbsp; Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.



Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim,

&nbsp; &nbsp;Now patches where some leanness of the soil's

&nbsp; &nbsp; Broke into moss or substances like boils;

Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him

Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim

&nbsp; &nbsp; Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.



And just as far as ever from the end!

&nbsp; &nbsp; Nought in the distance but the evening, nought

&nbsp; &nbsp; To point my footstep further! At the thought,

A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend,

Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned

&nbsp; &nbsp; That brushed my cap--perchance the guide I sought.



For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,

&nbsp; &nbsp; 'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place

&nbsp; &nbsp; All round to mountains - with such name to grace

Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.

How thus they had surprised me, - solve it, you!

&nbsp; &nbsp; How to get from them was no clearer case.



Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick

&nbsp; &nbsp; Of mischief happened to me, God knows when--

&nbsp; &nbsp; In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then,

Progress this way. When, in the very nick

Of giving up, one time more, came a click

&nbsp; &nbsp; As when a trap shuts - you're inside the den!



Burningly it came on me all at once,

&nbsp; &nbsp; This was the place! those two hills on the right,

&nbsp; &nbsp; Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight;

While to the left, a tall scalped mountain . . . Dunce,

Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,

&nbsp; &nbsp; After a life spent training for the sight!



What in the midst lay but the Tower itself?

&nbsp; &nbsp; The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart

&nbsp; &nbsp; Built of brown stone, without a counterpart

In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf

Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf

&nbsp; &nbsp; He strikes on, only when the timbers start.



Not see? because of night perhaps? - why, day

&nbsp; &nbsp; Came back again for that! before it left,

&nbsp; &nbsp; The dying sunset kindled through a cleft:

The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay

Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,--

&nbsp; &nbsp; "Now stab and end the creature - to the heft!"



Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled

&nbsp; &nbsp; Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears

&nbsp; &nbsp; Of all the lost adventurers my peers,--

How such a one was strong, and such was bold,

And such was fortunate, yet each of old

&nbsp; &nbsp; Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.



There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met

&nbsp; &nbsp; To view the last of me, a living frame

&nbsp; &nbsp; For one more picture! in a sheet of flame

I saw them and I knew them all. And yet

Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,

&nbsp; &nbsp; And blew. "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came."&nbsp;