thegoodfellas/blogset-br huggingface dataset:
que eu utilizei e que mais incomoda, e voce assumir o estilo do outro."7 E inevitavel recordar Pierre Menard, cuja tarefa de escrever o Quixote talvez seja menos aparentada ao gesto de Silviano Santiago do que uma outra pequena trangressao do personagem borgeano, a de reescrever em alexandrinos o poema "Le Cimetiere Marin," de Valery, originalmente em decassilabos. O proprio Silviano evocara, uma decada antes de escrever Em liberdade, esse detalhe da bibilografia de Menard, salientando que a transgressao ao modelo proposto pelo poema de Valery situa-se nessas duas silabas acrescentadas ao decassilabo, pequeno suplemento sonoro e diferencial que reorganiza o espaco visual e silencioso da estrofe e do poema de Valery, modificando tambem o ritmo de cada verso. A originalidade, pois, da obra visivel de Pierre Menard reside no pequeno suplemento de violencia que instala na pagina branca sua presenca e assinala a ruptura entre o modelo e sua copia." Ruptura, violencia, trangressao: sao nocoes que ja nao funcionam para uma leitura do romance Lucia, de Gustavo Bernardo, publicado em 1999, num cenario bastante modificado, em que ja nao mais reverbera o bordao da transicao democratica. Trata-se, aqui, da reescritura, em tom de pastiche (nunca de parodia), de Luciola, trazendo para o ano de 1955 as personagens criadas por Jose de Alencar em 1862. A ironia alinhava o romance de Gustavo Bernardo, mesmo quando mesclada a angustia, e atinge um de seus apices na figura de um certo professor Jose de Alencar, dado a surtos psico-esquizoides, que o levam a imaginar-se em 1855 - cem anos antes, portanto, da epoca em que e ambientado Lucia. Diz Paulo, o narrador: "Por razoes que nao compreendia bem, eu vinha sendo, nos ultimos anos, o unico orientando do mestre Alencar. Na verdade, vinha sendo praticamente o unico aluno nos seus cursos."9 Situando seu romance em plena vigencia do alto modernismo no Brasil, Gustavo Bernardo aproxima romantismo, atraves do resgate de seu autor mais representativo, e pos-modernidade, aplainando diferencas e discordancias, ou revisitando-as de maneira amigavel, atraves da ironia e da auto-ironia. Estendendo um pouco mais essa reflexao, poderia ser dito que o autor transita por tres tempos distintos de uma modernidade que vem se reescrevendo a si mesma: a contemporaneidade do proprio Gustavo Bernardo, o tempo em que situa o romance, o tempo evocado por esse romance. Lucia, a heroina de Alencar em Luciola, e, como se sabe, uma martir, cuja real natureza no entanto so se revela no fim do romance. Ate entao, e retratada como uma cortesa de personalidade ambivalente, "a mais bonita mulher do Rio de Janeiro e tambem a mais caprichosa e excentrica."10 O narrador Paulo, aqui um inexperiente interiorano recem-chegado a capital, mostra-se incapaz de ver Lucia sem o filtro das maledicencias sociais. Incapaz de ver em Lucia a Luciola, "lampiro noturno que brilha de uma luz tao viva no seio da treva e a beira dos charcos" [p. 11]. Em outras palavras, incapaz de ler a Lucia revelada nas entrelinhas da narrativa que comeca a ser tecida pelo casal, entre interminaveis brigas e reconciliacoes. A cortesa, engendrada pelo
meio em que vive, ve-se atada pelos preconceitos e so encontra a redencao final, naturalmente, atraves da morte. A sociedade carioca do Segundo Imperio aparece retratada em toda sua hipocrisia e decadencia no romance de Alencar, e as duvidas da propria Lucia com relacao a Paulo aparecem bem sintetizadas pelo narrador homonimo do romance de Gustavo Bernardo: "Ela, na verdade, nao conhecia nenhum super-heroi, nao podia saber se tinha pela frente um super-amor, um super-cinico ou um super-cretino" [p. 35]. A Lucia de Gustavo Bernardo na verdade sao duas, irmas gemeas. De tracos identicos e roupas identicas, uma e, no entanto, negra de olhos verdes, e a outra, loura de olhos negros. A ambiguidade da personagem romantica ve-se aqui radicalizada numa cisao real, que pode fazer pensar ainda no filme modernissimo de Bunuel, Esse obscuro objeto do desejo. O cinema, alias, e referencia forte em Lucia, romance que tambem se debruca com atencao sobre a tarefa de retratar a sociedade carioca, agora republicana. E marcante a referencia a filmes, programas de radio e automoveis, privilegiados, como se sabe, pelo imaginario modernista. Tambem o jogo subentendido nas paginas de Luciola explicita-se em Lucia, romance construido como uma partida de xadrez, apresentando as personagens como pecas e fazendo do proprio narrador um enxadrista de certo talento. As duas Lucias, porem, Dama Branca e Dama Preta, colocam-no constantemente em xeque. Pergunta-se Paulo: "Que loucura era aquela? O proprio Alencar poderia estar por tras de tudo aquilo, armando aquele jogo - era um jogo? E, se fosse um jogo, com quantas pecas eu, Paulo, ainda contava sobre o tabuleiro? As Damas (a Negra, a Branca) estavam do mesmo lado, ou em campos opostos?" [p. 110]. Couto, o vilao de Luciola, e inocentado em Lucia. A culpa esta nas maos do pai das duas mocas, que vem a ser, agora descobrimos atraves de uma longa confissao, ninguem menos do que o proprio Jose de Alencar. Naturalmente: o cafetao e o autor. Vida e livros se intercomunicam, agora nas palavras do Paulo de Gustavo Bernardo: "Todavia, o mundo e redondo. Os livros sao redondos. Nos mesmos somos feitos de materia curva, ou seja, de memoria e de invencao. Os livros, como este, reescrevem outros livros - primeiro como tragedia, depois como farsa, e adiante como tragedia novamente" [p. 178]. Ecos de Borges, mais uma vez. Aqui, no entanto, num outro nivel, que irmana autores e leitores, ficcao e realidade. Lucia e, antes de mais nada, um exercicio de leitura, sem se posicionar contra ou a favor do objeto dessa mesma leitura. Ja nao se trata de acertar as contas com o passado, ou de elabora-lo, no sentido psicanalitico. Ate mesmo porque o passado, felizmente, ja nao pesa. Seria possivel elencar ainda varias obras da ficcao brasileira das duas ultimas decadas em que o gesto da reescritura e adotado como estrategia de criacao. A colecao "Literatura ou morte," da Companhia das Letras, por exemplo, caracteriza-se pelo dialogo de ficcionistas contemporaneos com autores canonicos do passado, seja ele remoto ou recente, em narrativas de cunho policial. Entre os titulos, estao
tradicao no modernismo. In: Nas malhas da letra. Sao Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1989, p. 117.8- Idem. O entre-lugar do discurso latino-americano. In: Uma literatura nos tropicos. 2a ed. Rio de Janeiro: Rocco, 2000, p. 24.9- BERNARDO, Gustavo. Lucia. Rio de Janeiro: Relume-Dumara, 1999, p. 16.10- ALENCAR, Jose de. Luciola. 18a ed. Sao Paulo: Atica, 1994, P. 28.11- CARNEIRO, Flavio. Inusitado jantar antropofagico. In: Jornal do Brasil, Caderno Ideias, Rio de Janeiro, p. 5, 27 de janeiro de 2001. 12- LEVERING, Miriam & STYRK, Lucien. Zen: images, texts and teachings. New York: Artisan, 2000, p. 8.
que Raquel Vandelli tao bem destaca em sua dissertacao, na analise do Dicionario Kazar, do iugoslavo Milorad Pavitch.[9] GENETTE, Gerard. Palimpsestes. Paris: Seuil, 1982, p.35.[10] A parafrase e a retomada de um texto contado com outras palavras que nao as originais, mas sem a intencao de modifica-lo ou dar-lhe diferente abordagem. E retomada pura e simples, com o objetivo de comentario posterior ou de registro que por qualquer razao se faca necessario.[11] O plagio se caracteriza como a apropriacao de um texto ou parte dele, sem citacao da fonte ou reconhecimento da autoria.
Day had broken cold and gray, exceedingly cold and gray, when the man turned aside from the main Yukon trail and climbed the high earth-bank, where a dim and little traveled trail led eastward through the fat spruce timberland. It was a steep bank, and he paused for breath at the top, excusing the act to himself by looking at his watch. It was nine o'clock. There was no sun nor hint of sun, though there was not a cloud in the sky. It was a clear day, and yet there seemed an intangible pall over the face of things, a subtle gloom that made the day dark, and that was due to the absence of sun. This fact did not worry the man. He was used to the lack of sun. It had been days since he had seen the sun, and he knew that a few more-days must pass before that cheerful orb, due south, would just peep above the sky-line and dip immediately from view.The man flung a look back along the way he had come. The Yukon lay a mile wide and hidden under three feet of ice. On top of this ice were as many feet of snow. It was all pure white, rolling in gentle, undulations where the ice jams of the freeze-up had formed. North and south, as far as his eye could see, it was unbroken white, save for a dark hair-line that curved and twisted from around the spruce-covered island to the south, and that curved and twisted away into the north, where it disappeared behind another spruce-covered island. This dark hair-line was the trail--the main trail--that led south five hundred miles to the Chilcoot Pass, Dyea, and salt water; and that led north seventy miles to Dawson, and still on to the north a thousand miles to Nulato, and finally to St. Michael on Bering Sea, a thousand miles and half a thousand more.But all this--the mysterious, far-reaching hair-line trail, the absence of sun from the sky, the tremendous cold, and the strangeness and weirdness of it all--made no impression on the man. It was not because he was long used to it. He was a newcomer! in the land, a chechaquo, and this was his first winter. The trouble with him was that he was without imagination. He was quick and alert in the things of life, but only in the things, and not in the significances. Fifty degrees below zero meant eighty-odd degrees of frost. Such fact impressed him as being cold and uncomfortable, and that was all. It did not lead him to meditate upon his frailty as a creature of temperature, and upon man's frailty in general, able only to live within certain narrow limits of heat and cold; and from there on it did not lead him to the conjectural field of immortality and man's place in the universe. Fifty degrees below zero stood forte bite of frost that hurt and that must be guarded against by the use of mittens, ear-flaps, warm moccasins, and thick socks.
Fifty degrees below zero was to him just precisely fifty degrees below zero. That there should be anything more to it than that was a thought that never entered his head.As he turned to go on, he spat speculatively. There was a sharp, explosive crackle that startled him. He spat again. And again, in the air, before it could fall to the snow, the spittle crackled. He knew that at fifty below spittle crackled on the snow, but this spittle had crackled in the air. Undoubtedly it was colder than fifty below--how much colder he did not know. But the temperature did not matter. He was bound for the old claim on the left fork of Henderson Creek, where the boys were already. They had come over across the divide from the Indian Creek country, while he had come the roundabout way to take; a look at the possibilities of getting out logs in the spring from the islands in the Yukon. He would be in to camp by six o'clock; a bit after dark, it was true, but the boys would be there, a fire would be going, and a hot supper would be ready. As for lunch, he pressed his hand against the protruding bundle under his jacket. It was also under his shirt, wrapped up in a handkerchief and lying against the naked skin. It was the only way to keep the biscuits from freezing. He smiled agreeably to himself as he thought of those biscuits, each cut open and sopped in bacon grease, and each enclosing a generous slice of fried bacon.He plunged in among the big spruce trees. The trail was faint. A foot of snow had fallen since the last sled had passed over, and he was glad he was without a sled, traveling light. In fact, he carried nothing but the lunch wrapped in the handkerchief. He was surprised, however, at the cold. It certainly was cold, he concluded as he rubbed his numb nose and cheek-bones with his mittened hand. He was a warm-whiskered man, but the hair on his face did not protect the high cheek-bones and the eager nose that thrust itself aggressively into the frosty air.At the man's heels trotted a dog, a big native husky, the proper wolfdog, gray-coated and without any visible or temperamental difference from its brother, the wild wolf. The animal was depressed by the tremendous cold. It knew that it was no time for traveling. Its instinct told it a truer tale than was told to the man by the man's judgment. In reality, it was not merely colder than fifty below zero; it was colder than sixty below, than seventy below. It was seventy-five below zero. Since the freezing point is thirty-two above zero, it meant that one hundred and seven degrees of frost obtained. The dog did not know anything about thermometers. Possibly in its brain there was no sharp consciousness of a condition of very cold such as was in the man's brain. But the brute had its instinct. It experienced a vague
but menacing apprehension that subdued it and made it slink along at the man's heels, and that made it question eagerly every unwonted movement of the man as if expecting him to go into camp or to seek shelter somewhere and build a fire. The dog had learned fire, and it wanted fire, or else to burrow under the snow and cuddle its warmth away from the air.The frozen moisture of its breathing had settled on its fur in a fine powder of frost, and especially were its jowls, muzzle, and eyelashes whitened by its crystalled breath. The man's red beard and mustache were likewise frosted, but more solidly, the deposit taking the form of ice and increasing with every warm, moist breath he exhaled. Also, the man was chewing tobacco, and the muzzle of ice held his lips so rigidly that he was unable to clear his chin when he expelled the juice. The result was that a crystal beard of the color and solidity of amber was increasing its length on his chin. If he fell down it would shatter itself, like glass, into brittle fragments. But he did not mind the appendage. It was the penalty all tobacco-chewers paid in that country, and he had been out before in two cold snaps. They had not been so cold as this, he knew, but by the spirit thermometer at Sixty Mile he knew they had been registered at fifty below and at fifty-five.He held on through the level stretch of woods for several miles, crossed a wide flat of rigger-heads, and dropped down a bank to the frozen bed of a small stream. This was Henderson Creek, and he knew he was ten miles from the forks. He looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock. He was making four miles an hour, and he calculated that he would arrive at the forks at half-past twelve. He decided to celebrate that event by eating his lunch there.The dog dropped in again at his heels, with a tail drooping discouragement, as the man swung along the creek-bed. The furrow of the old sled-trail was plainly visible, but a dozen inches of snow covered the marks of the last runners. In a month no man had come up or down that silent creek. The man held steadily on. He was not much given to thinking, and just then particularly he had nothing to think about save that he would eat lunch at-the forks and that at six o'clock he would be in camp with the boys. There was nobody to talk to; and, had there been, speech would have been impossible because of the ice-muzzle on his mouth. So he continued monotonously to chew tobacco and to increase the length of his amber beard.Once in a while the thought reiterated itself that it was very cold and that he had never experienced such cold. As he walked along he rubbed his cheek-bones and nose with the back of his mittened hand. He did this automatically, now and again changing hands. But rub
as he would, the instant he stopped his cheek-bones went numb, and the following instant the end of his nose went numb. He was sure to frost his cheeks; he knew that, and experienced a pang of regret that he had not devised a nose-strap of the sort Bud wore in cold snaps. Such a strap passed across the cheeks, as well, and saved them. But it didn't matter much, after all. What were frosted cheeks? A bit painful, that was all; they were never serious.Empty as the man's mind was of thoughts, he was keenly observant, and he noticed the changes in the creek, the curves and bends and timber jams, and always he sharply noted where he placed his feet. Once coming around a bend, he shied abruptly, like a startled horse, curved away from the place where he had been walking, and retreated several paces back along the trail. The creek he knew was frozen clear to the bottom,--no creek could contain water in that arctic winter,--but he knew also that there were springs that bubbled out from the hillsides and ran along under the snow and on top the ice of the creek. He knew that the coldest snaps never froze these springs, and he knew likewise their danger. They were traps. They hid pools of water under the snow that might be three inches deep, or three feet. Sometimes a skin of ice. half an inch thick covered them, and in turn was covered by the snow Sometimes there were alternate layers of water and ice-skin, so that when one broke through he kept on breaking through for a while, sometimes wetting himself to the waist.That was why he had shied in such panic. He had felt the give under his feet and heard the crackle of a snow-hidden ice-skin. And to get his feet wet in such a temperature meant trouble and danger. At the very least it meant delay, for he would be forced to stop and build a fire, and under its protection to bare his feet while he dried his socks and moccasins. He stood and studied the creek-bed and its banks, and decided that the flow of water came from the right. He reflected a while, rubbing his nose and cheeks, then skirted to the left, stepping gingerly and testing the footing for each step. Once clear of the danger, he took a fresh chew of tobacco and swung along at his four-mile gait.In the course of the next two hours he came upon several similar traps. Usually the snow above the hidden pools had a sunken, candied appearance that advertised the danger. Once again, however, he had a close call; and once, suspecting danger, he compelled the dog to go on in front. The dog did not want to go. It hung back until the man shoved it forward, and then it went quickly across the white, unbroken surface. Suddenly it broke through, floundered to one side, and got away to firmer footing. It had wet its forefeet and legs, and
almost immediately the water that clung to it turned to ice. It made quick efforts to lick the ice off its legs, then dropped down in the snow and began to bite out the ice that had formed between the toes. This was a matter of instinct. To permit the ice to remain would mean sore feet. It did not know this. It merely obeyed the mysterious prompting that arose from the deep crypts of its being. But the man knew, having achieved a judgment on the subject, and he removed the mitten from his right hand and helped tear out the ice-particles. He did not expose his fingers more than a minute, and was astonished at the swift numbness that smote them. It certainly was cold. He pulled on the mitten hastily, and beat the hand savagely across his chest.At twelve o'clock the day was at its brightest. Yet the sun was too far south in its winter journey to clear the horizon. The bulge of the earth intervened between it and Henderson Creek, where the man walked under a clear sky at noon and cast no shadow. At half-past twelve, to the minute, he arrived at the forks of the creek. He was pleased at the speed he had made. If he kept it up, he would certainly be with the boys by six. He unbuttoned his jacket and shirt and drew forth his lunch. The action consumed no more than a quarter of a minute, yet in that brief moment the numbness laid hold of the exposed fingers. He did not put the mitten on, but instead struck the fingers a dozen sharp smashes against his leg. Then he sat down on a snow-covered log to eat. The sting that followed upon the striking of his fingers against his leg ceased so quickly that he was startled. He had had no chance to take a bite of biscuit. He struck the fingers repeatedly and returned them to the mitten, baring the other hand for the purpose of eating, He tried to take a mouthful, but the ice-muzzle prevented. He had forgotten to build a fire and thaw out. He chuckled at his foolishness, and as he chuckled he noted the numbness creeping into the exposed fingers. Also, he noted that the stinging which had first come to his toes when he sat down was already passing away. He wandered whether the toes were warm or numb. He moved them inside the moccasins and decided that they were numb.He pulled the mitten on hurriedly and stood up. He was a bit frightened. He stamped up and down until the stinging returned into the feet. It certainly was cold, was his thought. That man from Sulphur Creek had spoken the truth when telling how cold it sometimes got in the country. And he had laughed at him at the time! That showed one must not be too sure of things. There was no mistake about it, it was cold. He strode up and down, stamping his feet and threshing his arms,
until reassured by the returning warmth. Then he got out matches and proceeded to make a fire. From the undergrowth, where high water of the previous spring had lodged a supply of seasoned twigs, he got his firewood. Working carefully from a small beginning, he soon had a roaring fire, over which he thawed the ice from his face and in the protection of which he ate his biscuits. For the moment the cold of space was outwitted. The dog took satisfaction in the fire, stretching out close enough for warmth and far enough away to escape being singed.When the man had finished, he filled his pipe and took his comfortable time over a smoke. Then he pulled on his mittens, settled the ear-flaps of his cap firmly about his ears, and took the creek trail up the left fork. The dog was disappointed and yearned back toward the fire. This man did not know cold. Possibly all the generations of his ancestry had been ignorant of cold, of real cold, of cold one hundred and seven degrees below freezing point. But the dog knew; all its ancestry knew, and it had inherited the knowledge. And it knew that it was not good to walk abroad in such fearful cold. It was the time to lie snug in a hole in the snow and wait for a curtain of cloud to be drawn across the face of outer space whence this cold came. On the other hand, there was no keen intimacy between the dog and the man. The one was the toil-slave of the other, and the only caresses it had ever received were the caresses of the whiplash and of harsh and menacing throat-sounds that threatened the whiplash. So, the dog made no effort to communicate its apprehension to the man. It was not concerned in the welfare of the man, it was for its own sake that it yearned back toward the fire. But the man whistled, and spoke to it with the sound of whiplashes and the dog swung in at the man's heel and followed after.The man took a chew of tobacco and proceeded to start a new amber beard. Also, his moist breath quickly powdered with white his mustache, eyebrows, and lashes. There did not seem to be so many springs on the left fork of the Henderson, and for half an hour the man saw no signs of any. And then it happened. At a place where there were no signs, where the soft, unbroken snow seemed to advertise solidity beneath, the man broke through. It was not deep. He wet himself halfway to the knees before he floundered out to the firm crust.He was angry, and cursed his luck aloud. He had hoped to get into camp with the boys at six o'clock, and this would delay him an hour, for he would have to build a fire and dry out his foot-gear. This was imperative at that low temperature--he knew that much; and he turned aside to the bank, which he climbed. On