The Border Trilogy

Eu finalmente acabei a Border Trilogy, de Cormac McCarthy. 1000 e poucas páginas. Oficialmente o Livro Mais Longo que eu já li—posição até então ocupada por um Harry Potter. Apesar que são três livros em um, então talvez não qualifique. Eu me sinto gigante, invencível. Porque foi um esforço consciente. Manter a atenção em um objeto estático por mais de alguns minutos pode ser uma tarefa difícil. Sei que isso não faz de mim uma pessoa melhor nem nada, é só um sentimentozinho de realização.

Entre longas descrições de conversas em volta de fogueiras, refeições com tortilla, feijão e café, detalhes de paisagens na fronteira do México com os Estados Unidos, apareciam trechos como esse:

The blind man sat for some time. He could have been sleeping. He could have been waiting for word to be brought to him. Finally he said that in his first years of darkness his dreams had been vivid beyond all expectation and that he had come to thirst for them but that dreams and memories alike had faded one by one until they were no more. Of all that once had been no trace remained. The look of the world. The faces of loved ones. Finally even his own person was lost to him. Whatever he had been he was no more. He said that like every man that comes to the end of something there was nothing to be done but to begin again. No puedo recordar el mundo de luz, he said. Hace muchos años. Ese mundo es un mundo frágil. Ultimamente lo que vine a ver era más durable. Más verdadero.

E eu tenho o mundo inteiro pela frente.

John le Carré sobre Philip Seymour Hoffman

Ontem, depois de mais de um ano, eu vim aqui e vi que tenho mais de 200 posts salvos como rascunho—a maioria de links adicionados automaticamente via IFTTT ou Instapaper. Eu vou repassar essa lista e publicar o que eu achar que alguém pode gostar.

Pra começar, esse texto do John le Carré no New York Times sobre o meu ator favorito, Philip Seymour Hoffman.

Philip took vivid stock of everything, all the time. It was painful and exhausting work, and probably in the end his undoing. The world was too bright for him to handle. He had to screw up his eyes or be dazzled to death. Like Chatterton, he went seven times round the moon to your one, and every time he set off, you were never sure he’d come back, which is what I believe somebody said about the German poet Hölderlin: Whenever he left the room, you were afraid you’d seen the last of him. And if that sounds like wisdom after the event, it isn’t. Philip was burning himself out before your eyes. Nobody could live at his pace and stay the course, and in bursts of startling intimacy he needed you to know it.

Staring at the Flame, John le Carré on Philip Seymour Hoffman

A última palavra do Philip como protagonista de um filme foi FUCK—em A Most Wanted Man, baseado no livro do le Carré.