terça-feira, 21 de agosto de 2012

Speaking about two poems by John Milton by Francisco Vaz Brasil


Speaking about two poems by John Milton
                                by Francisco Vaz Brasil
 On His Blindness
and
On His Having Arrived at the Age of Twenty-three

To introduce this essay I will draw a short biography about the author. John Milton was born in 1608 to a Puritan family (December 09, 1608 – November 08, 1674) . Was a representant of English classicism and author of famous book Paradise Lostdo one of most important epic poems of universal literature He was politics, playwright and schoolar of religion. Supported Oliver Cromwell during the Republican English. But was arrested and was blind due to glaucoma. In prison, said his masterpiece, "Paradise Lost," which tells the story of the fall of Lucifer, and was published in 1667. Four years later, the book launches Paradise regained, a sequence of the first poem, deals with the coming of Christ to Earth regain that Adam would have lost.
In June 1642, with 33 years, Milton maaried Mary Powell, 16 years of age. In 1646, his family and was expelled from Oxford for supporting Carlos I during the English Civil War, changes, in conjunction with the couple. They had four children: Anne, Mary, John and Deborah. His wife Mary died on May 5 of 1652, of complications of childbirth, after delivery of Deborah to May 2, which deeply affected Milton, as is evident in his 23rd sonnet. In June, John died at 15 months, their sisters survive until adulthood. The November 12 of 1656, Milton married Katherine Woodcock. She died in February 3, 1658, less than four months of giving birth to her daughter Katherine, who also died at 17 March. On 24 February 1663, Milton married Elizabeth Minshull, who cared for him until the his death.

Main Milton’s works are: L'Allegro (1631), Il Penseroso (1633), Comus (a masque)(1634), Lycidas (1638), Areopagitica (1644), Paradise Lost (1667), Paradise Regained  (1671) and Samson Agonistes (1671).

Milton is best known for Paradise Lost, widely regarded as the greatest epic poem in English. Together with Paradise Regained and Samson Agonistes, it confirms Milton’s reputation as one of the greatest English poets. In his prose works Milton advocated the abolition of the Church of England and the execution of King  Charles I.  From the beginning of the English Civil Wars  in 1642 to long after the restoration of Charles II as king in 1660, he espoused in all his works a political philosophy that opposed tyranny and state-sanctioned religion. His influence extended not only through the civil wars and interregnum but also to the American and French revolutions. In his works on theology, he valued liberty of conscience, the paramount importance of Scripture as a guide in matters of faith, and religious toleration toward dissidents. As a civil servant, Milton became the voice of the English Commonwealth after 1649 through his handling of its international correspondence and his defense of the government against polemical attacks from abroad.
     Some authors have written about the blindness of John Milton and have a dangerous indication of the cause of the problem has changed the life of this great English epic poet. But the main cause pointed is glaucoma due to acute emotional crises
     The most valuable source of information about the reactions of John Milton to his loss of vision is a letter he wrote to his friend Leonard Phileas. Among the many angles covered by the blind writer, to bring the fine phrases in showing how to accept blindness.
He says: ... "my darkness, for natural mercy of God, with the help of studies, leisure and kind of conversation my friends, is much less oppressive than the deadly darkness to which it refers. Because if, as is written, the man does not live by bread alone, but of every word that comes from the mouth of God, that a man can not really accept this, thinking it can only obtain the light of their own eyes, judging - However, sufficiently illuminated by the guidance and providence of God? Therefore, since it provides the things and gives me coverage, as it does, and leads me forward and three for His hand, as though the whole life, I can not give a break to my eyes, since this seems His be happy? "
Indeed, during the 22 years of his blindness, Milton has become much more busy and your activity at work grew as never before occurred. The first eight years of his life as devoted to blind him to Cromwell, as Secretary for Foreign Languages. Letters translated from Latin into English and vice versa. Milton worked with the help of secretaries..
     Organized a dictionary of Latin, prepared a story for publication in England and came to publish a very serious study on the Christian doctrine. Also, always maintained extensive correspondence, as was customary. It is vital that we remember that the fine statements of faith written by Milton have been compounded by a man who was blind at the height of its potential and that he felt in the hands of God.  John Milton was married three times. His third wife was a very beautiful wife, but own a very difficult and violent temper. They say that when the Lord Buckingham visited, he was fired saying that he considered he was married to a real rose. Milton replied: "I can not judge by color, lord, but feel it by thorns."
     Politically, Milton was very controversial, even being arrested for being a staunch supporter of the Commonwealth. Although some of his works were burnt publicly, was spared the punishment but not greater rid of the dismissal of his property, leaving a situation in some poverty.  It is at this stage that follows writes that the work would be his masterpiece - Paradise Lost - which speaks of the fall into the temptation and expulsion from Paradise, a language that aims to rival the Greek epic. The poems were dictated to his daughters and the manuscript sold for five pounds.
     Now, let’s do to an explaination of thoughts and ideas about John Milton’s poem – On His Blindness. Firstly, this problem brought him a verbal enrichment even greater.
     During his service to the Commonwealth, in 1652, Milton became blind and it became necessary for others to share in his labors. His blindness occasioned one of the most moving of his sonnets,  On his blindness,  written in 1655. It records his fear that he will never be able to use his God-given gift for poetry again. Yet God may demand an accounting of his righteousness. And his entry into Heaven will depend upon how well he has used the gifts that God gave him. The sonnet ends with Milton s acceptance of the fact that what God wants of him is obedience and resignation. He can then serve God even if he cannot write poetry, for  they also serve who only stand and wait… This means the embodiment of Patience.
     In reference to structure of the poem, we perceive the beauty of form on the sonnet. Once we have assimilated the impact of what the poem says, our attention begins to focus on how the poem is put together. There is an abundance of artistry and technique here. For one thing, the poem is an Italian sonnet. This means that it is a 14-line poem with regular meter and an intricate rhyme scheme – abba abba in the first eight lines, followed by three new rhyming sounds in the last six lines (cde cde).
 When we read we perceive that this is an expression of a recognizable human experience. As we absorb the poem, we listen to the voice of suffering humanity. For all its particularity, the poem arouses our awareness of something that is close to the experience of everyone - the tragedy of human life, the debilitating catastrophe that changes a person's whole life, the psychic pain that cannot be brushed aside because it is a daily reality. The poem does what art often does: it faces the facts of life at their worst. One function of art, therefore, is to allow is to grapple with our own problems from a safe distance.
     The perspective from which we view human suffering is a Christian one. Milton here contemplates his handicap under the aspect of God’s providence. Even the anguish of the first eight lines is defined in Christian terms as the speaker fears God’s condemnation of him for his inactivity now that he is blind. Having wrestled with the problem, the speaker’s quest for satisfaction is also achieved in Christian terms: “they also serve who only stand and wait.” That is, the speaker can stand justified before his God because of such avenues of service as submission, worship, and expectation of what God will yet send. The poem thus gives is a new slant on the timeless truth that all things work together for good to those who love God, and a new example of Paul’s insight about learning to be content in any circumstance of life.
     Milton does not say all this abstractly. He embodies his meanings in poetic form, which means that he speaks in images, metaphors, and allusions. The method of art is to incarnate meaning in concrete form. The artist shows, and is never content only to tell in the form of propositions. The strategy of art is to enact rather than summarize. In this poem, Milton embodies his message in the concrete form of a person meditating on a problem and searching for a solution. The result is that as readers we recreate in our imaginations the experience of the speaker in the poem, from the moment he embarks on his process of meditation (“When I consider…”) to the final resolution in the famous aphorism with which the poem ends. The poem does not only ask us to grasp an idea with our minds; it also puts us through an experience.
     In achieving this experiential concreteness and immediacy, the poem works by a certain indirectness. Because of this indirection, art always puts a burden of interpretation in its audience. In the present instance, we have to know how to interpret figurative language. The vocabulary of the poem makes little sense unless we are familiar with three gospel statements by Jesus – the incident of the blind man whom Jesus healed (John 9:1-4), the parables of the workers in the vineyard (Matthew 20:1-16), and the talents (Matthew 25:14-30). As in those biblical passages, the images of the poem are heavily metaphoric.
     In other hand looking at Milton's poem On His Having Arrived At the Age of Twenty-Three, we can perceive. In John Milton' s works we can see the problems of the English society and his own too. Such a poem is " On His Having Arrived At the Age of Twenty-Three" because it shows the concerns that Milton had about his career when he was young and still hadn't chosen his own way in life. In this famous work of his we don't see a celebration of a birthday but a problem that the young gentleman faces as time passes by. The author uses many metaphors and symbols in order to give a more vivid image of his problem, and at the end he gives a solution to this problem.
     In this poem we can see the personification of Time, as a thief of youth of the author, robbing their wings on 23 years of age. The time is inexorable, change the appearance and does change the spring and sprouting seeds and the emergence of the flowers ...
This poem is, too, a sonnet, with rhyms and it is in addition to spirituality, is rich in imagination by images and metaphors that it spread.
     And then, for conclude in Milton, it’s not so easy discovery under a lot of words and archaic phrases the bright stones of wisdom. Milton asks how the Lord of the universe could allow this happen. Everything that Milton wanted was to use his talents and serve God. How could God require your services denying the light he needed to work?
But the Patience in order to prevent the murmur, said "God does not need the work of men and not of their personal talents, those that best support your yoke soft or that best serve to Him.
Recently there was in London the Ninth International Milton Symposium which also marks John Milton’s quatercentenary. (He was born December 9, 1608, and died in 1674.) In a sense it’s just a big birthday party for a big birthday, although none of us is likely be honored by a party at which some 200 people from all around the world give papers celebrating our achievements, either during our lifetimes or after we have been dead for centuries.
     Some writers that attended the symposium manifested their reasons in participation on this event. They have been going around asking, and the answers have come quickly and spontaneously. Nigel Smith of Princeton, whose published work is more historical than literary, set the tone said, “It’s the beauty of the thing; the poetry is just gorgeous; it makes me want to cry.” John Leonard of the University of Western Ontario seconded him: “It’s the way he works with words; what keeps me coming back is the sheer sound of the poetry, ‘simple, sensuous, and passionate.’
   But it’s more than that, as both Leonard and Smith agreed. Leonard: “More than anyone else, Milton captures the disjunction between the way things are and the way they should be.” Smith: “It’s the combination of amazing poetry and an insistence on principle.” Rather than being employed for its own sake, the poetry is always in the service of ideas and moral commitments, and it is always demanding that its readers measure themselves against the judgments it repeatedly makes – judgments about the nature of virtue, about the proper mode of civil and domestic behavior, about the true shape of heroism, about the self-parodying bluster of military action, about the criteria of aesthetic excellence, about the uses of leisure, about one’s duties to man and God, about the scope and limitations of reason, about the primacy of faith, about everything.
   Milton’s poetry never lets you relax . Even when one of the famous similes wanders down what appears to be a desultory path of mythical allusions and idealized landscapes, it always returns you in the end to the moral perspective that had only apparently been suspended.
   Reading a poetry full of moments like this, moments when a poetic effect cannot be separated from the pressure of ideological choice, is at once exhausting and exhilarating. Milton’s poetry is good to think with. It’s a good workout. You feel really great and fit when you’ve finished.


Sources:
http://rhesponse.blogspot.com/2005/11/miltons-sonnet-on-his-blindness-part-4.html
http://fish.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/07/13/happy-birthday-milton/?emc=eta1
http://sinaisdarevolucao.blogspot.com/2006/06/john-milton.html

Review of 'The Great Gatsby' From James Topham


 Review of 'The Great Gatsby'
From  James Topham

     The Great Gatsby is probably F. Scott Fitzgerald's greatest novel--a book that offers damning and insightful views of the American nouveau riche in the 1920s. The Great Gatsby is an American classic and a wonderfully evocative work.
Like much of Fitzgerald's prose, it is neat and well--crafted. Fitzgerald seems to have had a brilliant understanding of lives that are corrupted by greed and incredibly sad and unfulfilled. The novel is a product of its generation--with one of American literature's most powerful characters in the figure of Jay Gatsby, who is urbane and world-weary. Gatsby is really nothing more than a man desperate for love.

Overview: The Great Gatsby
     The novel's events are filtered through the consciousness of its narrator, Nick Carraway, a young Yale graduate, who is both a part of and separate from the world he describes. Upon moving to New York, he rents a house next door to the mansion of an eccentric millionaire (Jay Gatsby). Every Saturday, Gatsby throws a party at his mansion and all the great and the good of the young fashionable world come to marvel at his extravagance (as well as swap gossipy stories about their host who--it is suggested--has a murky past).
     Despite his high-living, Gatsby is dissatisfied; and Nick finds out why. Long ago, Gatsby fell in love with a young girl, Daisy. Although she has always loved Gatsby, she is currently married to Tom Buchanan. Gatsby asks Nick to help him meet Daisy once more, and Nick finally agrees--arranging tea for Daisy at his house.
The two ex-lovers meet and soon rekindle their affair. Soon, Tom begins to suspect and challenges the two of them--also revealing something that the reader had already begun to suspect: that Gatsby's fortune was made through illegal gambling and bootlegging. Gatsby and Daisy drive back to New York. In the wake of the emotional confrontation, Daisy hits and kills a woman. Gatsby feels that his life would be nothing without Daisy, so he determines to take the blame.
     George Wilson--who discovers that the car that killed his wife belongs to Gatsby--comes to Gatsby's house and shoots him. Nick arranges a funeral for his friend, and then decides to leave New York--saddened by the fatal events and disgusted by the easy way lived their lives.

Wealth as an Exploration of the Deeper Qualities of Life: The Great Gatsby
     The power of Gatsby as a character is inextricably linked with his wealth. From the very beginning of The Great Gatsby, Fitzgerald sets up his eponymous hero as an enigma: the playboy millionaire with the shady past who can enjoy the frivolity and ephemera that he creates around him. However, the reality of the situation is that Gatsby is a man in love. Nothing more. He concentrated all of his life on winning Daisy back.
     It is the way that he attempts to do this, however, that is central to Fitzgerald's world-view. Gatsby creates himself--both his mystique and his personality--around rotten values. They are the values of the American dream--that money, wealth and popularity are all there is to achieve in this world. He gives everything he has--emotionally and physically--to win, and it is this unrestrained desire that contributes to his eventual downfall.

Beyond Enjoyment? - The Great Gatsby
     In the closing pages of The Great Gatsby, Nick considers Gatsby in a wider context. Nick links Gatsby with the class of people with whom he has become so inextricably associated. They are the society persons so prominent during the 1920's and 1930's. Like his novel The Beautiful and the Damned, Fitzgerald attacks the shallow social climbing and emotional manipulation--which only causes pain. With a decadent cynicism, the party-goers in The Great Gatsby cannot see anything beyond their own enjoyment. Gatsby's love is frustrated by the social situation and his death symbolizes the dangers of his chosen path.
     F. Scott Fitzgerald paints a picture of a lifestyle and a decade that is both fascinating and horrific. In so doing, he captures a society and a set of young people; and he wrote them into myth. Fitzgerald was a part of that high-living lifestyle, but he was also a victim of it. He was one of the beautiful but he was also forever damned. In all its excitement--pulsating with life and tragedy--The Great Gatsby captures brilliantly the American dream in a time when it had descended into decadence.

http://classiclit.about.com/od/greatgatsbythe/fr/aa_greatgatsby.htm?nl=1

A writer's story: The mockingbird mystery By Andrew Gumbel


A writer's story: The mockingbird mystery

By Andrew Gumbel

   
      Harper Lee grew up with Truman Capote in small-town Alabama and wrote the bestselling novel of the 20th century. Or did she? And why has she published nothing for the past 45 years? Andrew Gumbel looks to a new biography for answers

Sunday, 4 June 2006

     Harper Lee was at the height of her fame as the bestselling author of To Kill A Mockingbird when, in the early 1960s, a librarian at her old university, an all-girls establishment in Alabama called Huntingdon College, puzzled over why he could find almost no information about her. So he wrote and asked if she wouldn't mind providing some biographical details so she could be appropriately honoured by her alma mater.
     Lee's response was oddly revealing. It was quizzical, light-hearted, self-deprecating - and almost completely unhelpful. "I'm afraid a biographical sketch of me will be sketchy indeed," she wrote. "With the exception of M'bird, nothing of any particular interest to anyone has happened to me in my 34 years."
     And that, more or less, was that. To Kill A Mockingbird - a social drama in which the passions and violence of the segregationist South are given rare pathos and humanity through the characters of Atticus Finch, a crusading lawyer who tries and fails to save an unjustly accused black man from an all-white jury, and Finch's children, whose own lives are touched by the broader currents in their small Alabama town - became the bestselling novel of the 20th century. Still, as the years passed, Lee became only more reluctant to step into the public spotlight. She gave her last media interview in 1964. By the end of the 1960s, she stopped answering her publishers' entreaties about when they might see the completion of another book.
     She settled into an extraordinarily quiet, unassuming life, spending most of the year living with her sister in their home town of Monroeville, Alabama, with occasional forays to her one-bedroom apartment in New York City. She refused to have anything to do with commercial spin-offs from Mockingbird and seemed unmoved by all the accolades bestowed on her novel.
     Instead, she settled into a routine that took her to favourite coffee shops, followed up on her lifelong involvement with the First United Methodist Church, but mostly left her at home where she could indulge her lifelong passion for reading.
     Lee, who recently celebrated her 80th birthday, has thus turned into one of those typically American literary enigmas, a beloved author and icon of an era who simply refuses to play along with the demands of our celebrity culture. Like J D Salinger, who has lived as a virtual recluse for decades, she will forever be known for one book. Nobody has established why she withdrew from the public eye so spectacularly. Nobody knows why she has never published again.
     Perhaps inevitably, rumour-mongering has rushed to fill the void. Could it be she didn't really write To Kill A Mockingbird herself, that much of it was ghost-written by her childhood friend Truman Capote, whom she later accompanied to Kansas to help research the true-crime classic In Cold Blood? Did she slide into alcoholism in the 1970s and 1980s? Was it significant that she never married?
     A new biography - the first - attempts to make sense of some of these questions. Lee, naturally, refused to have anything to do with the project. (The author, Charles J Shields, reports that she declined his approaches "with vigour".) The book draws instead on private papers, as well as interviews with several hundred of her friends, family members and acquaintances.
     The sum of our knowledge of Lee is pushed only so much further - barely one-sixth of the book covers the years after 1962 and the release of the Oscar-winning movie of Mockingbird, starring Gregory Peck. But we do get a sense of an unusual, complex woman who never sought fame and quickly decided she did not like it, a woman who relied on a few very close relationships to help her achieve her ambitions and struggled when those relationships faltered.
     Lee's father, like her protagonist Atticus Finch, was a small-town Alabama lawyer with a passion for social justice. Her mother, meanwhile, was withdrawn and distant. (The character most closely resembling her is Aunt Alexandra, described in the novel as being like Mount Everest, "cold and there".) Young Nelle Harper Lee - the "Nelle" was dropped because she was afraid it would be mispronounced Nellie - was a tomboy and something of a misfit who got into wrestling matches with boys and had anything but a dainty way of talking.
     She and Truman Capote - both, improbably, from the same town of 7,000 souls - formed a childhood bond based, at first, on their status as "apart people". Both had difficult relationships with their mothers. Both later discovered a love of writing and story-telling, especially after Nelle's father gave them a typewriter. Capote moved to New York when they were just eight, but the friendship was established for life, and proved invaluable when Lee made her own foray to the big city in pursuit of her literary dreams.
     At first, Lee took a clerical job with the long-defunct airline BOAC. Then a composer friend called Michael Brown made a remarkably generous offer to bankroll her writing for a year. She fell into a fruitful work pattern, explaining joyfully that all she really needed to be happy was "pen, paper and privacy".
     Lee found an agent, Maurice Crain, who became a close friend, and later developed an equally close bond to her editor at J B Lippincott, Tay Hohoff, who spent two and half years developing the manuscript - entitled Atticus on first submission - into the final published book.
     The notion that Capote wrote some or all of Mockingbird is almost certainly a canard, although he did suggest some cuts here and there. (The next-door neighbour who befriends the Finch children, Dill, is an homage to Capote.) Hohoff, on the other hand, was instrumental in giving the book structural shape.
     Shields suggests that Lee was stymied by success from the very start. On the day J B Lippincott expressed an interest in her manuscript, she had written more than 100 pages of a second novel, entitled The Long Goodbye, but went no further with it. As he puts it: "Her pen froze."
     As Mockingbird soared up the bestseller lists and Lee engaged in a whirl of publicity, she talked openly about her ambitions to chronicle the richness of small-town life in the South. But the more feted she became, the less she found herself actually writing. "Do you find your second novel coming slow?" one reporter asked her at a public event. "Well," she responded with a caution she might not previously have expressed, "I hope to live to see it published."
     Shields describes the early 1960s as one long series of distractions from her craft - the publicity tours, the making of the Hollywood movie, the invitation from President Johnson to join the National Council on the Arts, and the burgeoning fame bestowed on her, especially in her hometown. "I've found I can't write ... I have about 300 personal friends who keep dropping in for a cup of coffee. I've tried getting up at 6, but then all the 6 o'clock risers congregate." The only peace she could find, she said, was on the golf course, but that was good only for thinking, not actually writing.
     The ease with which she had turned out pages as an unpublished author was suddenly bogged down by over-meticulousness. She would write a page or two, then put them aside, then rewrite them repeatedly, never managing to make much progress.
     By the end of the 1960s, her agent was dying of cancer. Lippincott was despairing of her, and she had a big falling out with Capote over his failure to give her more than a shared mention in his dedication for In Cold Blood. Intriguingly, she and Capote both failed to complete another book after their acknowledged masterpieces. Both appear to have had a tough time with fame - Capote became addicted to it, along with drugs and booze, while she felt compelled to run away from it.
     There may also have been something about the experience of digging into the mass murder of the Clutter family in Kansas that haunted them - as the recent movie Capote suggests - or simply helped unravel what was, for both writers, a key friendship in their lives. Shields has unearthed many of Lee's notes for the book, and argues that many of her contributions were either ignored - for example, her devastating insights into the mother, Bonnie Clutter - or went unacknowledged. The real truth thus may be not that Capote secretly wrote chunks of To Kill A Mockingbird, but rather that Lee had more than an idle hand in the writing of In Cold Blood.
     By the 1970s, it was clear that Lee's much-heralded second novel was not going to appear. Her cousin, Dickie Williams, remembers asking her when she was going to come out with another book. She replied: "Richard, when you're at the top, there's only one way to go."
     A decade later, Lee was actively working on a new project, an In Cold Blood type of documentary crime writing involving a renegade Alabama preacher whose wives and close relatives had a nasty habit of ending up dead. The preacher was tried for murder on four occasions, and each time was acquitted for lack of evidence. After the fifth unfortunate death, a relative from Chicago came to the funeral with a handgun and shot him in the back. He, too, was acquitted.
     Lee spent at least a year researching the case, but no book was forthcoming. Lee told friends she couldn't figure out a proper structure for it. Tom Radney had a blunter explanation: "She's fighting a battle between the book and a bottle of Scotch. And the Scotch is winning." In his book, Shields never gets particularly close to corroborating this, or any other theory of her literary silence. "Maybe she was, in some sense, satisfied," he suggests at one point. "Maybe her deed was done."
     There's a lot of her about these days, between Shields's book, Catherine Keener's sympathetic portrayal of her in Capote, and another screen interpretation, by Sandra Bullock, coming later this year in Infamous. This time last year, she agreed, uncharacteristically, to be honoured by the Los Angeles Public Library, although she remained almost silent throughout the ceremony.
     These days, she appears to regard eluding attention as something of a sport. In 2003, John Humphrys showed up in Monroeville with a BBC crew and almost bumped into her in the dining room of a Monroeville country club. Lee, in fact, walked out right under his nose, relying on her friends and her own unassuming appearance to ensure Humphrys wouldn't realise what had happened until it was too late. "Now I know firsthand how you folks protect her down here," Humphrys was later quoted as saying. That shell is clearly still plenty thick enough.

The last words before the long silence
Harper Lee's last major interview was given to Roy Newquist in March 1964, for his book 'Counterpoint'
     "I never expected any sort of success with Mockingbird. I was hoping for a quick and merciful death at the hands of reviewers, but at the same time I hoped that maybe someone would like it enough to give me encouragement - public encouragement. I got rather a whole lot, and in some ways this was just about as frightening as the quick, merciful death I'd expected.
     [My next book] goes ever so slowly. Many writers really don't like to write ...They loathe the process of sitting down trying to turn thoughts into reasonable sentences. I like to write - sometimes too much because when I get into work I don't want to leave it. I'll go for days and days without leaving the house. I'll go out long enough to get papers and pick up food and that's it.
     This was my childhood: if I went to a film once a month it was pretty good.
     We had to use our own devices in our play, for our entertainment. We didn't have much money. We didn't have toys, nothing was done for us, so we lived in our imagination most of the time. We were readers, and we would transfer everything we had seen on the printed page to the backyard in the form of drama.
     It takes time and patience and effort to turn out a work of art, and few people seem willing to go all the way. I see a great deal of sloppiness and I deplore it. I think writers today are too easily pleased with their work. This is sad. There's no substitute for struggling, if a struggle is needed, to make an English sentence as beautiful as it should be.
     I want to do the best I can with the talent God gave me. I would like to leave some record of... small-town middle-class southern life. All I want to be is the Jane Austen of south Alabama."

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/features/a-writers-story-the-mockingbird-mystery-480965.html

A CABANA - WILLIAM P. YOUNG com a colaboração de Wayne Jacobsen e Brad Cummings


A CABANA - WILLIAM P. YOUNG
com a colaboração de Wayne Jacobsen e Brad Cummings

Young,William P.
A cabana / William P. Young [tradução de Alves Calado].
– Rio de Janeiro: Sextante, 2008.

Prefácio

     Quem não duvidaria ao ouvir um homem afirmar que passou um fim de semana inteiro com Deus e, ainda mais, em uma cabana?
Principalmente naquela cabana.
     Conheço Mack há pouco mais de 20 anos, desde o dia em que nós dois fomos à casa de um vizinho para ajudá-lo a embalar feno para suas poucas vacas. A partir de então a gente se encontra compartilhando um café – ou, para mim, um chá tailandês superquente, com soja. Nossas conversas nos dão um prazer profundo e são sempre salpicadas de muito riso e de vez em quando de uma ou duas lágrimas. Francamente, quanto mais velhos ficamos, mais a gente se dá bem, se é que você me entende.
    O  nome completo dele é Mackenzie Allen Phillips, mas a maioria das pessoas o chama de Allen. É uma tradição de família: todos os homens têm o primeiro nome igual, mas são conhecidos pelo nome do meio, provavelmente para evitar a ostentação do I, II e III ou Júnior e Sênior.
Assim, ele, o avô, o pai e agora o filho mais velho têm o nome de Mackenzie, mas só Nan, a mulher dele, e os amigos íntimos o chamam de Mack.
Ele nasceu em uma fazenda do Meio-Oeste, numa família irlandesaamericana de mãos calejadas e regras rigorosas. Ainda que aparentemente religioso e exageradamente rígido, seu pai bebia muito, sobretudo quando a chuva não vinha ou quando vinha cedo demais, e quase sempre entre uma coisa e outra. Mack nunca fala muito sobre o pai, mas quando o menciona a emoção abandona seu rosto, como se fosse uma maré vazante, deixando seus olhos sombrios e sem vida. Pelo pouco que Mack me contou, sei que seu pai não era o tipo de alcoólatra que cai num sono rápido e feliz, e sim um bêbado perverso que batia na mulher e depois pedia perdão a Deus.
A coisa chegou a tal ponto que, aos 13 anos e com certa relutância, Mack abriu o coração para um líder da igreja durante um encontro de jovens. Dominado pelo clima do momento,Mack confessou chorando que nunca fizera nada para ajudar a mãe nas várias vezes em que testemunhara o pai bêbado lhe dar uma surra até deixá-la inconsciente. O que Mack não pensou foi que seu confessor freqüentava a mesma igreja que seu pai. Quando chegou em casa, o pai o esperava na varanda e a mãe e as irmãs não estavam.Mais tarde,Mack ficou sabendo que elas tinham sido mandadas à casa da tia May para que o pai pudesse ter liberdade para dar ao filho rebelde uma lição inesquecível.Durante quase dois dias, amarrado ao grande carvalho nos fundos da casa, ele foi castigado com um cinto e com versículos da Bíblia todas as vezes que o pai acordava de sua bebedeira e largava a garrafa.
Duas semanas depois, quando enfim conseguiu ficar em pé, Mack simplesmente se levantou e foi embora de casa. Mas antes de partir colocou veneno de rato em cada garrafa de bebida que conseguiu encontrar na fazenda. Depois desenterrou de perto da latrina externa a pequena lata onde guardava todos os seus tesouros: uma foto da família em que o pai estava meio afastado, uma figurinha de beisebol do Luke Easter de 1950, uma garrafinha com mais ou menos 30ml de Ma Griffe (o único perfume que sua mãe havia usado), um carretel de linha e duas agulhas, um pequeno jato F-86 da Força Aérea americana em metal fundido e todas as economias de sua vida: 15 dólares e 13 centavos.
Esgueirou-se pela sala e enfiou um bilhete debaixo do travesseiro da mãe, enquanto o pai roncava, curtindo mais um porre. O bilhete dizia simplesmente: “Um dia espero que você possa me perdoar.” Jurou que nunca mais olharia para trás e não olhou – durante um longo tempo.
Treze anos é muito pouco, porém Mack não tinha muitas opções e se adaptou rapidamente. Ele não fala muito sobre os anos seguintes. A maior parte foi passada fora do país, trabalhando pelo mundo, mandando dinheiro para os avós, que o repassavam à mãe. Acho que num desses países distantes chegou a pegar em armas e participar de algum conflito terrível; desde que o conheço, ele odeia a guerra com um fervor sinistro. Seja lá o que for que tenha acontecido, aos 20 e poucos anos foi parar num seminário na Austrália. Quando Mack se fartou de teologia e filosofia, retornou aos Estados Unidos, fez as pazes com a mãe e as irmãs e se mudou para o Oregon, onde conheceu Nannete A. Samuelson e se casou com ela.
Neste mundo de faladores, Mack é pensador e fazedor. Não diz muita coisa, a não ser que alguém pergunte, o que pouca gente faz.
Quando fala, dá a impressão de ser uma espécie de alienígena que vê a paisagem das idéias e experiências humanas de modo diferente de todas as outras pessoas.
O que acontece é que as coisas que ele diz causam um certo desconforto
em um mundo onde a maioria das pessoas prefere escutar o que
está acostumada a ouvir, o que freqüentemente não é grande coisa. Os
que o conhecem geralmente gostam muito de Mack, desde que ele
mantenha guardados seus pensamentos. Porque as coisas que Mack diz nem sempre deixam as pessoas muito satisfeitas com elas mesmas.
Uma vez Mack me contou que quando era jovem costumava se abrir com mais liberdade, mas admitiu que a maior parte dessas conversas era um mecanismo de sobrevivência para encobrir suas feridas.
Freqüentemente acabava derramando a dor sobre quem estivesse por perto. Disse que tinha prazer em apontar as falhas das pessoas e humilhá-las para manter seu sentimento de falso poder e controle. Nada muito elogiável.
Enquanto escrevo estas palavras, reflito sobre o Mack que sempre conheci: um sujeito bastante comum e certamente sem nada de especial, a não ser para os que o conhecem de verdade. Vai fazer 56 anos e não chama a atenção, está ligeiramente acima do peso, é meio careca, baixo e branco – uma descrição que serve para muitos homens dessas redondezas. Você provavelmente não o notaria numa multidão nem se sentiria incomodado sentado ao seu lado enquanto ele cochila no trem que o leva à cidade para a reunião semanal de vendas. Faz a maior parte de seu trabalho num pequeno escritório em sua casa na Wildcat Road.Vende alguma engenhoca de alta tecnologia que eu não pretendo entender: trecos eletrônicos que de algum modo fazem tudo andar mais depressa, como se a vida já não fosse rápida demais.
Você só percebe como Mack é inteligente quando, por acaso, escuta um diálogo dele com um especialista. Já vivi algumas situações dessas quando a língua falada mal parecia com a nossa e eu me via lutando para captar os conceitos que jorravam como um rio de jóias despencando de uma cachoeira. Ele consegue falar com inteligência sobre quase tudo e, apesar da força de suas convicções, Mack tem um modo gentil e respeitoso que deixa você manter as suas.
Seus assuntos prediletos são Deus, a Criação e por que as pessoas acreditam em determinadas coisas. Seus olhos se iluminam e seu sorriso repuxa os cantos dos lábios para cima. De repente, como se fosse um garotinho, o cansaço se dissolve e ele rejuvenesce, praticamente incapaz de se conter. Mas, ao mesmo tempo, Mack não é muito religioso.
Parece ter uma relação de amor e ódio com a religião e talvez até com Deus, que ele imagina como um ser mal-humorado, distante e altivo. Pequenas gotas de sarcasmo escorrem às vezes pelas rachaduras de seu reservatório, como dardos cortantes cheios de veneno. Embora algumas vezes nós dois vamos juntos à mesma igreja, dá para ver que ele não se sente muito à vontade lá. Mack está casado com Nan há pouco mais de 33 anos – na maior parte do tempo, eles são felizes. Diz que ela salvou sua vida e pagou um preço alto por isso. Por algum motivo que não dá para compreender, Nan parece amá-lo agora mais do que nunca, apesar de eu ter a sensação de que ele a magoou de algum modo terrível nos primeiros anos.
Acho que, assim como a maior parte das nossas feridas tem origem em nossos relacionamentos, o mesmo acontece com as curas, e sei que quem olha de fora não percebe essa bênção.
De qualquer modo, Mack se casou. Nan é a argamassa que mantém juntos os ladrilhos de sua família. Enquanto Mack lutou num mundo com muitos tons de cinza, o dela é principalmente preto e branco.
O bom senso é tão natural para Nan que ela nem consegue perceber o dom que isso representa. Ter uma família a impediu de realizar seu sonho de ser médica, mas ela se destacou como enfermeira e obteve um reconhecimento considerável em seu trabalho com pacientes terminais com câncer. Enquanto o relacionamento de Mack com Deus é amplo, o de Nan é profundo.
Esse casal contraditório teve cinco filhos de beleza incomum. Mack gosta de dizer que todos pegaram a beleza dele, “... porque Nan ainda conserva a dela”. Dois dos três meninos já saíram de casa: Jon, casado há pouco, trabalha como vendedor de uma empresa local, e Tyler, recém-formado na faculdade, está fazendo mestrado. Josh e uma das duas garotas, Katherine (Kate), cursaram a escola comunitária local. E a que chegou por último é Melissa – ou Missy, como gostávamos de chamá-la. Ela... bem, você vai conhecer melhor alguns dos filhos de Mack ao longo deste livro.
Os últimos anos foram... como é que posso dizer... notavelmente peculiares. Mack mudou: agora está ainda mais diferente e especial.
Durante todos os nossos anos de convívio ele sempre foi bastante gentil e amável, mas desde a estada no hospital há três anos ficou... bem, melhor ainda. Tornou-se uma daquelas raras pessoas que estão totalmente à vontade dentro da própria pele. E eu também me sinto mais à vontade perto dele do que de qualquer outra pessoa. Cada vez que nos separamos, tenho a sensação de ter tido a melhor conversa da minha vida, mesmo que eu tenha falado mais. E, a respeito de Deus,Mack não é mais simplesmente amplo. Ficou muito profundo. Mas o mergulho custou caro. Os dias de hoje são muito diferentes de há sete ou oito anos, quando a Grande Tristeza entrou em sua vida e ele quase parou de falar.Mais ou menos nessa época, e por quase dois anos, nossos encontros foram interrompidos, como se por um acordo mútuo não verbalizado. Eu só via Mack de vez em quando na mercearia ou, mais raramente ainda, na igreja. E, embora em geral trocássemos um abraço educado, não falávamos de muita coisa importante. Para ele era até difícil me encarar. Talvez não quisesse entrar numa conversa capaz de arrancar a casca de seu coração ferido.
Porém tudo isso mudou depois de um acidente feio com... Mas lá vou eu outra vez botando o carro na frente dos bois.Vamos chegar lá no devido tempo. Basta dizer que estes últimos anos parecem ter devolvido a vida de Mack e tirado o fardo da Grande Tristeza. O que aconteceu há três anos mudou totalmente a melodia de sua vida e é uma canção que mal posso esperar para tocar.
Apesar de se comunicar bastante bem verbalmente,Mack não se sente seguro sobre sua capacidade de escrever – algo que ele sabe que me apaixona. Por isso, perguntou se eu escreveria esta história, a história dele “para as crianças e para a Nan”. Queria uma narrativa que o ajudasse a expressar para eles a profundidade de seu amor e que os ajudasse a entender o que havia se passado em seu mundo interior.
Você conhece o lugar: é onde você está sozinho – e talvez com Deus, se acredita Nele. É claro que Deus pode estar lá, mesmo que você não acredite. Isso seria bem o jeito de Deus. Não é à toa que ele é chamado de O Grande Intrometido.
A história que você vai ler é resultado de uma luta minha e do Mack para, durante muitos meses, colocar em palavras o que ele viveu. Tem um lado um pouco... digamos,muito fantástico. Não vou julgar se algumas partes são verdadeiras ou não. Prefiro dizer que,mesmo que algumas coisas não possam ser cientificamente provadas, talvez sejam verdadeiras. Mas preciso afirmar honestamente que fazer parte desta história me afetou de modo profundo, desvendando detalhes meus que eu desconhecia.
Confesso que desejo desesperadamente que tudo o que Mack me contou seja verdade. Na maioria das vezes eu me sinto próximo dele, mas em outras – quando o mundo visível de concreto e computadores parece ser o real – perco o contato e tenho dúvidas.
Algumas observações finais.Mack gostaria que eu lhe transmitisse o seguinte recado: “Se você odiar esta história, desculpe, ela não foi escrita para você.” Mas eu quero acrescentar: afinal, talvez tenha sido. O que você vai ler é o máximo que Mack consegue recordar daquilo que aconteceu.
Esta é a história dele, não a minha. Por isso, nas poucas vezes em que apareço, vou me referir a mim mesmo na terceira pessoa – e do ponto de vista de Mack.
Às vezes a memória pode ser uma companheira enganosa, em especial com relação ao acidente, e eu não ficarei surpreso se, apesar de nosso esforço conjunto para contar a história com exatidão, alguns fatos e lembranças aparecerem distorcidos nestas páginas. Não é intencional.
Garanto que as conversas e eventos foram registrados do modo mais fiel possível, de acordo com as lembranças de Mack. Portanto, por favor, tente não se aborrecer com ele. Como você verá, essas coisas não são fáceis de contar.

– WILLIE

A BRIEF HISTORY OF MONTMARAY By Michelle Cooper EXCERPT


A BRIEF HISTORY OF MONTMARAY
By Michelle Cooper
EXCERPT

23rd October 1936

Dear Sophie,

     Happy birthday to my favorite little sister! I've been trying to recollect the day you were
born so I can gush about it in an appropriately sentimental fashion, but I'm afraid it's all a
blank. I must have been too busy pulling Veronica's hair or smearing stewed apple over
my smock to notice you popping into existence. I do remember Henry's arrival ten years
ago, and if you were anything like her, you were a most unattractive baby--wrinkled, redfaced, loud, and rather smelly. Lucky for all of us that you've improved somewhat with
age.
     Now, did the presents arrive safely? I had to go all the way to Knightsbridge for the journal, and then I got detention for sneaking off from Games, so I hope you appreciate
it. You can use it to write down your thoughts. You must have plenty of them at the moment, given Aunt Charlotte's letter--I assume you've read it by now. Are you thrilled?
Terrified? Well, it's all your fault for turning sixteen--you gave Aunt Charlotte quite a shock when she realized how old you'd suddenly become. She had to sit down and have
an extra-large sherry to recover.
     As for me, this new school is almost as ghastly as the old one. I suppose I'd been hoping
Rupert would come too when I was thrown out of Eton, but his parents keep saying no, worse luck. The House Masters have finally sorted out dormitories, and now I share with
three boys. Two are in the Rugby First XV, ugh. The other has noxious feet and learns the bagpipes, so is nearly as bad. I have already had two detentions, one for missing Games on Saturday and one for not doing Latin prep. The Latin prep wasn't my fault. I
didn't know there was any prep because the Latin Master told us about it in Latin and I
didn't understand a word he said.
     Remember, I am in MarchHare House, so please make sure you put that on the address
when you write, otherwise the letters might get lost. It's a good House to be in because it
inevitably comes last in the House Cup, so no one cares much when I lose House points.
     The other good thing about MarchHare is that we can climb out the top-story windows
onto the roof and look into the hospital next door, which is very educational. Also, sometimes the nurses come out onto a balcony to smoke, and they throw us a cigarette if
we beg nicely.
     It's almost lights-out, so I'd better finish. Tell Veronica to come and live in my trunk so
she can secretly do my Latin prep for me. She could write my History essay as well, it is
on the Restoration. And ask her to bring Carlos with her so he can eat the bagpipes. Love from your wonderful brother,

Toby

     As usual, Toby's letter was coded in Kernetin, which Toby and my cousin Veronica and I invented years ago so we could write notes to each other without the grown-ups being
able to read them. Kernetin is based on Cornish and Latin, with some Greek letters and
random meaningless squiggles thrown in to be extra-confusing. Also, it is boustrophedonic (I adore that word and try to say it as often as possible, but unfortunately it hasn't many everyday uses). "Boustrophedonic" means you read one line left to right, then the next right to left. Veronica can translate Kernetin straight off the page into English, but I find it easier to write it out, so there it is, my first entry in my new journal.
     It has a hundred blank pages thick as parchment, and a morocco binding, and is almost
too lovely to write in.
     I did get some superb birthday presents this year. Veronica gave me a pen with my initials on it. From my little sister, Henry, came a new Pride and Prejudice, because I dropped my old one in the bath and it hasn't been the same since. (Henry, who wishes she'd been born a boy, looked quite disappointed when I opened the journal from Toby--she'd probably told him to get me one of those pocketknives with attached magnifying glass, screwdriver, and fish-scaler, hoping that I'd then lend it to her.) The villagers presented me with a honey-spice cake, a lavender pillow, and a beautiful comb carved out of driftwood. Uncle John doesn't even know what year it is, let alone the date, so I never expect so much as a "Happy birthday" from him, but Rebecca, our housekeeper, gave me the day off from washing up the breakfast dishes. Even Carlos, our Portuguese water dog, managed a birthday card, signed with an inky paw-print (now I understand why Henry was being so secretive yesterday and how the bathtub ended up with all those black streaks).
     And then there was Aunt Charlotte! I opened her letter long after breakfast was over
because I couldn't imagine her approving of anything as indulgent as birthdays, but that
turned out to be the most exciting part of the whole morning. I won't copy it all out, most
of it being her usual scoldings about our idle, extravagant lives here on Montmaray, and
do we think she's made of money, and so on. But here is the important part: ...and now that you are sixteen, Sophia, I am reminded yet again of the sad burden I have been forced to bear since my youngest brother and his wife were so cruelly torn from this world, God rest their souls. My only comfort is knowing how grateful Robert and Jane would be if they could see all that I have done for you children.
     However, my responsibilities are not yet complete, and your mother in particular, Sophia, would have wanted you to be given the same social opportunities she had. As for
Veronica, it is not her fault that her feckless mother is who-knows-where and quite unable to make appropriate arrangements regarding a matrimonial match. I feel it is my duty, then, to sponsor your debuts into Society. We cannot postpone this event much longer, in light of your advancing ages.
     I expect early in the new year would be the best time for both of you to travel to England. I leave it to Veronica to write to Mr. Grenville regarding steamer passage and railway tickets. In the meantime, I shall begin perusing the Almanach de Gotha for eligible
prospects...

Excerpted from A Brief History of Montmaray by Michelle Cooper Copyright © 2009 by Michelle Cooper. Excerpted by permission of Knopf Books for Young Readers, a division of Random House, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.