Eu acabei não comentando, mas comprei e li vários livros durante a viagem. Vários mesmo. Em Foz comprei Água Viva, da Clarice, que é simplesmente uma das coisas mais chatas, chatas, chatas, chatas que eu já li na minha vida, e tive que me esforçar mooooito pra terminar. Li Bartleby (Melville) no avião de Ushuaia pra Buenos Aires, mas a monga aqui esqueceu o livro no avião. Pelo menos eu já tinha terminado a história. Na livraria ABC, na Florida, em Buenos Aires, comprei Mrs Dalloway, que acreditem ou não eu nunca tinha lido, e um livro novinho mas que estava na seção dos usados porque tinha um furo atrás, Boy – Tales of Childhood, autobiografia da infância do Roald Dahl, por ridículos 14 pesos. Na El Ateneo, maior livraria de Buenos Aires e simplesmente escandalosa de tão grande e well-supplied, comprei vários dicionários, e ainda por cima sorri várias vezes ao dar de cara com clássicos como A Bolsa Amarela e Raul da Ferrugem Azul traduzidos pro espanhol. Numa outra livraria cujo nome esqueci comprei um Stephen King (‘Salem’s Lot) em língua original por um preço ótimo, a edição do IV centenário de Don Quijote, um livro do Borges, um da Allende e o Bartleby y Compañia que o Alexandre tanto comentou que me deixou curiosa.

Mas isso tudo porque hoje o Papa tá assim digamos a ponto de subir no telhado, e honestamente não dou a mínima, e enquanto hoje eu tomava meu café da manhã li o seguinte capítulo, que transcrevo integralmente:

“The Headmaster, while I was at Repton, struck me as being a rather shoddy bandy-legged little fellow with a big bald head and lots of energy but not much charm. Mind you, I never did know him well because in all those months and years I was at the school, I doubt whether he addressed more than six sentences to me altogether. So perhaps it was wrong of me to form a judgement like that.

What is so interesting about this Headmaster is that he became a famous person later on. At the end of my third year, he was suddenly appointed Bishop of Chester and off he went to live in a palace by the River Dee. I remember at the time trying to puzzle out how on earth a person could suddenly leap from being a schoolmaster to becoming a Bishop all in one jump, but there were bigger puzzles to come.

From Chester, he was soon promoted again to become Bishop of London, and from there, after not all that many years, he bounced up the ladder once more to get the top job of them all, Archbishop of Canterbury! And not long after that it was he himself who had the task of crowning our present Queen in Westminster Abbey with half the world watching him on television. Well, well, well! And this was the man who used to deliver the most vicious beatings to the boys under his care!

By now I am sure you will be wondering why I lay so much emphasis upon school beatings in these pages. The answer is that I cannot help it. All through my school life I was appalled by the fact that masters and senior boys were allowed literally to wound other boys, and sometimes quite severely. I couldn’t get over it. I never have got over it. It would, of course, be unfair to suggest that all masters were constantly beating the daylights out of all the boys in those days. They weren’t. Only a few did so, but that was quite enough to leave a lasting impression of horror upon me. It left another more physical impression upon me as well. Even today, whenever I have to sit for any length of time on a hard bench or chair, I begin to feel my heart beating along the old lines that the cane made on my bottom some fifty-five years ago.

There is nothing wrong with a few quick sharp tickles on the rump. They probably do a naughty boy a lot of good. But this Headmaster we were talking about wasn’t just tickling you when he took out his cane to deliver a flogging. He never flogged me, thank goodness, but I was given a vivid description of one of these ceremonies by my best friend at Repton, whose name was Michael. Michael was ordered to take down his trousers and kneel on the Headmaster’s sofa with the top half of his body hanging over one end of the sofa. The great man then gave him one terrific crack. After that, there was a pause. The cane was put down and the Headmaster began filling his pipe from a tin of tobacco. He also started to lecture the kneeling boy about sin and wrongdoing. Soon, the cane was picked up again and a second tremendous crack was administered upon the trembling buttocks. Then the pipe-filling business an the lecture went on for maybe another thirty seconds. Then came the third crack of the cane. Then the instrument of torture was put once more upon the table and a box of matches was produced. A match was struck and applied to the pipe. The pipe failed to light properly. A fourth stroke was delivered, with the lecture continuing. This slow and fearsome process went on until ten terrible strokes had been delivered, and all the time, over the pipe-lighting and the match-striking, the lecture on evil and wrongdoing and sinning and misdeeds and malpractice went on without a stop. It even went on as the strokes were being administered. At the end of it all, a basin, a sponge and a small clean towel were produced by the Headmaster, and the victim was told to wash away the blood before pulling up his trousers.

Do you wonder then that this man’s behaviour used to puzzle me tremendously? He was an ordinary clergyman at that time as well as being Headmaster, and I would sit in the dim light of the school chapel and listen to him preaching about the Lamb of God and about Mercy and Forgiveness and all the rest of it and my young mind would become totally confused. I knew very well that only the night before this preacher had shown neither Forgiveness nor Mercy in flogging some small boy who had broken the rules.

So what was it all about? I used to ask myself.

Did they preach one thing and practise another, these men of God?

And if someone had told me at the time that this flogging clergyman was one day to become the Archbishop of Canterbury, I would never have believed it.

It was all this, I think, that made me begin to have doubts about religion and even about God. If this person, I kept telling myself, was one of God’s chosen salesmen on earth, then there must be something very wrong about the whole business.”

Boy – Tales of Childhood (Roald Dahl)

Por tudo o que já li dele, sempre soube que foi uma pessoa extraordinária. Essa biografia revela que não só ele, mas sua família e sua vida também foram extraordinárias. Logo depois desse capítulo vem um chamado “Chocolate”. Por isso tudo e pelas fotos e por tantas outras coisas, recomendo ardentemente que vocês leiam Boy. E tudo o mais que esse homem escreveu.

E essa transcrição dedico humildemente (ma non troppo) ao Cris Dias, pra ver se ele acorda pra vida e volta a escrever os ótimos posts polêmicos que sumiram do blog por razões perfeitamente compreensíveis, mas que fazem falta, ah, fazem!