Falando em ler, semana passada terminei Great Expectations, que recomendo com fervor. Comecei os contos de Lampedusa, mas não consigo ler mais que meia página sem ter que levantar pra fazer alguma coisa importante ou sem cair no sono (não porque é chato, mas porque estou exausta mesmo). Estou gostando, mas ainda não identifiquei nenhum trecho particularmente brilhante pra compartilhar. Só que fiquei com vontade de reler Il Gattopardo, que eu li em Português há muito tempo. Lembro de ter absolutamente adorado, e imagino que vá adorar ainda mais, lendo em língua original e entendendo um pouco mais da realidade do livro, já que hoje sei mais sobre a Sicília e a história da Itália do que quando o li pela primeira vez. Vou ter que comprar, porque não tenho.

Também fiquei com vontade de ler outras coisas do Roald Dhal. Como meus alunos Três Mosqueteiros são muito legais (todos os três usam agendas Moleskine, aaaaah!) e têm um gosto literário bem parecido com o meu, decidi ler com eles um conto do Roald Dhal em aula hoje. Escolhi The Way Up To Heaven, que eu amo. Compartilho: (não é uma delícia a cafonice dessa palavra, “compartilhar”?)

“All her life Mrs Foster had had an almost pathological fear of missing a train, a plane, a boat, or even a theatre curtain. In other respects, she was not a particularly nervous woman, but the mere thought of being late on occasions like these would throw her into such a state of nerves that she would begin to twitch. It was nothing much: just a tiny vellicating muscle in the corner of the left eye, like a secret wink, but the annoying thing was that it refused to disappear until an hour or so after the train or plane or whatever it was had been safely caught.

It was really extraordinary how in certain people a simple apprehension about a thing like catching a train can grow into a serious obsession. At least half an hour before it was time to leave the house for the station, Mrs Foster would step out of the elevator all ready to go, with hat and coat and gloves, and then, being quite unable to sit down, she would flutter and fidget about from room to room until her husband, who must have been well aware of her state, finally emerged from his privacy and suggested in a cool dry voice that perhaps they had better get going now, had they not?

Mr Foster may possibly have had a right to be irritated by this foolishness of his wife’s, but he could have had no excuse for increasing her misery by keeping her waiting unnecessarily. Mind you, it is by no means certain that this is what he did, yet whenever they were to go somewhere, his timing was so accurate just a minute or two late, you understand and his manner so bland that it was hard to believe he wasn’t purposely inflicting a nasty private little torture of his own on the unhappy lady.”

The Way Up To Heaven, by Roald Dahl

Façam um favor a vocês mesmos e vão comprar um livro de contos (o meu é Completely Unexpected Tales) dele ou vão catar o conto na internet. Não vou dar o final do conto aqui pra não estragar a surpresa. Vale a pena.