She came into the cafe again. All the words I would say to her and her to me unfurled in my mind -- again.
Hello, I'd say. Hello, she'd say. And we'd talk. And it would be fine. But then she'd say it. A little something, something innocuous, something small, something about me, something that I hadn't told her yet. Something impossible. So. So I sit here stirring eddies into my coffee and staring at her ass. Blueberry muffin and espresso to go. "Blueberry muffin and espresso to go," she tells rather than asks the cashier. She stands off to the side and reads one of the health magazines on the sugar table. The world, like clockwork. Press this button and top up- "Top up?" "No, thanks." "Alright dear." -that happens, everything in working order, buttons pressed with predictable outcome and noticeable patterns and if you don't throw a spanner in the works or pull too hard on the strings everything will work and you might be able to go on pretending that something isn't very, deeply, fundamentally, wrong. But that's bullshit. Sometimes I walk into a room before the people remember to move.
Quis dividir esse trecho (muito bom, por sinal) de algum anon que certamente há de ser escritor algum dia. E é uma pena, porque não sei como continua nem se verei o livro publicado quando esse 'algum dia' chegar . Mais em: http://boards.4chan.org/lit/. Have fun!
The question was "why do we care so much? We continue to exist because we are already existing (...)", and this reminds me of a few things.
Firstly, there's "The Myth of Sisyphus", by the French author Albert Camus. That's a book I've read a while ago, which is essentially an analysis of the existentialist philosophy under the perspective of a Greek myth, in which a guy named Sisyphus deals with a fate he cannot fight, unless he stops existing. Long story short, because of tricking the Gods in order to rescue his wife from hell, this guy is doomed to roll a huge boulder up a hill, but the boulder always rolls back to the bottom once he reaches the top. And that's about it, day in day out. As you might have pictured, this is a metaphor, where the futile labor as a dreadful punishment from the Gods -- the boulder -- is life itself.
Now, the problem Camus poses us at the first pages of the book is quite interesting. You see, once we realize that there isn't really a reason for us to exist, we'll see ourselves dealing with the only question that is really worthy, the only matter philosophy should really focus on, since all the rest just comes afterwards: why should we keep living? Why shouldn't we commit suicide? Importantly said, he doesn't treat this subject as a social, psychological or psychiatric matter -- it's really how to handle with the absurd.
Right, a few more words on this: he calls 'absurd' the perception of how pointless things really are, considering that there isn't a extrinsic explanation of life. And I suppose this really is related to the evolution of thought and it probably has also a lot to do with the individualistic perception that everyone has nowadays (or, as you'd say, "Like each person has their own world inside their head, with their own goals, dreams, and thoughts, and every interaction they have with the outside world has its own motives. And I wonder just how much we really care about this world, or other people, compared to meeting these objectives and hopes that we have designed for ourselves - or maybe, that mass culture has designed for us.") In other words, as a French writer said on TV the other day (his name is Luc something. Luc Ferry, I guess), once survival stopped being the central point of our existence, it's possible to trace a timeline of "what do people live for", so to speak, and you'd see an evolution from "God", "Nation/Country/Heritage", "Family" and now we're all about "ourselves". I guess this also takes into account the materialistic aspect of society etc.
What I'm trying to say is: realizing we have nothing relevant to live for leads to a generalized delusion (again, as you'd say, "we are all pursuing (...) what will bring some meaning to a life (...) but more likely just become yet another body in the cemetary, only remembered as being your's parent's parent's parent, or a random name in your school's old yearbook."
Let me now quote the author:
“Cenários desabarem é coisa que acontece. Acordar, bonde, quatro horas no escritório ou na fábrica, almoço, bonde, quatro horas de trabalho, jantar, sono e segunda terça quarta quinta sexta e sábado no mesmo ritmo, um percurso que transcorre sem problemas a maior parte do tempo. Um belo dia, surge o "por quê" e tudo começa a entrar numa lassidão tingida de assombro. "Começa", isto é o importante. A lassidão está ao final dos atos de uma vida maquinal, mas inaugura ao mesmo tempo um movimento da consciência. Ela o desperta e provoca sua continuação. A continuação é um retorno inconsciente aos grilhões, ou é o despertar definitivo. Depois do despertar vem, com o tempo, a consequência: suicídio ou restabelecimento.”
And then he goes on comparing different existentialist authors, discussing what opinion Sartre, Kierkegaard and Husserl (and whoever else he mentions) have about that. It's also nice to read his criticism on what comes to existentialist matters in the books of Dostoevsky and Kafka, for instance. But back to what I was saying, his line of thought leads to a surprisingly optimistic conclusion. Or perhaps more than one: he initially states that living in a absurd world -- that is, not linking our existence to anything else but to itself -- gives us absolute freedom to anything we want, to think whatever we feel like thinking and so on. One of Dostoevsky's charachteres, Ivan Karamazov, says, for example, that if there isn't a God, then everything is allowed. And that's pretty much the spirit of it.
That said, I'll go back to your post: "Is there anything genuine in our modernized world, or are we all just obsessed with continuously improving our own experience of life before being forced to lie cold under the ground?" - The thing is, you're not obliged to improve your own experience of life. According to the book, this very despair is (supposedly) the start of a wonderful life, because now you're free. You might kill yourself because ending up as just another corpse in the cemetery is too much, but the whole experience out there is enough.
And this leads to the final conclusion (and the last sentence of the book: "É preciso imaginar Sísifo feliz"). Here's a translation I've found of the last two paragraphs:
"All Sisyphus' silent joy is contained therein. His fate belongs to him. (...) Likewise, the absurd man, when he contemplates his torment, silences all the idols. In the universe suddenly restored to its silence, the myriad wondering little voices of the earth rise up. Unconscious, secret calls, invitations from all the faces, they are the necessary reverse and price of victory. There is no sun without shadow, and it is essential to know the night. The absurd man says yes and his efforts will henceforth be unceasing. If there is a personal fate, there is no higher destiny, or at least there is, but one which he concludes is inevitable and despicable. For the rest, he knows himself to be the master of his days. At that subtle moment when man glances backward over his life, Sisyphus returning toward his rock, in that slight pivoting he contemplates that series of unrelated actions which become his fate, created by him, combined under his memory's eye and soon sealed by his death. Thus, convinced of the wholly human origin of all that is human, a blind man eager to see who knows that the night has no end, he is still on the go. The rock is still rolling. I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."
The message here is that life's good, despite of its pointlessness. Our burden is our joy. Right, I don't mean to be cliché. It's just that Camus ends his book in a positive manner, and I couldn't simplify it well enough without sounding dull.
In a way, that's why we have our "Little Pleasures of Life", isn't it? Instead of conformist habits to distract ourselves from our pitiful lives, it's safe to say they're more like... how to look out of our window and realizing that, even though life in a broad sense doesn't make much sense, it is quite beautiful after all.
Before I go on, here's what I was listening to as I finished writing this first part and its (surprisingly convenient) lyrics:
(You obviously know this, don’t you?)
Somethin' filled up
my heart with nothin',
someone told me not to cry.
But now that I'm older,
my heart's colder,
and I can see that it's a lie.
Children wake up,
hold your mistake up,
before they turn the summer into dust.
If the children don't grow up,
our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up.
We're just a million little god's causin rain storms turnin' every good thing to rust.
Não; talvez fossem holofotes os postes acesos, e era cenário a lua, que iluminava a nuvem gigantesca recortando o céu e dividindo-o em opaco e estrelado. Eis o plano de fundo de um certo sábado à noite (exausto ainda que sem bocejos), e de complemento estava lá a rua de paralelepípedos no ponto mais alto do morro, tal qual as antenas, o carro estacionado e a cidade lá em baixo, brilhando em janelas acesas.
Ali, depois do som de primaveras e andarilhos ('Vagabonds', vá lá) começa a tocar alguma valsa instrumental (em francês) do Yann Tiersen: gaitas, violinos e um despretensioso compasso trinário. Os carros só vinham a cada 10 ou 15 minutos, e assim estava montado o palco. Veja só, Agenor de Miranda etc. (hoje já saudoso cinquentenário) tinha muita razão: só pessoas de alma bem pequena não mudam em dias de lua cheia. Essa mesma lua brilha pela janela mesmo agora e fica bem evidente o que quis dizer o Debussy.
E aí não sei dizer se é exagero meu em descrever o momento, ou se assisitr "A Árvore da Vida" causou todo esse efeito contemplativo exagerado, mas eu sorri mesmo sem Campo Largo (pois é) e não desejei estar em qualquer outro lugar. Findo mais um cigarro, lembro que foi num desses momentos em que a conversa cai em assunto meio vazio que olhei para C., tornei a sorrir e propôs-se a valsa. Mal sabia eu que não lembrava mais como valsar direito, mas isso nem era importante diante de sorrisos empolgados.
Tão logo ficamos prontos, a música saiu do pianissimo e apressou-se alta e já não mais dançável. Mais um beijo, então uma corrida para o aparelho de som do carro e recomeça a canção. Pusemo-nos novamente a postos. Claudicante (gosto dessa palavra) e hesitante, esquerda e direita -- "pra lá e depois pra cá, João" --, a dança fluiu por alguns segundos e depois parou; não sou grande dançarino, apesar das excelentes intenções.
Após uma pausa para ver se castanho-esverdeado era ainda tão bonito no escuro, sugeri empolgado que retomássemos o um-dois-três bonito e até meio melancólico da música antes que ela terminasse. Assim o fizemos, e por um momento até achei graça da minha falta de coordenação dos pés esquerdo e direito, ao que fomos parando entre risos.
Mais alguns compassos e a valsa ficou apressada como antes, terminando suas últimas notas. Lá em cima as nuvens iam vindo em nossa direção e paramos para olhar os últimos momentos da lua cheia e brilhante visível naquela noite. "Caralho, que bonito" foi o que devo ter dito. Depois de algum tempo, de conversas no meio-fio junto com um par de cigarros -- "Não é assim que se segura um cigarro, sabia?" --, assim como a quase-dança de alguns momentos antes, foi vindo a nossa deixa de ir embora. G. já quase dormia no carro.
Não há fotos. Talvez seja esse o (quiçá único) problema da espontaneidade, e também uma grande vantagem. Salvo aquelas poucas exceções (e a Diana que o diga), meus melhores momentos não estão fotografados. Há um relicário em minha memória que acaba de ganhar seu mais novo item: menos de vinte e quatro horas depois de uma visita a um hospital em São Paulo, cá estou eu (tentando) a dançar valsas por aí. Um brinde sem vinho!
