O nome de hoje é: Paul Valéry.
O poema de hoje é: "Estreitos são os barcos, estreito nosso leito", de Saint-John Perse.
A música de hoje é: "I try", de Macy Gray.
A atividade de hoje foi: podar a goiabeira do quintal de minha avó.
Choveu.
A chuva molhou o quintal e a conversa com minha prima. Lá dentro, minha avó está velhinha, de quase se ir. O assoalho está mostrando sua pintura original, como um palimpsesto, pelas passadas da cadeira de rodas de ferro, ou pelo descuido dos anos. Penso em seguir a sugestão de revelar toda a antiga inscrição, de posse da caneta-palha-de-aço, e escrever a história que já está escrita.
Escrevi, no entanto, esta pequena versão de Andersen:
*
"The little matches-seller girl"
The little matches-seller girl was set into the snow of night
at Christmas
in order to sell the matches
and make money to keep her warm and fed.
But every clap is followed by hands
of denial and disguest; hands from the wine
and the bright
of shivering decoration; and from the heavy
table and the pine, all colourful and tender
with no why. The little girl, all wept,
then walked to another door, not opened, at all...
And finally, tired of being around so long and
hungry, she sat shivering cold, and suddenly
after a while, she picks up a match and light it
in order to warm unless a finger, or little the nose;
and, for a long three seconds, the light
and the fire, in the darkest night,
remembered her to the memories more sweet:
There once a house of her own
parents; there were parents...
all is dark and cold.
Another match, among the matches not sold,
there was an oven, a table, and food
and she was little child...
all is dark and cold.
Another match, it lights the snow, outside the warmth
of grandmother´s chest...
and also this tenderness becomes dark and cold.
And one after one, the matches
lighted a memory, until the almost morning...
In the morning, the last light.
And home...
The passers found the frozen body smiling,
poor little matches-seller... "He tried to keep
his warmth with the matches not buyied; poor little..."
"Girl!...", said another man of the many
that closed the door. "What a lack of pity,
o humanity!", said the most of them.
And left.
*
A maioria das histórias de Andersen são assim: tristes de doer... Mas são de uma beleza admirável, encantadora, até mágica. Uma tristeza bonita. Sei lá, são histórias que mexem comigo. Acho, sinceramente, que Andersen escrevia para cancerianos...
