Bartleby in my dreams (de Tiago Pombo)

 A few weeks after he passed away, Bartleby appeared in my dreams. He had never appeared to me like that before, but at the same time his ways looked strangely familiar, so much that the dream appeared to be reality. The dream I had was a really awkward one, so before I tell you about it I’ll tell you first how I’ve passed my last weeks. When Bartleby died in that prison room, I began feeling somewhat dazed and in a few minutes my head was aching so much that I think I never felt so much pain in my whole life. The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital bed. There were two men wearing white dresses, whispering, but I wasn’t able to focus my vision on them as I was still weak, and so I closed my eyes again and tried to pay attention to what they were saying.

 ‘I think we should start giving him that pill as soon as he wakes up’, said one of the doctors.

 ‘Why don’t we see how he’s feeling first. Perhaps those things in his head won’t come back’, said the other.

 At that moment, I must have made a noise or a move, because their voices suddenly stopped, and I heard the door open and close... and there was silence again. I remember trying to think about what they were saying, but then darkness invaded my thoughts again, and I guess I fell asleep once more. I remember dreaming about the office in Wall Street, about Turkey and Nippers, and Ginger Nut bringing cookies. Bartleby wasn’t there, but they were looking in the direction in which he usually stood. Then they turned to me, and started talking to me, but I had this weird feeling that although they were talking towards my direction, they weren’t really talking to me, but to someone else. Then Ginger Nut offered me a cookie, and I heard myself saying ‘I’d prefer not to’. They all looked at each other, and then Turkey turned to Nippers and said ‘What a loony!’. And Nippers seemed to agree with him, as he said ‘I think he’s going mad’. For the first time they seemed to be in the same kind of mood.

 I woke up screaming.

 A door opened and a doctor approached me. He opened my mouth, felt my heartbeat, measured my temperature and then asked me, ‘What do you see?’.

 ‘A room and a man dressed in white’, I answered.

 ‘You mean, another man dressed in white besides me? Or is that me?’, he asked, with a slight look of worry that I didn’t quite understand.

 ‘Is there any other man dressed in white in this room besides you doctor? I don’t seem to see anyone else.’ I answered in this matter of fact way, but I was a bit startled by his question. What the hell was going on in here? ‘Is there anything wrong, doctor?’, I heard myself asking.

 ‘Perhaps not, I was just making sure that everything’s all right. But you slept for a long time and talked a lot during your sleep. It was as if you were talking to someone who was here. So I just wanted to make sure you were all right. You’ve had a bad fever and sometimes people have some delusions. Your still slightly feverish but you should be alright by tomorrow. Here, take this.’ He gave me a pill. I took it, and went back to sleep.

 The next day I was out and had two boxes of pills for my headaches. I was to come back to the hospital when my pills were over. But I didn’t. As a matter of fact, I took the pills for one week only, but then I stopped, because I wasn’t feeling any headaches anymore and those pills were making me feel imprisoned inside my head. On Wednesday, one day after I stopped taking the drugs that the doctors had given me, I went back to my offices and was surprised to see that no one was there. The offices were empty, as if none of my employers had ever set foot in there. Amazed, I decided I should go back to Wall Street, see if my employers had returned there. But as I was walking toward the bus stop, I started feeling very tired and sleepy at once. I thought it might be because of the medication I had been taking and decided to go home for a rest before I went to the office. As soon as I sat in my couch, I fell asleep. And this was when Bartleby appeared in my dream. I was sitting at my desk, in my Wall Street office, and I was alone. The only thing I noticed was that my shadow was bigger than usual, and went from my desk to the window where Bartleby would be standing on his free time. Then, I looked more attentively at the shadow. It wasn’t a normal shadow. I was sitting in my desk, but the shadow had the form of a  figure standing up. It couldn’t be me. Then I looked up again, and there was a figure standing at the entrance of my office. I recognized Bartleby almost immediately, only he was looking fitter than he used to. I also noticed my shadow had gone, it was just me and him. I tried to get closer to him, but it was as if his silhouette wouldn’t let me approach it. The closer I came to it, the more distanced it seemed. Then a voice said ‘Don’t get close to me, I’ve already disturbed you enough’. It was Bartleby’s voice. I wanted to cry ‘Why did you go away, why did you let yourself go?’.

 For a moment, there was silence, and I thought he was gone. He wasn’t there anymore, physically, at least. But I felt his presence. And I heard his voice once again. ‘Don’t go back to Wall Street, you don’t belong there. You’re not destined to stay there, you’re bigger than that. If you go back, I’ll never be able to go away, don’t you understand?’.

 As I think about these words today, I find them absolutely weird, but in that moment, or in that dream, they completely made sense to me. I answered ‘How didn’t I understand this before? Of course I can’t go back. I’m sick of that world. You were the only true person I’ve met there in years’. I heard his voice once again, this time it seemed to come from inside my head. ‘I’m you. I’m your creation. You wanted me to come to you, that’s why I came. But you won’t need me anymore after this, because my mission is over. I’m your salvation, but if I stay too long you will go insane. I’m just your will to be free. Leave the offices, never go back, and let me go back to where I belong.’

 ‘But, wait!! WAIT!! Don’t go yet. Where do you belong, tell me?’ At that moment I knew I my consciousness was coming back, I was about to wake up. But still heard his voice, saying ‘In your unconsciousness, I’m your desire to be free. That’s why I have to go, you’re free now!’.

 And suddenly I understood everything. ‘Thank you, Bartleby, my poet, my saviour!’

A educação moral de Huck e a "sivilização" (trabalho de Bárbara Carvalho)

 

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884) de Mark Twain (1835-1910) trata-se de uma história que relata, na primeira pessoa, o desenvolvimento de um menino que viveu durante o período pré-Guerra Colonial norte-americana, na comunidade sulista e esclavagista de St. Petersburgh. Huck Finn é um rapaz pobre, iletrado, praticamente órfão, que desconfia consideravelmente dos valores morais e dos preceitos da sociedade que o trata como um “excluído” (outcast) e não consegue protegê-lo dos abusos a que é constantemente sujeito.

O que apreende da sociedade em que vive e a relação de profunda amizade e respeito que desenvolve com o escravo fugitivo Jim, levam-no a questionar muitos dos ensinamentos que recebeu, especialmentesobre raça e religião. A luta de Huck pela sua liberdade, procurando escapar das “garras” da sociedade que o quer “sivilizar”, compara-se à luta pela libertação dos negros escravos. Esta almejada liberdade, pela qual luta ao fugir de seu pai e percorrer o rio Mississípi numa jangada, com o escravo Jim, permite-lhe tomar suas próprias decisões sem qualquer restrição ou enviesamento por parte de uma sociedade que ele considera hipócrita, iniciando-se então todo um processo de auto-descoberta e aprendizagem. Mesmo sem ter frequentado a escola, Huck apresenta-se no fim (?) da sua história como um menino que aprendeu a “ler” o mundo que o rodeia – aprendeu a diferenciar o bom e o mau, o certo e o errado, o amigo e o inimigo. Frequentemente forçado a recorrer ao próprio engenho para sobreviver, e sendo um “excluído” da sociedade, ele procura chegar às suas próprias conclusões acerca de determinados assuntos importantes (em especial, a escravatura) as quais muitas vezes contradizem normas socialmente aceites. Assim, temos uma aventura pejada de mentiras e charlatanice, engodos e tramóias que ilustram este “sobreviver” alternativo. Por diversas vezes, Huck chega à conclusão que mentir pode ser algo ‘bom’, dependendo do objectivo, especialmente se este for salvar a vida de um amigo. Twain recorre a este artificio literário para ilustrar a ambiguidade moral da época, que Huck identifica e reconhece procurando, consequentemente, uma via alternativa, seguindo a sua própria consciência e agindo de acordo o que lhe parece mais correto. A tematização da superstição e das crendices populares serve também para explorar alternativas aos ensinamentos socialmente aceites.

O grande dilema moral desta história dá-se quando Huck tem de decidir entre “ir para o inferno” e não trair a amizade de Jim, entregando-o à sua legítima “proprietária”, sendo que acaba por se decidir pela primeira opção, pondo a vida e o bem-estar de Jim acima dos seus próprios interesses pessoais – alcançando, desta forma, um altruísmo advogado em teoria pela sociedade que o rodeava, mas que não era verdadeiramente colocado em prática. Esse é o momento em que Huck quebra todos os laços com o mundo que o rodeia e decide escapar a todas a tentativas de “civilização”. Este corte simboliza muito mais do que simplesmente não querer tomar banho ou ir à escola.

Na verdade, a sociedade caricaturizada por Twain não é mais do que um conjunto de preceitos e regras degradados que desafiam o bom senso e a lógica – uma sociedade em que os direitos de um homem (branco) sobre a sua propriedade (escravo/filho), estão acima do bem-estar desta e de todos os direitos naturais inalienáveis a todo o ser humano. Uma sociedade onde até os que aparentam ser boas pessoas, seguidoras dos mais nobres e elevados valores, revelam ser esclavagistas preconceituosos. Huck considera que não quer fazer parte dessa camisa-de-forças da hipocrisia à qual a sociedade o quer conformar. Prefere ser livre, física, moral e conscientemente.

America: a Poem (trabalho criativo de Sara Santos)

I see the great men and women of my generation,

Going to and fro, unnoticed, forgotten, invisible in a mass of bodies.

I know them, and you know them.

But we do not know them,

Because they are as diverse as the greenery around us,

And as plentiful as the salt in the ocean,

And as melodic and unique as the song of a swan which says its final goodbye to a bodily existence.

I see them.

They pass by me on the street,

Run into me in the market and grocery store,

Their heads wave from the window of the omnibus, as it sets off to another part of town;

Or maybe out of town, all the way to the edge of this vast bit of earth which we inhabit.

I see them.

And I pass by them, and run into them, and my head waves back.

There goes my sister with her untamed wild mass of brown curls, which so beautifully suits her worried looks;

And over there is my brother, his hair white, his stance frail, his wrinkled face telling a story of a long gone youth;

And down the street is the boy selling newspapers on the pavement, hoping for a meal and bed at the end of the day.

My flesh, my blood, my hopes, my dreams,

All rest with them, with the possibility of their own hopes and dreams.

All go unnoticed, intertwined in an undistinguishable crowd, going back and forth,

And then back, and then forth again.

Oh, I see her…

There goes the landlady, who so kindly greets me good morning everyday.

And crossing the lane is my dear old friend, who after ten years still wears the same hat as when he was a boy (he must not have grown much, for it still fits his dark head).

I now stop to buy some apples, healthful fruit which feels me with satisfaction (they come from my neighbour’s orchard, the one with the limp, who bravely fought for his side of the country).

I recognize the little girl selling them; it is my neighbour’s niece: wide awake she dreams of princesses and heroes, half knowing the heroin she herself is,

For she is the flesh, blood, hopes, dreams, of our people.

And then, I see him.

Of all, he is the most remarkable.

Not because his skin is darker than most (for it is the heart and its interior colour which will decide his fate),

But because his feet drag through the dirt, unprotected, and his wrists bleed, crusts peeling off, from the wretched shackles of his condition.

His glossy black skin like the stretched wings of a raven, his eyes two stars gleaming bright in a dark sky.

And yet, there he goes:

His beautiful figure crushed under the weight of oppression and injustice.

The little girl does not know; she only dreams, and in dreaming she does not see what surrounds her.

Many do not see what surrounds them.

But I do.

My eyes are open,

My heart receptive,

And my mind awake.

I stand on the highest mountain and my eyes apprehend all that stands before me, after me, to my left and to my right, above my head and below my feet.

My feet tread the hard, dried, lifeless desert ground.

It scrapes my soles and its heat burns my throat.

My hands stroke sweet flowers in the garden and my nose breathes in their colourful scents.

My head rests on a pile of green leaves, the touch of spring caressing the nape of my neck,

As my eyes stare out into the deep blue ocean which threatens to swallow me whole (I am not afraid),

Heaps of cerulean, blemished with wide white whales drifting away as the wind blows.

My ears make out great roaring sounds in the distance; I am moved by them.

My legs run for miles, until a tall grey structure stops my movement,

Giant cylinders blowing smoke out into the sky, which is no longer blue but also grey, grey as a woman’s hair, once flowing gold as dawn down her straight back.

From the corner of my eye, I perceive a long metallic serpent creeping closer and closer.

Its large body split into two; or maybe there are two sneaky snakes, connected through parallel strings of hard cold intractable steel.

I look to the horizon; this screeching stark snake seems ceaseless.

I see. I hear. I touch. I smell. I taste. I feel.

All around me and everyone around me:

So vast, so rich, so diverse, so beautiful, strong, active!

A never-ending adventure of blues, oranges, greens, reds, browns, yellows, greys, crimsons, blacks and whites.

Of highs and lows, deserts and rich countries, green mounds and grey buildings, machines and living creatures.

I turn my back on them

And concentrate yet again, not on the geography of the place, but on the people who live here, who have given life and blood and tears to create the greatest, most supreme country of them all:

America!

And I see the Americans!

All day and everyday, the same routine unfolds before my eyes.

And everyday I see my sister and my brother and the newspaper boy, my landlady and my neighbour, his niece and the chained black man.

I see them, the bodies and the hearts,

Filled with the joy of hope, or the sadness of experience,

The American Dream, which will come true for some and for many forever remain a reverie.

I see them.

Everyday.

And I ask, who comes forth with his pen to write this great people?

The people of country and city, of work and play, of honesty and felony, of body and soul…so much soul in such fleshly ephemeral bodies…

I ask, who comes forth and sings this vast and noble people?

A people of heroes who are no heroes of the past, but of a present which is still in the making.

Who has the courage to stand up on a great mound of rock and scream to all the winds, seas and earths, all the countries, nations and men:

This is my people!

I AM AMERICAN!

I AM AMERICAN!

The great American people is that which I sing!

The people which bears no barriers, but extends itself beyond earth and ocean,

And which raises itself up, and will raise every nation up,

Through an undying ethos and relentless effort.

I may be wrong, I may be right, I may be both, I may be none.

So long as my eyes can see, my lungs can breathe, my mouth can speak and my hand can write, I will be the grand translator of my people,

The American people.

For they too have a voice and a story to tell.

They will no longer go unnoticed and invisible.

 Look for me and you will find them.

With pen and paper, look for me and you will find us both

In the Grand Canyon at sundown.

Picture: All American Blonde, de Sandy Schimmel