I have a friend who thinks that everything I write is indirect for him

Este texto não é endereçado a ninguém especificamente.

This text is not addressed to anyone specifically.| Photo: Bigstock

I have a friend who thinks that everything I write is indirect for him. Including that. Did I say friend? I lie. It could be a friend. It could be an acquaintance. It could be a relative. It could be someone I’ve only had contact with through social media. It may even be you who is there reading me.

E it’s right there That’s the problem with texts that are intended as indirect attacks or mockery of a specific person: they lose their universal character to meddle in the nit-picking of everyday relationships. Only writers of little ambition would go to the trouble of “immortalizing” a slap in the face. Which, by the way, you will probably regret in the near future. I speak from my own recent experience.

Not that I am a saint , but I am a sinner who tries to learn from mistakes. I have written, in a past so remote that it was registered on a site called Blogspot, many texts that had the right address. But, interestingly, the contents of those firecrackers (I hate that word) always ended up being delivered to the wrong house. That’s why I gave up on this feature. The young man’s stupidity lies in believing that he will be read by the right person and that a certain statement will make him submit to the writer’s reason. My God! There’s so much arrogance in it that I don’t even know where to start.

Not to mention the waste of creativity that is writing this kind of thing. I need to create characters that say some weird things like that that the friend also says, without necessarily being the friend. I need to transform the known into a character. I need to imagine the relative and reduce him not to the individual he surely is, but to the representative of a collectivity of which he, stupid but hardworking, does not even realize he is a part. That’s also why I don’t write indirect: it’s a gigantic job for a poor result.

Custom hoods

No I weave custom hoods. Never. Because I don’t have the measurements of your head. What I write is based on general observations, confused memories, and pre-sleep delusions. The supposedly reprehensible reality of those around me does not interest me. At least not as raw material for my pseudo-literature. And what’s the point of rubbing some flaws in the other’s face for nothing if I see myself also lame?

That’s why I prefer to laugh and scold the one I see in the mirror. I prefer to refute the “Poema em Linha Reta” and confess some cowardice

pointing out the evident cowardice of others. “Where are people? Where are there people in the world?”, asks a Fernando Pessoa “fed up with demigods”. It makes you want to take the time machine and go to Portugal to throttle the poet and say that the people are inside us. Always inside us, you idiot!

Sometimes I recognize and blush, my words happen to communicate directly with the superego of others. I am not proud or ashamed of these things that have no intention. It’s chance. Or rather, miracle. This kind of miraculous communication is the next essence of literature, pseudo or otherwise. It is the unspeakable pleasure of the writer: to imagine in the reader a virtuous identification with the character (or lyrical self), from which an improbable and rare transforming reflection is born.

Used seriously, the “my friend”, the “one person” and the abominable “there are people who” are rhetorical resources of the most common – and efficient. For me, however, they work more to express solidarity than as a weapon of attack. I only reduce to the collectivity what I somehow identify with. And I hold hands with a friend, with a person and even with those people who think that everything is up to them. Maybe because of the other’s ignorance.

Even with all this properly here exposed with the commas in the right places, however, something tells me that I will continue to have a friend who thinks that everything I write is indirect for him. Because it’s no use. There are people who are just like that.


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