"Não é a primeira vez que alguém pega numa pena para escrever estas
palavras: os tempos mudaram". Esta obra fala da percepção da mudança dos
tempos. Pastores, homens de letras, poetas, entre outros são os
verdadeiros ternos guerreiros entre todos os seres. Homens que eram
actuais, modernos, que viviam na sua época e não apenas tinham nascido
nela. Homens que conheciam a actualidade e não obedeciam a hábitos,
razões e palavras obsoletas. "O papel do artista é o de reformar o mito
do impossível e o de criar a tragédia".
Agustina Bessa-Luís, início do prefácio de Ternos Guerreiros.
This Is the End: James Gray on 'Apocalypse Now'
August 11, 2014, Rolling Stone
August is upon us, which invariably means withering heat and a hell of a lot of bad cinema. Worn out by the time the dog days hit, the studios enter hibernation mode, concerned mostly with counting their early summer blockbuster returns (or licking their wounds). There's hope around the corner — the fall festivals loom — but that moment isn't here yet. The last month of summer is usually barren.
Except when it isn't.
It certainly wasn't 35 years ago — August 15, 1979, to be exact, when Francis Ford Coppola's Apocalypse Now premiered for American audiences. I was quite young at the time, but I still remember how high the stakes seemed. It had been five long years since Mr. Coppola had directed three monumental triumphs in a row: The Godfather, The Conversation, and The Godfather: Part II. He had made himself the King of the New Hollywood, and his talent and ambition appeared limitless. Naturally, many in the press couldn't wait for him to crash: "Apocalypse Never" repeatedly crowed one gossip columnist, and you can bet Coppola and his team at American Zoetrope heard all the snickering, loud and clear. It's easy for us now to forget the amount of shit Coppola had to take, but it was brutal. Rumors flew about how calamitously wrong the production had gone, and the unending editing process more than hinted at the possibility of artistic disaster. So when the lights came down inside the Ziegfeld Theatre in New York that August day, it's fair to say the moment was fraught.
And let's be honest here: The pre-release reviews were mixed. A slightly different version had screened the previous May at the Cannes Film Festival, and it had won the prestigious Palme d'Or prize. But controversy and doubt remained. Maybe it was the war — or should I say The War? Vietnam gave the movie a political charge, and people had their expectations. They hoped, perhaps, for some kind of explanation. They hoped for pat condemnations. They hoped for answers.
There were none. For Apocalypse Now poses questions without any attempt to provide definitive answers, and the film's profound ambiguities are integral to its enduring magic. In fact, the very sensuousness of the movie, its immersive and visceral impact, seduced me before I could recoil from its horrors. Think, for a moment, of that majestic opening: Initially, there is nothing but that strange, frabjous, now-famous, noise. Thuk thuk thuk thuk thuk… Next, the shot: palm trees, blue sky, orange smoke — and a helicopter, in slow motion, drifting wasp-like across the frame. Cue the music.; when Jim Morrison pronounced this to be "The End," an enormous explosion (bigger than any we'd seen before) lit up the theater. By the time the flames had settled, that shot had declared itself one of the greatest opening images in cinema history. Amazingly, the film that followed proved no less remarkable.
We went upriver with Captain Willard (Martin Sheen) as he pursued Colonel Kurtz (Marlon Brando), and somehow, we felt as if we were going along with him, deeper and deeper, so far that turning back would be impossible. The images were crepuscular, lush — IMAX before there was IMAX. Verdant greens, ferocious oranges, scum-bled blues, the darkest of blacks, all captured by the great cinematographer Vittorio Storaro with surpassing brilliance. How frightening it all was, how invigorating!
Yet the film is more than a visceral experience. Its core narrative idea, based on Joseph Conrad's novella Heart of Darkness, provided Coppola and co-screenwriter John Milius with a true dramatic spine. And setting the adaptation amidst the terrors of the Vietnam War allowed them to explore the idea that our civilization had pursued its own catastrophe. The film introduces us to American might in all its mechanized glory, then methodically reduces that power to nothing. Our violence had rebounded against us. Apocalypse Now, like so many national myths, showcases the intimate connection between the establishment of order and the violence upon which that order is founded.
The film is indeed self-consciously mythic, and with its transcendent imagery, it enters the cosmic realm. Captain Willard is an enigmatic hero, and we need the narration (written by Dispatches author Michael Herr) to help us know him. Surely the man has his dark side: he kills a wounded Vietnamese woman and hacks Colonel Kurtz to death. But by the end, Willard retains enough of his soul to protect the innocent, childlike Lance (Sam Bottoms), and here we see that the human connection endures. The film's experience expands in this moment, becoming vast and uncanny — yet familiar. Apocalypse Now does not alienate us or deconstruct itself. In fact, it welcomes us in. We all but participate in the strange water skiing and surfing obsessions and the hallucinatory Playboy Bunny show. We take macabre pleasure at witnessing the chaos at Do Long bridge. And of course, we are utterly thrilled by Colonel Kilgore (Robert Duvall) and his amoral attack on the village — a justly famous set-piece, scored to Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries," that compels us even as we shrink from it. We become complicit in darkness, and this is perhaps the film's greatest coup.
The epic scale of the picture (pre-CGI, of course) does not cease to astound. That much, at least, was celebrated back in 1979, but to me this is damning with faint praise. Too often a logistical achievement is confused with artistic excellence. Great art doesn't demand great scale (A Woman Under the Influence, anyone?), but there's no denying that Apocalypse Now dreams big, and it matters. So when the last act came, some considered it a letdown.
Critics called the final 30 minutes, dedicated almost exclusively to Marlon Brando's improvised ruminations, pretentious and muddled. I don't agree. Coppola chose to show Kurtz as a god who has cast himself into the underworld, wrestling with the gravest of ethical dilemmas. Once again, we're in Willard's shoes, bearing witness to the Colonel's disintegration in the face of the tragic choices his country has made. Our torturous passage through Kurtz's struggle is precisely what makes us aware of our own complicity. True, the sequence risks exceeding the boundaries of traditional formal neatness, but I don't care. "Perfection" can be its own limitation, and sometimes a "flaw" may contribute mightily to a work's ultimate power. (A work without flaws is a work without ambition.) The Roman poet Horace often inserted lines in his poetry that stuck out like a sore thumbs, forcing the reader to confront the established pattern; Horace's aims were different, and more profound, than the reader initially thought they were. Apocalypse Now functions in the same way, its makers committed to a rare and glorious vision.
Take a look at the landscape since this film was released: How many have even tried something this monumental? It may well be the last of its breed, and for this reason, among many others, I regard Francis Ford Coppola as a national treasure. "There is no art without risk," he has said, and it's all we can do to hope that we follow this courageous ideal. I might well go to the jungle to make a movie soon, and I've often joked that given the difficulties of such an enterprise, any advice from Mr. Coppola likely would be a simple "don't go." But in truth, this is a dumb joke, because no one is more inspiring and encouraging in both word and deed. There are many pretenders. Francis Ford Coppola went out and did it. He gave us a work that lives and breathes still, its vitality an enduring force. And whenever we question our own reach, we need only look to this magnificent movie, in all its untidy and coruscating beauty, as the ultimate example.
August 11, 2014, Rolling Stone
August is upon us, which invariably means withering heat and a hell of a lot of bad cinema. Worn out by the time the dog days hit, the studios enter hibernation mode, concerned mostly with counting their early summer blockbuster returns (or licking their wounds). There's hope around the corner — the fall festivals loom — but that moment isn't here yet. The last month of summer is usually barren.
Except when it isn't.
It certainly wasn't 35 years ago — August 15, 1979, to be exact, when Francis Ford Coppola's Apocalypse Now premiered for American audiences. I was quite young at the time, but I still remember how high the stakes seemed. It had been five long years since Mr. Coppola had directed three monumental triumphs in a row: The Godfather, The Conversation, and The Godfather: Part II. He had made himself the King of the New Hollywood, and his talent and ambition appeared limitless. Naturally, many in the press couldn't wait for him to crash: "Apocalypse Never" repeatedly crowed one gossip columnist, and you can bet Coppola and his team at American Zoetrope heard all the snickering, loud and clear. It's easy for us now to forget the amount of shit Coppola had to take, but it was brutal. Rumors flew about how calamitously wrong the production had gone, and the unending editing process more than hinted at the possibility of artistic disaster. So when the lights came down inside the Ziegfeld Theatre in New York that August day, it's fair to say the moment was fraught.
And let's be honest here: The pre-release reviews were mixed. A slightly different version had screened the previous May at the Cannes Film Festival, and it had won the prestigious Palme d'Or prize. But controversy and doubt remained. Maybe it was the war — or should I say The War? Vietnam gave the movie a political charge, and people had their expectations. They hoped, perhaps, for some kind of explanation. They hoped for pat condemnations. They hoped for answers.
There were none. For Apocalypse Now poses questions without any attempt to provide definitive answers, and the film's profound ambiguities are integral to its enduring magic. In fact, the very sensuousness of the movie, its immersive and visceral impact, seduced me before I could recoil from its horrors. Think, for a moment, of that majestic opening: Initially, there is nothing but that strange, frabjous, now-famous, noise. Thuk thuk thuk thuk thuk… Next, the shot: palm trees, blue sky, orange smoke — and a helicopter, in slow motion, drifting wasp-like across the frame. Cue the music.; when Jim Morrison pronounced this to be "The End," an enormous explosion (bigger than any we'd seen before) lit up the theater. By the time the flames had settled, that shot had declared itself one of the greatest opening images in cinema history. Amazingly, the film that followed proved no less remarkable.
We went upriver with Captain Willard (Martin Sheen) as he pursued Colonel Kurtz (Marlon Brando), and somehow, we felt as if we were going along with him, deeper and deeper, so far that turning back would be impossible. The images were crepuscular, lush — IMAX before there was IMAX. Verdant greens, ferocious oranges, scum-bled blues, the darkest of blacks, all captured by the great cinematographer Vittorio Storaro with surpassing brilliance. How frightening it all was, how invigorating!
Yet the film is more than a visceral experience. Its core narrative idea, based on Joseph Conrad's novella Heart of Darkness, provided Coppola and co-screenwriter John Milius with a true dramatic spine. And setting the adaptation amidst the terrors of the Vietnam War allowed them to explore the idea that our civilization had pursued its own catastrophe. The film introduces us to American might in all its mechanized glory, then methodically reduces that power to nothing. Our violence had rebounded against us. Apocalypse Now, like so many national myths, showcases the intimate connection between the establishment of order and the violence upon which that order is founded.
The film is indeed self-consciously mythic, and with its transcendent imagery, it enters the cosmic realm. Captain Willard is an enigmatic hero, and we need the narration (written by Dispatches author Michael Herr) to help us know him. Surely the man has his dark side: he kills a wounded Vietnamese woman and hacks Colonel Kurtz to death. But by the end, Willard retains enough of his soul to protect the innocent, childlike Lance (Sam Bottoms), and here we see that the human connection endures. The film's experience expands in this moment, becoming vast and uncanny — yet familiar. Apocalypse Now does not alienate us or deconstruct itself. In fact, it welcomes us in. We all but participate in the strange water skiing and surfing obsessions and the hallucinatory Playboy Bunny show. We take macabre pleasure at witnessing the chaos at Do Long bridge. And of course, we are utterly thrilled by Colonel Kilgore (Robert Duvall) and his amoral attack on the village — a justly famous set-piece, scored to Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries," that compels us even as we shrink from it. We become complicit in darkness, and this is perhaps the film's greatest coup.
The epic scale of the picture (pre-CGI, of course) does not cease to astound. That much, at least, was celebrated back in 1979, but to me this is damning with faint praise. Too often a logistical achievement is confused with artistic excellence. Great art doesn't demand great scale (A Woman Under the Influence, anyone?), but there's no denying that Apocalypse Now dreams big, and it matters. So when the last act came, some considered it a letdown.
Critics called the final 30 minutes, dedicated almost exclusively to Marlon Brando's improvised ruminations, pretentious and muddled. I don't agree. Coppola chose to show Kurtz as a god who has cast himself into the underworld, wrestling with the gravest of ethical dilemmas. Once again, we're in Willard's shoes, bearing witness to the Colonel's disintegration in the face of the tragic choices his country has made. Our torturous passage through Kurtz's struggle is precisely what makes us aware of our own complicity. True, the sequence risks exceeding the boundaries of traditional formal neatness, but I don't care. "Perfection" can be its own limitation, and sometimes a "flaw" may contribute mightily to a work's ultimate power. (A work without flaws is a work without ambition.) The Roman poet Horace often inserted lines in his poetry that stuck out like a sore thumbs, forcing the reader to confront the established pattern; Horace's aims were different, and more profound, than the reader initially thought they were. Apocalypse Now functions in the same way, its makers committed to a rare and glorious vision.
Take a look at the landscape since this film was released: How many have even tried something this monumental? It may well be the last of its breed, and for this reason, among many others, I regard Francis Ford Coppola as a national treasure. "There is no art without risk," he has said, and it's all we can do to hope that we follow this courageous ideal. I might well go to the jungle to make a movie soon, and I've often joked that given the difficulties of such an enterprise, any advice from Mr. Coppola likely would be a simple "don't go." But in truth, this is a dumb joke, because no one is more inspiring and encouraging in both word and deed. There are many pretenders. Francis Ford Coppola went out and did it. He gave us a work that lives and breathes still, its vitality an enduring force. And whenever we question our own reach, we need only look to this magnificent movie, in all its untidy and coruscating beauty, as the ultimate example.
Num tempo em que o “cinéfilo” parece ter todas
as cartas na mão e tantas outras na manga – todos os filmes do mundo e todos os
livros do mundo ao alcance de um click – o termo, ou melhor, o modo de vida,
encontra-se cada vez mais viciado, falso e, o pior de tudo, cobarde. Inaceitável
que tal demanda, doença, necrofilia ou salvação, obsessão ou simplesmente
certeza quotidiana que não precisa ser embandeirada – assim mesmo muito próxima
da religião e do intimismo secreto e inabalável – se arme minuto a minuto aos
cucos no tal do facebook e redes sociais (nojento paradoxo) adjacentes que
parecem estar a substituir a lucidez, a maturação, as vias-sacras que no
passado o verdadeiro cinéfilo, como o verdadeiro ser humano, tinham de cruzar
para uma ou outra coisa fazer algum sentido. De facto, basta um comentariozinho
de uma mente sumarenta ou sumamente fascinada que acabou de sacar todas as
coisas de Jacques Tourneur em torrent (não em torrente) e numa qualidade cada
vez mais virtual, acompanhado pelo bónus do livro do Chris Fujiwara
digitalizado, para todos os dourados e muitooo “obscuros” epítetos” de Tourneurianismo
(ou coisa que valha) serem lançados à incomensurável teia sem apelo nem agravo,
tornando-se o tal “autor” num Autor e a sua teoria absoluta pois com
conhecimento de causa abençoada a muito espectáculo. Seguidamente é apreciar os
seguidores a espetarem o seu “like” da confirmação e do consenso – que
terminará impreterivelmente com o like do já autor original para tudo ficar no
tal limbo do simulacro, do não lugar e da não memória e a festa ser completa, volvendo-se
a merdiática plataforma – upsss que já me fugiu a caneta para a mesma sanita do
infame Vitor Silva Tavares – em altar dos novos papas e aventureiros da poltrona
confortável, sofistas de chiqueiro no grau zero. E valeria a pena continuar tão
apetitosa enumeração, tipo: a partilha de “publicações” como palmadinhas nas
costas avant-garde, os pedidos de amizade verdadeiramente do peito, os
maravilhosos tributos de aniversário, de génio, etc. De entre mortos e feridos
– todos os mil que esse rebanho (cópias cada vez mais próximas das seitas
infames e bem vistas as coisas bem comportadinhas como marias vão com as outras
do coro) ataca e os outros mil que se estão a borrifar e que muitas vezes
parecem mais honestos - nem uma voz deve chegar ao céu, seja de burro seja de
santo. Zero de espírito de grupo - meses para se combinar um café, medo do cara
a cara, o mudar de passeio quando se substitui o teclado pelo corpo-a-corpo, o
papaguear fácil e a boleia ungida, e a lista de acobardamento seria
interminável… - como zero de espírito de comunidade (comum, bela sonoridade),
família ou mesmo proveitosa guerrilha, essa que daria resultados se ao invés de
tanta garganta existissem coisas práticas, objectos pelos quais depois se
pudessem lutar, dar o sangue por, contrapor, assumir verticalmente – isto de
corpo inteiro, e não com as meias tintas e com a inveja que existe quando
certos fogachos animadores realmente emergem. Quando isso acontece e vale a
pena dar a cara - e acontece tão raramente - os tais que pelas nets tanto palraram
depois escondem-se. E os “likes” continuam a saltar.
Cinefilia é uma coisa que hoje – e agora
assumindo o escatologismo que se quiser – se encontra na sanita sem autoclismo
que leve tal degredo. É por demais simples e impressionista arrear sobre as
sombras, os tormentos e os suores de “I Walked With a Zombie”, sacar uma frase
vencedora escondida de um artigo que alguém “subiu” no site da moda, impor ao
vencedor de Cannes ou Locarno (quanto tempo até um “nosso” herói ser um porco
por lhe terem dado um prémio?) os mestres de outrora. Será mais difícil gostar
– mas mais dias menos dia uma das revistas internacionais dos escaparates
chiques dedica-lhe um número em que se analisa tudo o que se pode analisar com peúgas
quentes e charuto cubano - ou digerir alguns filmes de um Martin Ritt ou talvez
- para não me chamarem velhadas – de Wang Bing, modos, antes de filmes, de
trabalho mesmo, trabalho trabalho, coisa de trolhas e pedreiros, patriarcas e aldeões
imemoriais, monges e samurais bichos-do-mato, andarilhos e frequentadores de
espaços ignominies fora-de-horas, onde não só as personagens a esses se
equiparam, como o trabalho dos senhores directores e o seu tempo (nada) livre é
da mesma medida e moral dos que pegam em gamelas, massa, cimento, ditos
ancestrais e seguros como os pilares da sabedoria, gastam sola ou epiderme,
suam até à ponta dos pés e se refrigeram e protegem a cevada de cerveja e palha
de cigarros. Aiii a violência, as raparigas sensuais malucas, a fantasmagoria,
o misticismo dos tipos da RKO…aii o plano fixo, a recordação e rememoração Hollywoodiana,
o tratamento do tempo e da palavra do Straubiano que merecia os prémios e não
os tem e só eu sei que os deveria de ter…Fossem falar disso aos Jacques ou aos
Ottos e eles imediatamente lançariam os feitiços e as demências impregnadas nos
seus contos contra tão empertigados interlocutores.
Perdeu-se o que importava, o que importa, e o
que é a cinefilia, a arte de amar, de viver, de ir à luta e aos beijos, Jean
Douchet com cara de mau e absolutamente disponível – que nada tem a ver com
vaidade, conforto ou consenso, nem mesmo com o usar de teclado diariamente não
como quem defeca (causa natural e logo necessária) sim apenas rotina dos que
têm medo de flutuações e fossas do ego - mas antes com generosidade, paixão
individual que a não esconde dos seus, sem receio de se bater e disputar com
quem ama e com o que ama, actividade diária no duro da mesma maneira que Víctor
Erice sempre será um dos maiores Homens do cinema sem mais nada ter de provar, um
posicionamento e uma atitude que o faz ter razão sem precisar de diarreias ou
de aparecer diariamente nas manchetes facebookeiras mais potentes que revistas
cor-de-rosa. Finalmente para dizer que nada contra essas ferramentas, de
certeza que há quem as use bem e há tudo o que eu desconheço, sim contra a
desumanização e o facilitismo e a intrujice. É-se porque se escolhe, porque só
se pode ser assim, porque se tem uma pancada, e o bem e o mal, o reconhecimento
do certo e do errado, do que cheira mal e bem, da beleza e da miséria,
revela-se ao longe - aquele está a imitar Preminger e nada tem a dizer…mas
olha, aquele com nada se parece, mas faz-me lembrar John Ford sei lá como…
E por falar em Otto Preminger, há tanto filme
seu que nos diz disto melhor que mil palavras (acto de contrição) …que retira o
tapete aos conceitos, aos clichés, ao plano sequência como aos transes ou hipnotismos
ou Freud ou… Por colheitas e ressacas destas, “Fallen Angel”. Tentando resumir
factualmente (e assumindo o falhanço): um fracassado – o bebedolas de Dana
Andrews – andou por muitas outras bandas a tentar ser feliz e a tentar a sua
sorte (ou o seu azar), mas, o acaso, que cola melhor com esta realidade e com
estes cuspes do que a predestinação do “film noir”, fê-lo desembarcar num esquecido
vilarejo esmagado entre a Cidade dos Anjos e São Francisco. Vai tomar o trago
que o seu dólar permite e derrubasse-lhe às vistas e ao resto como as bonecas
partidas uma perdida da vida ou da morte. Só que essa boneca, esse anjo ou esse
demónio dos desejos molhados, detém as carnes e a aura de Linda Darnell e já se
sabe que é impossível a coisa acabar em bons tons. Dana, que no entretanto se
entretém em vigarices honestas para adiar a treva prometida, ajoelha-se aos pés
de Linda e desde logo lhe quer beijar e possuir tudo. Sopra-lhe promessas de lares
e alianças, perde o estoicismo, a retórica e as firmezas dos vagabundos que
importam, compromete-se, esquece qualquer estribeira, alucina, está pronto para
apostar tudo num golpe sem considerações. E, noutro entretanto tão inexplicável
como os demais, desposa-se com uma loira púdica de pianos e canções de paróquia,
tenta amizade e reconciliação com o futuro. Encalacrado entre a voluptuosa que
se ataria – ou mataria – com o primeiro que lhe apresentasse garantias
concretas - essa que mantinha aninhados e babados como cães outros tantos em
umbrais do inferno - e a sua oposta que vai perdendo a alvura, a ambiguidade
penetra ou jorra de todos e nada é seguro, numa convergência que tudo parece
sugar. A coisa começa a ficar cada vez mais negra - ou cada vez mais metálica
nesse preto-e-branco que funde horizontes, vontades, linhas e vãos de escada
até à uniformização terrível para o derretimento, daí que nunca aja esses
planos onde a montagem está inerente a eles simplesmente para elogios
caheristas mas sim (ou não) para contemplar fundos – e a malvada da cabeça
mistura tudo. Dana já não sabe do que gosta ou de quem gosta, se de Linda, da
púdica transformada, do dinheiro ou simplesmente de bailar com a morte. Cai a
tragédia pois parece finalmente começar a perceber um bocadinho do que trata a
Vida e o Amor. Depois, o fado destes e de sempre, mortes e suicídios e
apagamentos para a retaguarda dos holofotes, para o hiato fechar de maneira
imprevisível. Inverosímil, dirão os doutores de argumento ou os peritos do
cânone.
Mas o que importa aqui é que tudo,
abençoadamente ou amaldiçoadamente, está para além, para aquém, ou fora desta
maldita órbita, de qualquer congruência, da mesma forma que pulveriza qualquer
“cinefiliazinha”, Premingerianismo ou amparo no outro com certeza magnifico
compêndio de Fujiwara ou mesmo de Jean-Claude Biette ou de quem for. Nem mesmo
as genuínas análises críticas e objectivas que já fazem saudade (os curtos e
grossos socos de Jacques Lourcelles) se aguentam na ponta da língua do twitteiro.
Se se quer falar disto há que falar por si e com conhecimento de causa, talvez pensando
nas urgências dos hospitais, no cheiro a podre ou como se colheu o milho a
quarenta graus sem sombra, partilhar experiência e abrir-se sem os truques que
tanto profanam o chamado objecto amado. Ou então simplesmente do que se viu na
tela, sem padres, sem bênção, medo do ridículo, sem a outra rede fundamental da
respeitabilidade, de cabeça limpa e flagelado. Nada é seguro em filmes destes e
quem acreditar em Happy Endings está realmente no caminho para a felicidade
(zinha). Outro tipo de resumo, muito mais fiel e aceitando a porrada de Harry
Kleiner ou de Marty Holland: “doentes mentais”, perdidos da vida, obcecados,
suicidários (ou Aventureiros com letra maiúscula), corpos e percursos sem cabo
nem rabo, mentes que não percebem como o mundo e a máquina funciona. E não aos
comandos disto como um lorde, mas antes partilhando do mesmo abismo, Otto
Preminger, que jamais julgará, jamais culpará por exemplo Dana ou os outros
cães do mesmo osso pelo destino tão triste de Linda, antes indo no vendaval e
deixando-se disponível para ele e os seus entreverem no turbilhão total a luz
essencial, essa que pode redimir num ápice, êxtase merecido à espera de
qualquer alma. Ninguém tem culpa. Enfermidades dos que não encarreiraram.
A loucura da vida, que olhada de frente e sem os
filtros que hoje nos querem tornar nos mais libertários e radicais seres à face
da terra – faces, twitter, instagram, flickr, lux, parlamento, pingo doce – nos
surge no grau mais sensível onde se sentem realmente sentimentos (riam-se). Sem
tombar nas lengalengas tão imediatas e tão pueris da caixa de comentários,
amando (riam-se à vontade) até à exaustão. Não é o destino, é a ambição ou
promessa original que vale a pena tentar, nem que seja somente tentar, resgatar.