Wednesday, April 22, 2015

97. João Guimarães Rosa: Grande Sertao. Veredas (1956)

Brasiilia autor João Guimarães Rosa (1908–1967) suurteost "Grande Sertao. Veredas" (1956) - seda võiks teoreetiliselt tõlkida kui suur tühermaa, sest sertao on mõiste kirjeldamaks kõrbealasid ja inimtühje tagamaid Brasiilias ning veradas on jõed - peetakse Ulyssese ja Berlin Alexanderplatzi ridadesse kuuluvaks romaaniks. Eestikeelne tõlge minu teadmiste kohaselt kahjuks puudub ja romaani ennast on pea võimatu saada muus formaadis kui pdf-allalaadimisena. Inglisekeelne alternatiivpealkiri: The Devil to Pay in the Backlands. Sobiv.

Romaani protagonist, endine bandiit Riobaldo, jutustab oma elust, nooruspõlvest, mentorist Ze Bebelost ning vaenlasest Hermogenesest, salaarmastus Diadorimist, tulevasest abikaasast Otaciliast, bandiitide ehk jaguncodega liitumisest, nende elust ja argipäevast ning haprast tasakaalust karmi mehe ning karmi mehe südame vahel, bandiitide kuningaks saamisest ja oma hinge müümisest selle kuninglikkuse ja oma elu säilitamise eest.

Romaan on narratiivi tasandil väga huvitav, kuna Riobaldo heitlused oma identiteediga ning pidev dünaamika protagonisti ja kaasbandiidi Diadorimi vahel kestab ja muutub kogu romaani vältel; samuti on põnev jälgida bandiitide argielu ning olelusvõitlust.

Stilistilisel tasandil on romaan meisterlik, jutustaja teab, mida teeb, tuleb hetkeks narratiivist välja ja palub lugejalt andestust pikkade kirjelduste eest, lubab varstiseid hirmsaid juhtumisi, teeb lugejale komplimente ning kirjeldab isennast ja teisi iseenda pilgu läbi kuid lubab näha ka iseenda nõrkusi ja usaldab lugejale enim informatsiooni, jäädes seega sümpaatseks ja usaldusväärseks. Protagonisti jutustust on huvitav ja kaasahaarav ning protagonisti arengut ja - teadlikult tähele pandud ning ilustamata kirjeldatud - muutumist põnev ning tundeline jälgida.

Mis selle romaani nii eriliseks muudab, ongi asjaolu, et kuigi narratiivi tasandil on väga palju toimumas, verd ja jäsemeid lendab paremalt ja vasakule - kuid see on jagunco argipäev ja ei koti teda eriti üldse. Tõelisel mehel on aga ka hing ja süda ning tõeline mees oskab neist mõelda ja rääkida ning end teisele tõelisele mehele usaldada. Kõva mees valab ka pisaraid. Ning Riobaldo mõtisklused ühe mehe hingest jumala ja saatana vahel ning miks oma nö. elumissiooni täitmine peabki olema moraalselt ambivalentne ja mis ühele bandiidile üldse moraal tähendab - sellised mõtisklused, kohati tavainimesele täiesti mõistetavad, kohati aga väga julma taustsüsteemi avavad, jätavad jälje ja lubavad end väga ebatavalisele ning teoorias täielikult ebasümpaatsele protagonistile avada ja usaldada.

Super lugemine, otsige inglisekeelset pdf-i, laadige alla - jah, olen paha ja illegaalne, aga linki siiski ilmselgetel põhjustel otseselt ei jaga - ja nautige!

Mõningad palad:

Despite all his praise, I was unmoved, he could not reach me. I declined with thanks. To try him out, however, I took the opportunity to drop a little hint : "Joca Ramiro," I said, with a sneaky little laugh, which between the two of us could have meant anything. Then I waited. But Hermogenes limited himself to saying, gravely, confidently, that Joca Ramiro was a bold, brave captain, beyond the shadow of a doubt. Was Hermogenes being cunning? No, sir. I know and saw that he was sincere. Why was it that everybody paid such high honors to Joca Ramiro, unstinted, spontaneous praise ? It left me somewhat confused. But as regards Hermogenes, I was forever harassed by that dread of him, which I had to lash into anger. And for that reason, I said to myself : "I will deny him water, even at the jug's mouth." To exorcise him quietly in this manner brought me tranquillity. Which I needed. Much as I did not want to think about Hermogenes, I could not get him out of my mind, he always in the leading role, I his captive audience. I thought of him often as a hangman, considering all I had heard of him as a past master of atrocities. At first, the mere thought gave me chills of horror, and my mind refused to accept it. But, little by little, I began to want to know how everything that I imagined could be possible. I'll tell you, sir : if the devil existed, and you saw him, ah, you should not look, it is not fitting that you watch him, not even for a second-you can't, you mustn't !

In my efforts to forget Diadorim, a feeling of sadness came over me, and a deep fatigue. But I did not dwell on the past, nor fall into lassitude. If that was a sorrowful passage-well, then, it had to be. Like flowing water in a river. How ever many days it would last, let it; months, even. Now I no longer cared. But today, you know, sir, I think that our feelings circle about in certain ways, turning back on themselves, following a pattern. Pleasure often turns to fear, fear turns to hate; does hate then turn into these despairs ? Despair is good if it turns into a greater sadness, and then into love, full of longings-then hope comes anew. But the little embers of it all are only the same coals. A fancy that came to me. Ah, what wouldn't I give to have your learning, and be able to study these things.

After that I sought ways to relax and amuse myself with the others. Talking with C at6cho, with Joe Bexiguento, with Vove, with Feijo-the serious one, and with Umbelino-the cat-faced one. We laughed, and except for the combat chores, we loafed a lot. And so I went along, under that influence. If there was an order we would first gather into a large band, and then break up into small groups and scatter. The war was the same, but there we felt to a greater degree the lacks and the imperfections which occur everywhere. Is not the Sao Francisco always muddy? Most of the talk was about women. Everyone wanted them, that's all they thought of. A girl of one's own to enjoy, or else a gay street full of them . . . A friend of mine, Umbelino, used to say : since there were no women around, you had a lot to think about. He was from Rio Sirubim, a place back of the waterfalls. He was a good comrade and skilled fighter. Though he was small, he was good. He recalled : "Once I had a woman all my own, on Alecrim Street, in Sao Ramao, and still another on Fogo Street." This kind of talk in that heat ! Everybody told stories about wenches who had been theirs alone ; shameful episodes. But at night-would you believe it? -there were those who sought any kind of disgusting relief. And they were wild and hardened fighters, who knew no other life. During the day songs and singing; nobody knew any verses straight or didn't want to teach them; they made them up as they went along, singing through their noses. Or they would tell jokes and poke fun, cutting up like so many kids. Because of this loafing, we ate more than ever, almost as a diversion. Some would go off to gather palm cabbage, or dig manioc roots in some abandoned patch whose owner had fled. I gorged myself on honey locust, Barbados cherries, bumelia berries, and jack fruit. Fonfredo had a cup-and-ball toy with which we used to play, for low stakes. There were some sharp ones who bet even their neck amulets. And they made a business of selling these charms ; some even got up fake scapularies. Does God forgive that sort of thing? If you inquired you would learn that to a jagunc;o God was a capricious master who at times gave His help, but at others, for no reason at all, turned His back, His protection ended, and bang! the blows would fall ! And so they prayed. […]

Then I learned something that stood me in good stead later on : I discovered that when I felt that way in the morning, angry with someone, all I had to do was to start thinking of someone
else, and I became instantly and equally as angry with that one. too. Everybody, one after another, who entered my mind, I would begin to feel hatred toward them in the same way, even though they were my friends and I had neither grievance nor complaint against them. But the sediment in my thought roiled my memories, and I would conclude that what someone had said to me one day had been meant to offend me, and I would put a wrong interpretation on all conversations and actions. Would you believe it? And it was then that I hit upon the real truth : that the anger which burned within me was mine and mine alone, something unrestrained and blind. A person could not be held to blame if I chose to parade him in my thoughts. Nowadays, when I meditate more deeply on this hidden phase of life, I keep asking myself : can the same thing be true, too, of the intoxication of love ?

The things in this world that change the quickest are the direction of the wind, the trail of the tapir in September and October, and a person's feelings.

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