Luiz Pacheco. « My God, what guys we have! »
Tomorrow would be 100 years old one who walked between us as the plague of one man, this teasing terrorist. And if so many children do not agree, continuing to be frustrated the reissue of their work, their trail has not cooled in the carbists, and now it is the academy that shows ganas of integrating it, mummify, make it the sheet.
Luiz Pacheco wrote quite badly, as he once made me notice a critic of other traditions, more refined European, but it was not just to bust the clarity or sophistication of the most classic syntax, introducing a resurrected relief, a truculent impulse, a kind of a little style, it was the bad writing of a scoundrel in the phrase, even if with laivos of an eruption. It was not, it could not be, because it is lacking grace, as the critic who made such a repair, it was by talent something lurid, by the winding sentence, for introducing this addiction, this malignancy that finds and fills all the slits, which opens the gaps, sinks the stretch marks, and gives themselves to the derision, making a disarray in it, precipitating it in it. He could loosen here, stretch there, articulating more voluptuously or rudely, showing how this enjoyment of those who appreciate the brands of use, the spending on life. It was ellipses, truncated phrases, wandering, cutouts and overlays, vast parenthesis, apartes trades, formidable variations. He was jucundo here, joking there, inflated the sentence, erected it, pinched him, put it on it, pulling the reader to himself. Lower, whispering, at other times opening and exalting, playing, satirizing, up, down, going and coming. It was given to amazing spending, prodigated impressions, knowing how to chain them kind of chaotic, but not inconsequential.
Luiz Pacheco was a very particular master in these abuses capable of reviving this language. I knew how to return us to the enthusiasm for her. And in this centenary of yours, this is the aspect that seems to be elementary justice to emphasize, on top of his practice as a committed editor, who aligned in the counterpoint a stupid of the maximum platoon, or even this fury that made him such an excellent and fearsome zurzer of the installed bonzes of our literary environment, releasing the pests in the form of leaflets, palaners, illustrated, articles of artigules of newspaper, like this. But by setting aside, for a moment, the shape or character, the sordid fable of this “debauchery faun”, and even that incomparable encouragement of frantic agitator, having done a character that exceeded the scale of nonconformity, becoming impossible to integrate, or even beatify the reverse, as some intend to dismantle the plot and the cast, Once I would like to highlight how his diction was a universe, and those who realize how language management means a deeper experience of things, of himself. Her Casquinada still sounds very alive in those sentences. We get in there and we know exactly who we are. It is found, a type feels scrambled, turned. There are gestures there, signs, the search for a certain reciprocity, and the strength of gravity of a culture that does not dispense with the absurdity, nor of a certain cruelty or ferocity, as useful to the distinctions that the Spirit can do as the warm elements.
All of this was a way of making himself understood by those who could and can be on the other side, the one who even feels the weight of his hand, this reader he never loses sight of. It was a deal with him, a pact, a confidence. I spiked it; Also not to reward him. His subject was these fucking ones who do not matter to anyone else, only a few, that we embarrass the boredom by arming the genius of long patience and curiosity, those who sign the presence book, proving to be available, who prefer to vary, to extend the loneliness, by tuning that special attention to the things below, knowing that the nature of existence, most of the time, is shallow. Thus, without giving up the occasional sciles, a taste for intrigue, the common condition is born. After all, what was Pacheco if not the most sordid and extravagant example of the common being?
There is a literature that distrusts the great intelligences, the capital theses, the works that, written to praise the genius of humanity, are out there as impossing monuments, but, after all, all shit by the pigeons. The literature that was his preferred the sly, it was immensely lost, went to the tribe that comes to a page because the cafes are closed, or because the remaining conviviality became too clumsy.
Pacheco knew everything to walk around, of sinking any cause to distract himself, to entertain a small anger, a bellicose eagerness, to lick some target with a moving target, causing him, losing his expertise and also avoiding, thus having the gun pointed at himself.
Writing helps to unravel the ball, the paint extends the wire. Fiction, which does not require major themes, is happy with a distraction, any opportunity, a subject that holds your breath, putting the best of yourself in the composition of a recognizable scene, but investigating these reasons that justify a character or several, giving at the time your taste. He was clear how, striking, each being reveals an abyss. The scribe thus scrap hunt and disarmed pieces of those who express the tumult of the depths.
These days the literature is spoiled with justification, with aesthetic programs and ambitions that are entirely strange to it. Writers were replaced by experts in records and document rails, who are always very happy to clarify each of their choices, each paragraph or sentence. Suffocate everything. Before there were still a few who preferred to be a « I don’t know », for a « that’s what came to me. » The first sentence was an elbow, a « you already noticed that … » and from there could be chained details that saved the daily life, tearing up an authentic epic without eliminating that start. But there had to be a touch of dawn in the things that came to tell us.
The Pacheco was a superb tongue-of-the-tongue. Who likes, realizes. Who does not go for it for other reasons, for illusionist fanfares. One of these days no one will want to have anything to do with these things if they realize that literature stands on the most common life in a bright posture. More worth writing badly, getting into smaller matters, expressing this pleasure of being aware, noticing, and noticing, stressing, giving a knot, crawling stimuli, impulses, picking up incentives, enjoying the plate, with God and the devil. It is better for edible literature, even if somewhat indigestible. And it wouldn’t be bad if we could cause tremendous indigestions in readers.
The worst is to make them a good impression, to fill their ego, and to feed all this superlative indifference. What’s worse is that, however, these people can’t even laugh anymore. We read the things so sisuded that they write, so convinced of their importance, these writers so referenced in the place that they will surely occupy, and it is clear that these people do not even suspect the ridiculous picture in which they are inscribed.
Laughing is a sign of nonconformity, the best way to stick to easy prestige, dominant schemes and plots. Pacheco was a very thin intriguer, and his prose is a genre in himself, an engaging argure, an insatiable judgment, which, as Baptista Bastos noted, establishes the union between misery and glory.
Its genre is a form of revenge, betting on lucidity, beating against the Puritan morality that from time to time has brightened and embodies our literary life. Therefore, he never sought the Blessed Approval that serves some to go governing. He wrote as a darn, like Camilo, embraced vertigo and helplessness, enchanted by bad luck, surrendered to him, and was really in the background of the background, but scraped there a dirty, addictive and unforgettable substance, and this explains why the generations that will remove from this language their deepest vision of the world will continue to look for their sparse, undecided, martial writings, Bicked that leave the taste of their own fall in their mouths.
