Last page of a novel – life
Fernando Jorge dos Santos Farias
Yellowed on the wall, the little leaf marks 1979. The carioca universe with a sad, rainy twilight, in faint gray tone, does not understand Dalcídio’s farewell. Uncontrollably, the wind only increases its huff, also in dismay. The sun with a sheepish glow hides behind heavy, inhibited clouds, drenched in a youthful cry, trapped, sensing the absence of the father. Rio as a whole, abruptly, is drenched in rain-crying, lamenting the eternal rest of the worker of the Amazon novel.
And the quiet has a certain date. The last page of his saga reveals the 16th of June in a frail, fastidious countenance, full of a fríúme as one who had received the fulminating visit of moths and tends to break up. The corrosion of time imprints on this page the marks of tiredness, total wear and tear, and commitment, even at the last moment, to the simple and distressing images of your land. As an artisan of the word, the Marajó novelist on the last page of his Romance-Vida needs his tool in hand, and thus, in sacrifice, the paper bleeds with hesitant, stuttering letters, but impregnated with sincerity:
The last grain of sanity is about to fall this afternoon of ice and redness in the violet field where the pigs sneak around silently. Thus the distant groves are covered with indigo, old oxen moo folded in the dry meadow.
The body, jito, announces that it needs to sleep. Forever. There are (dis) conformities with the end. And rebellious, he moves along trembling lines, also a trembling 70-year-old curiboca, confused thoughts, drenched in immeasurable paraensism and a stubbornness, stubbornly stubborn, in living. In an environment brushed with bitterness, the Paraense writer feels like a lame, bird dizzy to fall, in gray and burnt fields, just like in Cachoeira. The small, vague eyes insist on staying alive and focus on the sweet, naive and unfair feeling that is living. In a brief moment, the simple man of the province feels life laughing, frank and luminous, never lived in its entirety. The illness makes him helpless, restless and a victim of his weaknesses.
The clock on the wall drips, the hours that flow, scarcely, agreeing with the writer’s distant, bitter and weak chest. His ideas flee like wild pig in flight … and he, subjected to “high literature”, creeps and chases them. And if flooding was seen before, now trees and clouds and breezes and waters. Stop.
A thin and melancholy whistle of death tears the silence and calls for the presence of the arowana that floats without much understanding. The chincoã stretches on a wet stump and, bathed in coldness, contemplates the hawk-coré that is flying over that man with the knife, and with his ominous singing, announces that the worst is still going on. Dalcídio, aware of the testimonial coherence of his work, unbuttons a yellow beam of smile and rests on a common plain, in the fields of immortality. The little wavering conscience in the air observes life in the eyes of posterity.
The light goes on and the body needs to sleep. In summary, the chalice of its existence is exhausted. The disease reaps, once and for all, with no regrets and with great familiality, the life of the Marajoara, who simply rests, wrapped up in Rio. The saga, illustriously suffered, of the
shell-type writer. This, in other times trunk of acapu, is now seen overthrown by the natural law of life, however, it is observed eternalized in the gaped thought in the struggle of men and commonplaces: shellfish gatherers, aninga ground, fishermen port
of tambaqui and pirarucu …
In the midst of an immense firefly that appears, one can see the characters created by him from the sapopema heart of the water writer. Like a saint, they wave goodbye to their creator, who collects himself in his shell. Go for it. Most likely, the subtle Indian had returned to the interior of his tucumã stone.