Insustentavel Leveza Wednesday, April 24, Foi-se. Minha alma destrutiva e ardente quer despencar. And I used to sometimes try to catch her". Me preenche um amontoado das cinzas de remorso ungido de choro barato. Choro de perdedor, de recalque. Queixo no lodo, boca na sarjeta.

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Heaven knows. I want to go home a place that will be heavenly. I want to go home but where can I go? The effect of being Paul Auster, he had begun to learn, was not altogether unpleasant. Although he still had the same body, the same mind, the same thoughts, he felt as though he had somehow been taken out of himself, as if he no longer had to walk around with the burden of his own consciousness.

By a simple trick of the intelligence, a deft little twist of naming, he felt incomparably lighter and freer. At the same time, he knew it was all an illusion. But there was a certain comfort in that. He had not really lost himself; he was merely pretending, an he could return to being Quinn whenever he wished. The fact that there was now a purpose to his being Paul Auster - a purpose that was becoming more and more important to him - served as a kind of moral justification for the charade and absolved him of having to defend his lie.

For imagining himself as Auster had become synonynous in his mind with doing good in the world. O motivo? He goes back to the beginning and works his way through the case, step by step. Determined to do exactly what has been asked of him, he painstakingly composes the report in the old style, tackling each detail with such care and aggravating precision that many hours go by before he manages to finish.

As he reads over the results, he is forced to admit that everything seems accurate. But then why does he feel so dissatisfied, so troubled by what he has written? He says to himself: what happened is not really what happened. For the first time in his experience of writing reports, he discovers that words do not necessarily work, that it is possible for them to obscure the things they are trying to say. Blue looks around the room and fixes his attention on various objects, one after the other.

He sees the lamp and says to himself, lamp. He sees the bed and says to himself, bed. He sees the notebook and says to himself, notebook. It will do not do to call the lamp a bed, he thinks, or the bed a lamp. No, these words fit snugly around the things hey stand for, and the moment Blue speaks them, he feels a deep satisfaction, as though he has just proved the existence of the word. A language that will at last say what we have to say. For our words no longer correspond to the world.

When things were whole, we felt confident that our words could express them. But little by little these things have broken apart, shattered, collapsed into chaos. And yet our words have remained the same. They have not adapted themselves to the new reality. Hence, every time we try to speak of what we see, we speak falsely, distorting the very thing we are trying to represent.

But words, as you yourself understand, are capable to change. The problem is how to demonstrate this. That is why I now work with the simplest means possible - so simple that even a child can grasp what I am saying. You see a kind of stick, with collapsible metal spokes on top that form an armature for a waterproof material which, when opened, will protect you from the rain. This last detail is important. Not only is an umbrella a thing, it is a thing tha performs a function - in other words, expresses the will of man.

When you stop to think of it, every object is similar to the umbrella, in that it serves a function. A pencil is for writing, a shoe is for wearing, a car is for driving. Now, my question is this. What happens when a thing no longer performs its function? Is it still the thing, or has it become something eles?

When you rip the cloth off the umbrella, is the umbrella still an umbrella? You open the spokes, put them over your head, walk out into the rain, and you get drenched. Is it possible to go on calling this object an umbrella? In general, people do. At the very limit, they will say the umbrella is broken. To me this is a serious error, the source of all our troubles.

Because it can no longe perform its function, the umbrella has ceased to be an umbrella. It might resemble an umbrella, it might once have been an umbrella, but now it has changed into something else.

The word, however, has remained the same. Therefore, it can no longer express the thing. It is imprecise; it is false; it hides the thing it is supposed to revel. And if we cannot even name a common, everyday object that we hold in our hands, how can we expect to speak of the things that truly concern us?

Unless we can begin to embody the notion of change in the words we use, we will continue to be lost. Eis o dilema vivido pelos outros dois protagonistas se presentificando novamente.


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