Friday, November 13, 2009

Um conto de Lydia Davies


I am trying to learn that this playful man who teases me is the same as that serious man talking money to me so seriously he does not even see me anymore and that patient man offering me advice in times of trouble and that angry man slamming the door as he leaves the house. I have often wanted the playful man to be more serious, and the serious man to be less serious, and the patient man to be more playful. As for the angry man, he is a stranger to me and I do not feel it is wrong to hate him. Now I am learning that if I say bitter words to the angry man as he leaves the house, I am at the same time wounding the others, the ones I do not want to wound, the playful man teasing, the serious man talking money, and the patient man offering advice. Yet I look at the patient man, for instance, whom I would want above all to protect from such bitter words as mine, and though I tell myself he is the same man as the others, I can only believe I said those words, not to him, but to another, my enemy, who deserved all my anger.


sabina anzuategui said...


eu ainda acrescentaria algo como: "trying to understand that the man who says almost desperately he loves me is the same that cannot make love to me, and have sex with another woman."

Paulodaluzmoreira said...

Lydia Davies é uma das coisas mais interessantes que eu li de literatura americana contemporânea. Acabaram de lançar por aqui os contos dela todos até hoje e por isso saíram reportagens sobre ela na New Yorker, New York Times etc.