Uma sombra nas ruas
Recently I read "Uma Sombra nas Ruas", book by Cleonice Rainho, that is a deep dive into the life of Renato, the actor of the story, in a short span of time after his mother's death. Coming back to his hometown to reunite with the family for the mourning, he goes spiraling into his past, trying desperately to find in his past self the answer for the problems he undergoes in the present. Really interesting book in it's own narrative but above all, to me, the experience was much more enriching on another aspect: form.
Rainho brought for this book a very unique kind of narration, with a story being told with the use of the main character's currents of thought, explaining thoroughly all he experienced going down this stairway to hell, inside his head.
When I say form, I'm referecing directly the author's method of portraying the whole narrative, directing it as both producer and actor at the same time, writing every chapter like a journal much more intimate than one would put on paper, describing thoughts in their purest form — for more confusing they may sound —, and comenting on them, as in an intern discussion with the self, leading to, naturally, a very personal experience in which the reader can come to understand the character better than themselves.
The obscure poetry of this book resides in describing the human in a very raw, very visceral form, not worrying about the absurd and goofy portrait of our primal image, and throwing away lyricism in name of realism. Something that can be compared to what Margaret Atwood wrote around the same time with "Surfacing", showing the woman as an animalistic vessel of femininity. With Renato we have that same near-indescribable roaring feeling, but in a much modern, much limited scenario.
Now, a few (non)commented translated quotes.
"I'm on a fourth floor, head down, hitting the bell, waiting for Maria to answer the door. How many times have I been in front of this door? So many, a hundred, much more maybe, but none like this one. I run my hand over my wet face, yesterday's beard. The tears run, burning my face against the wall.
So high up and feels like I'm at the bottom of a well. Darkness floods me more than usual, there's no strength in my body to ring the bell. Down on the ground. Tears, sweat, mud, I don't know, darkness floods me. In a well. How men sink in the face of pain. Feels like just yesterday I was knocking this same door. Another I. The clarity of sunlight, the sweets, ah! weekends so good they seem to fly. Now three days will weight like three hundred."
"The lady smiled white and her uniform and smile blended together"
"I had terrible discussions with the pillow. Dreaming, or was I wake? The cemetery, my mom shelved and Essa, a shadow, clouds, my darling, I'm finding you very depressed, I was a lot, it was a stain here in the subconscious, an Essa stain, isn't that what psychology says?" — Here Renato is in a state of profound depression, for he couldn't give his mother the burial she wished for when alive, and instead her body was put in a shelf. Essa is the name of his girlfriend, his therapist too, that had been trying to help him with the struggles he was undergoing.
"Mom, little Tony, Margarida, Sandra, little Sally everything uselessly. Poor little Renato of then, uselessly. Me too, Dr. Renato, uselessly." — Here is the depiction of a sudden realization of the uselessness of memories, and how imagining what stayed in the past won't change anything of his current self.
And that is all I'm going to translate, because I'm wasted.