Fernanda, prefiro partilhar o que nos une. Quando li o livro do Roth, escrevi: "Depois de uma vida cheia, o protagonista de Roth em
Everyman, morre sozinho, sem dar por isso. Em Portugal, morremos todos os dias um bocadinho. Sozinhos. Sem darmos por isso e com alguns, os mais imbecis, contentinhos." Como V., felizmente, é uma descontente militante, ofereço-lhe este pedaço. E porque sei que não me respondeu a pensar num pôr-do-sol no Cairo visto a partir das Amoreiras ou no "jornalismo de sarjeta" do dr. Silva. Todavia neste último convinha-lhe pensar.
"Nothing could extinguish the vitality of that boy whose slender little torpedo of an unscathed body once rode the big Atlantic waves from a hundred yards out in the wild ocean all the way in to shore. Oh, the abandon of it, and the smell of the salt water and the scorching sun! Daylight, he thought, penetrating everywhere, day after summer day of that daylight blazing off a living sea, an optical treasure so vast and valuable that he could have been peering through the jeweler's loupe engraved with his father's initials at the perfect, priceless planet itself - at his home, the billion -, the trillion-, the quadrillion-carat planet Earth! He went under feeling far from felled, anything but doomed, eager yet again to be fulfilled, but nonetheless, he never woke up.(...) He was no more, freed from being, entering into nowhere without even knowing it."
