Eamonn Owens em The Butcher Boy (no Brasil: Nó na garganta)
Gosto muito de histórias contadas pelo ponto de vista das crianças. O livro The Penguin Book of Irish Comic Writing tem algumas encantadoras. Como exemplo, First Confession, de Frank O’Connor, The Confirmation Suit de Brendan Behan, The Last of the High Kings de Ferdia Mac Anna e A Rhinoceros, Some Ladies and A Horse, de James Stephens. Um pequeno trecho do último:
A Rhinoceros, Some Ladies and A Horse
He was the fattest thing I had ever seen, except a rhinoceros that I had met in the Zoo the Sunday before I got the job. That rhino was very fat, and it had a smell like twenty-five pigs. I was standing outside its palisade, wondering what it could possibly fell like to be a rhinoceros, when two larger boys passed by. Suddenly they caught hold of me, and pushed me through the bars of the palisade. I was very skinny, and in about two seconds I was right inside, and the rhinoceros was looking at me.
It was very fat, but it wasn’t fat like stomachs, it was fat like barrels of cement, and when it moved it creaked a lot, like a woman I used to know who creaked an old bestead. The rhinoceros swaggled over to me with a bunch of cabbage sticking out of its mouth. It wasn’t angry, or anything like that, it just wanted to see who I was. Rhinos are blindish: they mainly see by smelling, and they smell in snorts. This one started at my left shoe, and snorted right up that side of me to my ear. He smelt that very carefully: then he switched over to my right ear, and snorted right down that side of me to my right shoe: then he fell in love with my shoes and began to lick them. I, naturally, wriggled my feet at that, and the big chap was so astonished that he did the strangest step-dance backward to his pile of cabbages, and began to eat them.
I squeezed myself out of his cage and walked way. In a couple of minutes I saw the two boys. They were very frightened, and they asked me what I had done to the rhinoceros. I answered, a bit grandly, perhaps, that I seized it in both hands, ripped it limb from limb, and tossed its carcasses to the crows. But when they began shouting to people that I had just murdered a rhinoceros I took to my heels, for I didn’t want to be arrested and hanged for a murder that I hadn’t committed.
Joe Breen em Angela’s Ashes (As cinzas de Angela)
Outro livro com histórias de meninos – Angela’s Ashes de Frank McCourt, abaixo a composição que ele fez sobre a possibilidade de Jesus viver em Limerick, Irlanda, conforme solicitado pelo professor dele, Mr. O’Dea. Depois desta composição – impossível não amar Frankie.
Jesus and the Weather
This is my composition. I don’t think Jesus Who is Our Lord would have liked the weather in Limerick because it’s always raining and the Shannon keeps the whole city damp. My father says the Shannon is a killer river because it killed my two brothers. When you look at pictures of Jesus He’s always wandering around ancient Israel in a sheet. It never rains there and you never hear of anyone coughing or getting consumption or anything like that and no one has a job there because all they do is stand around and eat manna and shake their fists and go to crucifixions.
Anytime Jesus got hungry all He had to do was walk up the road to a fig tree or an orange tree an have His fill. If He wanted a pint He could wave His hand over a big glass and there was the pint. Or He could visit Mary Magdalene and her sister, Martha, and they’d give Him His dinner no question asked and He’d get his feet washed and dried with Mary Magdalene’s hair while Martha washed the dishes, which I don’t think is fair. Why should she have to wash the dishes while hers sister sits out there chatting away with Our Lord? It’s a good thing Jesus decided to be born Jewish in that warm place because if he was born I Limerick he’d catch the consumption an be dead in a month and there wouldn’t be any Catholic Church and there wouldn’t be any Communion or Confirmation and we wouldn’t have to learn the catechism an write compositions about Him. The End.
Um livro que eu gostaria muito de ler, La guerre des boutons, de Louis Pergaud. Não vi o filme francês em preto e branco e sim uma versão colorida em que a trama é transferida para a Irlanda nos anos 1950. Há uma crítica bem interessante, em português, de Karla Hansen sobre essa versão aqui.
Essas histórias se passam todas na Irlanda, e nada melhor para defini-las do que a descrição de Frank McCourt em Angela’s Ashes:
Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood, is the miserable Irish childhood, worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood.
Concordo, e acrescento: pobreza extrema, ignorância religiosa, drogas principalmente o álcool e preconceitos de todos os naipes tornam qualquer infância, miserável. Em qualquer parte do planeta.
The Penguin Book of Irish Comic Writing – Ferdia Mac Anna.
Angela’s Ashes, Frank McCourt.
The Butcher Boy, Patrick MacCabe.
La guerre des boutons, Louis Pergaud.
La guerre des boutons – Yves Robert, France, 1961.
War of Buttons – John Roberts, Ireland, 1995.
Angela’s Ashes – Alan Parker, Ireland, 1999.
The Butcher Boy – Neil Jordan, Ireland, 1998.