terça-feira, 26 de janeiro de 2010

Uma voz como outra qualquer

"Lemos melhor do que líamos e escrevíamos há quatrocentos anos?" O Reboliço ouve Virginia Woolf fazer a pergunta e pensa em como gostaria de a ouvir ler não mais do que este pedacinho que escreveu:
    Also the sea tosses itself and breaks itself, and should any sleeper fancying that he might find on the beach an answer to his doubts, a sharer of his solitude, throw off his bedclothes and go down by himself to walk on the sand, no image with semblance of serving and divine promptitude comes readily to hand bringing the night to order and making the world reflect the compass of the soul. The hand dwindles in his hand; the voice bellows in his ear. Almost it would appear that it is useless in such confusion to ask the night those questions as to what, and why, and wherefore, which tempt the sleeper from his bed to seek an answer.
Virginia Woolf. To the Lighthouse
ed. by Sandra Kemp. London/New York, Routledge, 1996 [1994], pp. 130. 
(Obrigada, ssv.)