Dizem, e quase sempre mo fazem sentir, que sou dado à vaidade.

Mas, valha-nos deus, todos os que me acusam de tal pecado, são tão vaidosos que até chegam a fingir que o não são.

Vivemos na era das máquinas, no tempo do triunfo das máquinas, no tempo da glorificação do homem máquina, e da máquina que se quer cada vez mais feita à imagem e semelhança do Homem.

Cada vez mais gente põe na máquina todo o seu fervor e razão de ser, transferindo mesmo a fé em Deus para a fé cega na máquina.

O céptico que há em mim sente que já se perdeu a razão porque se fez a máquina. E a fé. E a fé na máquina. E a máquina da fé. E a fé da fé. E a febre de Deus, que é a máquina suprema.

Miguel Torga, um escritor que teve o grande defeito de se levar muito a sério, e a grande virtude de escrever sempre em bom português, por vezes era tão rude e verdadeiro que, lido hoje, nos remete para a lei da selva humana: “Afinal, sabe-se já desde o princípio do mundo que é preciso que o senhor quebre a espinha para que o escravo erga a dele”.

Hoje apeteceu-me ir dar uma volta, mas lá fora o vento soprava forte fazendo balouçar os ramos fortes dos plátanos.

Eu gosto do vento.

Eu gosto do balouçar dos ramos das árvores.

Eu gosto de dar voltas.

Eu não gosto de plátanos.

Sim, eu não gosto de plátanos.

… pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling, pling…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Por vezes comovo-me a olhar as curvas sinuosas dos montes com que povoei a minha infância.

De resto, comovo-me pouco. Sou muito mais afoito às angústias e às ansiedades.

Um quadro desalinhado, uma pinga no chão, um livro mal colocado na prateleira desorientam-me.

Gosto muito da pintura de Magritte, ou melhor, das suas composições pictóricas, do seu aparente absurdo ou descontextualização, do seu pequeno nonsense.

E foi Francisco Umbral quem me explicou a razão.

Também eu interiorizei o espanto, facto que produziu a explicação do absurdo da vida social.

Têm as pausas o risco inerente da desistência. É nessa altura que ficamos indecisos sobre se é necessário continuar. Depois invade-me a angústia do desejo, que é o princípio do fim.

As imagens agudas da memória só se tornam nítidas no movimento.

E eu tenho os olhos já demasiado cansados por vezes sem conta os ter mergulhado em luz ténue.

A 3 de Abril de 1946, em Coimbra alguém disse a Miguel Torga: “Em Portugal, as pessoas são imbecis, ou por vocação, ou por coacção, ou por devoção”.

Entre mim e os meus medos não há espaço para a piedade.

E isso cansa-me. Fico vulnerável. Nesses momentos sinto um forte desejo de paisagens.

Nalgumas noites de insónia leio poesia chinesa, especialmente dum poeta deslumbrado por pirilampos. Depois sonho e finalmente adormeço. Sei que a descrição parece trocada, mas não está. É assim mesmo que acontece.