terça-feira, 24 de abril de 2012

Justificativa para publicação do texto "The Fatalist"

O texto que eu acabei de publicar foi fundamental para minha conversão ao fatalismo. Não porque ele apresente de fato uma desculpa ou mesmo um pretexto lógico para a crença. Muito pelo contrário. Creio que as obras de arte tenham, como disse Schopenhauer, a capacidade de iluminar a mente humana para que esta, desviando-se dos artifícios delusórios da razão, alcance a realidade transcendente ao mundo de sombras que vivemos, ainda que utilizando-se meramente da sensibilidade do leitor ao talento do escritor.
Quando eu li pela primeira vez este conto devia ter uns dezesseis, dezessete anos, e foi o que mais me tocou de uma coleção de contos russos que ganhei de aniversário. De alguma forma, ele abriu as portas da minha mente para entender que, ainda que nós não pudéssemos saber nosso Destino, Deus, em sua onisciência, o sabia. Por temermos a impotência, nos recusamos a acreditar nisto, o que é na verdade uma prova do quão fraco e pouco sapiente o homem é em relação a natureza e a harmonia da Criação com o Criador.
Minha crença na onisciência divina e meu refutar do livre-arbítrio não fez com que duvidasse em nenhum momento de minhas ações, ou achasse que elas estavam sendo controladas, nem nunca me permitiu que desculpasse alguém sob esta alegação ou mesmo me desculpasse ou me colocasse em uma posição de miséria sob este pretexto. Creio que assim que É e nada pode ser feito para que mude, a não ser viver.
De qualquer forma, anos depois entrei em contato com o livro do qual saiu este texto (Gueroi nashevo vremeni - Um herói do nosso tempo, 1839, Mikhail Lermontov. Texto em inglês: http://www.eldritchpress.org/myl/hero.htm - da onde os trechos retirados provém) e salvei-o como um dos favoritos no meu computador. Passado um ano deste ato de salvar, resolvi ler o livro. Desde a primeira página, me encantei pela obra, pelo autor e pelo personagem, que considero quase um alter-ego de mim mesmo. Tamanha é a genialidade do livro e do autor, bem como minha identificação, que selecionei alguns trechos, para deixar os leitores deste blog, que foi, por sinal, construído como meio para divulgar a crença de seus autores no determinismo (crença esta que, como disse, passei a ter depois de ler o texto postado logo antes em uma ótima tradução feita por José Augusto Carvalho para o livro "Contos Russos Eternos"), com vontade de ler a obra:

"'Perhaps,' I thought, 'that is why you loved me, for joy is forgotten, but sorrow never . . .'"

"But far from it! Hence this is not the restless craving for love that torments us in the early years of our youth and casts us from one woman to another until we meet one who cannot endure us; this is the beginning of our constancy--the true unending passion that may mathematically be represented by a line extending from a point into space, the secret of whose endlessness consists merely in the impossibility of attaining the goal, that is, the end."

"And yet to possess a young soul that has barely developed is a source of very deep delight. It is like a flower whose richest perfume goes out to meet the first ray of the sun. One must pluck it at that very moment and, after inhaling its perfume to one's heart's content, discard it along the wayside on the chance that someone will pick it up. I sense in myself that insatiable avidity that devours everything in its path. And I regard the sufferings and joys of others merely in relation to myself, as food to sustain my spiritual strength. Passion is no longer capable of robbing me of my sanity. My ambition has been crushed by circumstances, but it has manifested itself in a new form, for ambition is nothing but lust for power, and my greatest pleasure I derive from subordinating everything around me to my will. Is it not both the first token of power and its supreme triumph to inspire in others the emotions of love, devotion and fear? Is it not the sweetest fare for our vanity to be the cause of pain or joy for someone without the least claim thereto? And what is happiness? Pride gratified. Could I consider myself better and more powerful than anyone else in the world, I would be happy. Were everybody to love me, I'd find in myself unending wellsprings of love. Evil begets evil; one's first suffering awakens a realization of the pleasure of tormenting another. The idea of evil cannot take root in the mind of man without his desiring to apply it in practice. Someone has said that ideas are organic entities: their very birth imparts them form, and this form is action. He in whose brain the most ideas are born is more active than others, and because of this a genius shackled to an office desk must either die or lose his mind, just as a man with a powerful body who leads a modest, sedentary life dies from an apoplectic stroke."

"I thought for a moment and then said, taking on a deeply touched face: 'Yes, such has been my lot since childhood. Everyone read signs of non-existent evil traits in my features. But since they were expected to be there, they did make their appearance. Because I was reserved, they said I was sly, so I grew reticent. I was keenly aware of good and evil, but instead of being indulged I was insulted and so I became spiteful. I was sulky while other children were merry and talkative, but though I felt superior to them I was considered inferior. So I grew envious. I was ready to love the whole world, but no one understood me, and I learned to hate. My cheerless youth passed in conflict with myself and society, and fearing ridicule I buried my finest feelings deep in my heart, and there they died. I spoke the truth, but nobody believed me, so I began to practice duplicity. Having come to know society and its mainsprings, I became versed in the art of living and saw how others were happy without that proficiency, enjoying for free the favors I had so painfully striven for. It was then that despair was born in my heart--not the despair that is cured with a pistol, but a cold, impotent desperation, concealed under a polite exterior and a good-natured smile. I became a moral cripple; I had lost one half of my soul, for it had shriveled, dried up and died, and I had cut it off and cast it away, while the other half stirred and lived, adapted to serve every comer. No one noticed this, because no one suspected there had been another half. Now, however, you have awakened memories of it in me, and what I have just done is to read its epitaph to you. Many regard all epitaphs as ridiculous, but I do not, particularly when I remember what rests beneath them. Of course, I am not asking you to share my opinion; if what I have said seems ridiculous to you, please laugh, though I warn you that it will not annoy me in the slightest.'"

"[...] most passions begin that way, and we frequently deceive ourselves when we think that a woman loves us for our physical or moral qualities. True, they prepare the ground, dispose the heart to receive the sacred flame, but nevertheless it is the first physical contact that decides the issue."

"''Fools should be so deep-contemplative,'' [...]"

"I run through my past life in my mind and involuntarily ask myself: Why have I lived? For what purpose was I born? There must have been a purpose, and certainly fate must have something noble in store for me, for I am conscious of untapped powers within me . . . But I didn't figure out my destination. I allowed myself to be carried away by the temptation of vain and frivolous passions. I emerged from their crucible hard and cold like iron, but gone forever was the ardor of noble aspirations--life's finest flower. How often since then have I played the role of an ax in the hands of fate! Like an instrument of execution I have fallen upon the heads of the condemned, often without malice, always without regret . . . My love has never made anyone happy, for I have never sacrificed anything for those I loved; I have loved only for myself, for my own pleasure. I have striven only to satisfy a strange craving of the heart, greedily absorbing their emotions, their tenderness, their joys and sufferings--and have never been fully satisfied. I have been like the starving man who falls into a stupor from sheer exhaustion and dreams of luxurious foods and sparkling wines--exultingly he shovels in these ephemeral gifts of the imagination, and seems to feel better--but when he awakes the vision is gone . . . and redoubled hunger and despair remain!
Perhaps I will die tomorrow, and there won't be anyone left on earth who understands me fully. Some think of me worse, others better, than I really am. Some will say: he was a good fellow; others: he was a scoundrel. And both will be wrong. Is it worth the trouble to live after this? And yet you go on living--out of curiosity, in expectation of something new . . . How ludicrous and how vexatious!"

"After this, no one can tell me that the soul is not dependent on the body!"

"My soul has spent all its treasures, its tears and hopes on you. She who has once loved you cannot but regard other men with some measure of contempt, not because you are better than they--oh no!--but because there is something unique in your nature, something peculiar to you alone, something so proud and unfathomable. Whatever you may be saying, your voice holds an invincible power. In no one is the desire to be loved so constant as in you. In no one is evil so attractive. In no one's glance is there such a promise of bliss. Nobody knows better than you how to use his advantages, and no one else can be so genuinely unhappy as you, because nobody tries so hard as you to convince himself of the contrary."

The Fatalist

Texto retirado de http://www.eldritchpress.org/myl/hero.htm

I happened once to spend two weeks in a Cossack village on the left flank. A battalion of infantry was stationed there, and the officers used to meet at each other's quarters in turn, playing cards in the evenings.
One time at Major S----'s, having tired of boston, we threw the cards under the table and sat on talking until late, for this time the conversation was interesting. We were discussing the Moslem belief that the fate of man is preordained in heaven, which was said to find many adherents among us, Christians, too. Each of us had some unusual occurrences to relate pro or contra.

"All you have been saying, gentlemen, proves nothing," said the old major. "After all, none of you witnessed any of the strange happenings which you try to use to support your views, did you?"
"Of course not," several said. "But we have it on reliable authority!"
"Nonsense!" someone said. "Where is the reliable authority who has seen the scroll on which the hour of our death is appointed? And if there is such a thing as predestination, why have we been given will and reason? Why are we held accountable for our actions?"

At this point an officer who had been sitting in a corner of the room stood up, walked slowly over to the table, and surveyed us all with a calm, solemn look. He was a Serb by birth, as you could tell from his name.
Lieutenant Vulic's appearance was in keeping with his character. His tall stature and the swarthiness of his complexion, black hair, black, piercing eyes, and the large but regular nose typical of his nation, the cold, melancholy smile that eternally played on his lips--all this was as if designed to endow him with the appearance of an unusual person, incapable of sharing his thoughts and emotions with those whom fate had made his comrades.

He was brave, he spoke little but bluntly. He confided his intimate and family secrets to no one. He scarcely ever drank any wine, and he never paid court to the young Cossack women, whose charms must be seen to be appreciated. It was said nevertheless that the colonel's wife was not indifferent to his expressive eyes, but he was always angered by hints to that effect.

There was only one passion that he didn't conceal--his passion for gambling. At a green-topped table he was oblivious to the world. He usually lost, but persistent bad luck only fed his obstinacy. It was said that one night, during an expedition, when he was keeping the bank on a pillow and having a terrific run of luck, shots suddenly rang out, the alarm was given, and everyone sprang up and rushed for their weapons. "Stake the pool!" cried Vulic, who had not moved, to one of the most involved players. "Seven!" replied the latter as he dashed off. In spite of the general confusion, Vulic dealt to the end; he turned up a seven for the player.
When he reached the skirmish line, the firing was already heavy. Vulic paid no attention either to the bullets or the Chechen sabers. He was searching for his lucky player.

"It was a seven!" Vulic shouted, catching sight of him at last in the firing line, that was beginning to dislodge the enemy from a wood. Going up to him, he pulled out his wallet and gave it to the winner, in spite of the latter's objections to this ill-timed settlement. Having performed this unpleasant duty, Vulic dashed forward at the head of the soldiers and with the utmost calm exchanged fire with the Chechens to the very end of the engagement.

When Lieutenant Vulic walked up to the table everybody fell silent, expecting something original from him.
"Gentlemen!" he said (his voice was calm though it was pitched lower than usual). "Gentlemen, why this idle argument? You wish for proof: I propose we test it out on ourselves whether a man can do what he wants with his own life, or whether the fateful moment has been preordained for each of us . . . Who wants to try?"

"Not I, not I!" was the response from all sides. "What a card! Of all the things to think of!"
"I suggest a wager," I said in jest.
"What sort of a wager?"

"I maintain there is no such thing as predestination," I said, emptying some twenty gold pieces on the table from my pockets--all that I happened to have on me.
"Done!" replied Vulic in a low voice. "Major, you be the umpire--here are fifteen gold pieces. You owe me five, so will you do me the favor of making up the difference?"
"Very well," said the major. "Though I haven't the slightest idea what it's all about, or how you propose to settle the matter."

Without a word Vulic went into the major's bedroom, we following him. Going over to a wall hung with weapons, he took down at random from its nail one of the pistols, of which there were several of different calibers. We didn't realize what he was up to at first, but when he cocked the weapon and primed it, several of us involuntarily stepped up and grabbed him by the arms.

"What are you going to do? Are you mad?" we shouted at him.
"Gentlemen!" he said with deliberation, disengaging his arms. "Which of you would care to pay twenty gold pieces for me?"

Everyone fell silent and drew back.

Vulic went into the next room and sat down at the table. The rest of us followed him. He motioned us to take our seats around the table. We obeyed him in silence, for at this moment he had acquired some mysterious power over us. I looked intently into his eyes, but they met my searching gaze calmly and unwaveringly, and his pale lips smiled; yet in spite of his composure I thought I could read the seal of death on his dull white face. I have observed, and many old soldiers have confirmed the observation, that frequently the face of a person who is to die in a few hours' time bears some strange mark of his inevitable fate, which an experienced eye can hardly fail to detect.

"You will die today," I said to him. He turned sharply to me, but replied with calm deliberation: "I may, and then again I may not . . ."
Then, turning to the major, he asked whether the pistol was loaded. In his confusion, the major couldn't remember exactly.

"That's enough, Vulic!" someone cried. "It must be loaded since it hung at the head of the bed. What sort of a joke is this!"
"A stupid joke!" threw in another.
"I'll wager fifty rubles to five that the pistol is not loaded!" a third shouted.
Fresh bets were made.

I got tired of this endless ceremony. "Look here," I said, "either fire or hang the pistol back in its place and let's go to bed."
"That's right," many exclaimed. "Let's go to bed."
"Gentlemen, I beg of you not to move!" said Vulic, pressing the muzzle of the pistol to his forehead. We were all petrified.

"Mr Pechorin," he went on, "will you take a card and throw it up in the air."
As I recall now, I picked up an ace of hearts from the table and threw it up. We watched with bated breath, our eyes, wide with fear and an indefinable curiosity, shifting back and forth between the pistol and the fateful ace which was now slowly fluttering downwards. The moment it touched the table, Vulic pulled the trigger--but the pistol didn't go off.

"Thank God!" several voices cried. "It wasn't loaded . . ."
"We'll see about that," said Vulic. Again he cocked the weapon and aimed at a cap hanging above the window. A shot rang out and smoke filled the room, and when it dispersed the cap was taken down--there was the hole in the very center of it and the bullet had imbedded itself deep in the wall.

For a good three minutes no one could utter a word. Vulic calmly poured my money into his purse.
Speculation began as to why the pistol did not go off the first time. Some claimed that the pan must have been clogged, others whispered that the powder was damp at first, and that Vulic had afterwards sprinkled some fresh powder on it. I, however, assured them that the latter supposition was incorrect, for I had not taken my eyes off the pistol for a moment.

"You have gambler's luck!" I said to Vulic.
"For the first time in my life," he replied, smiling complacently. "This is better than faro or shtoss."
"But slightly more dangerous."
"Well? Have you begun to believe in predestination?"
"I do believe in it. Only I don't understand why it seemed to me that you were doomed to die today ..."
The very same man, who so short a time before had with supreme indifference aimed a pistol at his own forehead, now suddenly flared up and looked disconcerted.

"That will do!" he said, rising. "Our bet's finished and now your remarks seem out of place to me . . ." He picked up his cap and walked out. His behavior struck me as strange--and rightly so.
Soon everyone left, each giving his own interpretation of Vulic's eccentric behavior on the way home, and, probably, unanimously branding me an egoist for having wagered against a man who wanted to shoot himself--as if he could not have found a convenient opportunity without my help!

I returned home through the deserted side streets of the settlement. The full moon, red as the lurid glow of a fire, was just coming up over the jagged skyline of the housetops. The stars shone placidly in the dark-blue firmament, and I was amused at the thought that there once were sages who believed the heavenly bodies have a share in our wretched squabbles over a tiny territory or some other imaginary rights. Yet these lamps, which they thought had been lighted only to illuminate their battles and triumphs, still burn with undiminished brilliance, while their passions and hopes have long since died out together with them like a campfire left burning on the fringe of a forest by a careless wayfarer. But what strength of will they drew from the certainty that all the heavens with their numberless inhabitants looked down on them with constant though mute sympathy! Whereas we, their wretched descendents, who roam the earth without convictions or pride, without joys or fear other than the nameless dread that constricts the heart at the thought of the inevitable end, we are no longer capable of great sacrifices either for the good of mankind or even for our personal happiness, since we know that happiness is impossible; and we pass indifferently from one doubt to another just as our forebears floundered from one delusion to another, without the hopes they had and without even that vague but potent sense of joy the soul derives from any struggle with man or destiny . . .

Many similar thoughts passed through my mind. I did not hold back their passage, because I don't care to dwell upon abstract ideas--for what can they lead to? In my early youth I was a dreamer. I liked to toy with the images, now gloomy, now radiant, which my restless, eager imagination drew for me. But what have I derived from it all? Only weariness, like the aftermath of a nighttime battle with a phantom, and dim memories filled with regrets. In this futile struggle, I exhausted the fervor of spirit and the constancy of will which are essential to real life. When I embarked on that life, I had already lived it in my mind, and therefore it has become as boring and repulsive to me as a poor imitation of a long-familiar book.

The evening's events had made a rather deep impression on me and worked on my nerves. I'm not certain whether I now believe in predestination or not, but that night I firmly believed in it. The proof had been striking, and regardless of the fact that I had ridiculed our forebears and their complacent astrology, I found myself thinking as they did--but I caught myself in time on this dangerous road, and having made it a rule never to reject anything categorically and never to believe in anything blindly, I cast metaphysics aside and began to watch the ground under my feet. Such caution was timely, for I nearly stumbled over something thick and soft but apparently dead. I bent down--the moon now lit up the road--and what did I see lying in front of me, but a pig sliced into two with a saber . . . I had hardly had time to look at it when I heard footsteps: two Cossacks came running from a side street. One of them came up to me and asked whether I had seen a drunken Cossack pursuing a pig. I told them that I had not met the Cossack, but showed them the unlucky victim of his ferocious skill.

"The bandit!" said the second Cossack. "As soon as he drinks his fill of wine, he's out to cut up everything that comes his way. Let's go after him, Yeremeich; we've got to tie him up, or else . . ."
They went off and I continued on my way more warily than before, at last reaching my quarters safe and sound.

I was staying with an old Cossack non-commissioned officer, whom I liked because of his kindly nature and particularly because of his pretty daughter, Nastya.
She was waiting for me as usual at the gate, wrapped in a fur coat; the moon shone on her sweet lips now blue from the cold of the night. Seeing me, she smiled, but I had other things on my mind. "Good night, Nastya," I said, passing by. She was about to say something in reply, but sighed instead.

I locked the door of my room, lit a candle and flung myself on the bed. Tonight, however, sleep eluded me for longer than usual. The east was already beginning to grow pale when I fell asleep, but evidently the heavens had ordained that I was not to sleep this night. At four o'clock in the morning two fists banged at my window. I sprang up--what was the matter? "Wake up and get dressed!" several voices shouted. I dressed hastily and went out. "Do you know what's happened?" the three officers who had come for me said to me in chorus; they were as white as death.

"What?" "Vulic has been killed." I was stupefied. "Yes, killed!" they went on. "Let's go, quick." "Where to?" "We'll tell you on the way."
We set off. They told me everything that had happened, adding to the story various observations concerning the strange predestination that had saved him from certain death half an hour before he died. Vulic had been walking alone along a dark street, when the drunken Cossack who had slashed up the pig bumped into him, and might perhaps have gone on without paying any attention to him had Vulic not stopped suddenly and said: "Who you looking for, boy?"

"You!" the Cossack answered, striking him with his saber and splitting him from the shoulder nearly to the heart . . . The two Cossacks whom I had seen and who were pursuing the murderer reached the spot, and picked up the wounded man, but he was already breathing his last and mouthed only the words: "He was right!" I alone understood the dark meaning of these words--they referred to me. I had involuntarily predicted the poor man's fate. My instinct had not failed me--I had indeed read on his altered features the stamp of death coming soon.

The murderer had locked himself in a vacant hut at the far end of the settlement, and that's where we went. A large number of women were running in the same direction, wailing as they went. Every now and then a Cossack sprang belatedly out into the street, hurriedly buckling on a dagger, and ran past us. There was a fearful commotion.

At last we arrived on the scene to find a crowd gathered around the hut, whose doors and shutters had been fastened from the inside. Officers and Cossacks were holding a hot argument and the women kept howling and lamenting. Among them I noticed an old woman whose imposing face expressed frantic despair. She was seated on a thick log, her elbows on her knees and her hands supporting her head. She was the murderer's mother. At times her lips moved . . . was it with a prayer or a curse?
In the meantime, some decision had to be made and the perpetrator arrested. But no one was anxious to go in first.

I went up to the window and looked in through a crack in a shutter. The man lay on the floor, holding a pistol in his right hand. A bloodstained saber lay beside him. His face was pale, and his expressive eyes rolled fearfully. At times he shuddered and clutched at his head, as if hazily recollecting the happenings of the previous day. There did not seem to be much resolve in his uneasy glance and I told the major that there was no reason why he shouldn't order the Cossacks to break down the door and rush him, for it would be better to do so now rather than later when the man would've fully recovered his senses.

Just then an old captain of the Cossacks went up to the door and called to the man inside by name. The latter responded.
"You've sinned, brother Yefimych," said the Cossack captain. "So there's nothing you can do but give yourself up!"
"I won't!" replied the Cossack.
"You should fear God's anger! You are not a heathen Chechen, you're an honest Christian. You've gone astray and it can't be helped. You can't escape your fate!"
"I won't give myself up!" the Cossack shouted menacingly, and we could hear the click of the pistol as he cocked it.

"Hey, missus!" the Cossack captain said to the old woman. "You speak to your son--maybe he'll listen to you . . . After all, this sort of thing is only defying God. Look, the gentlemen have been waiting for two hours now."
The old woman looked at him intently and shook her head.
"Vasiliy Petrovich," said the Cossack captain, walking over to the major, "he won't give himself up--I know him. And if we break in the door, he'll kill many of our men. Wouldn't it be better if you ordered him to be shot? There is a wide crack in the shutter."

At that moment, a strange thought flashed through my mind; like Vulic, I thought of putting fate to a test.
"Wait," I said to the major, "I'll take him alive." Telling the Cossack captain to keep him talking and stationing three Cossacks at the entrance with instructions to break in the door and to rush to help me as soon as the signal was given, I walked around the hut and approached the fateful window, my heart pounding.

"Hey there, you donkey!" shouted the Cossack captain. "Are you making fun of us or what? Or maybe you think we won't be able to capture you?" He began hammering at the door with all his strength, while I, pressing my eye to the hole, followed the movements of the Cossack inside, who did not expect an attack from this side. Then I suddenly broke off the shutter and threw myself through the window, head first. The pistol went off next to my ear and the bullet tore off an epaulet. The smoke that filled the room, however, prevented my adversary from finding his saber, which lay beside him. I hugged him in my arms--the Cossacks broke in, and in less than three minutes the criminal was tied up and led off under guard. The people left for home and the officers congratulated me--and indeed they had reason to do so.

After all this, one might think, how could one help becoming a fatalist? But who knows for certain whether he is convinced of anything or not? And how often we mistake a deception of the senses or an error of reason for conviction!

I prefer to doubt everything. Such a disposition does not preclude a resolute character. On the contrary, as far as I am concerned, I always advance more boldly when I don't know what is waiting me for me. After all, nothing worse than death can happen--and death you can't escape!

After returning to the fort, I told Maksim Maksimich everything I had seen and experienced, and wanted to hear his opinion about predestination. At first he didn't understand the word, but I explained it to him as best I could, whereupon he said, wisely shaking his head: "Yes, sir! It's a funny business that! By the way, these Asiatic pistol cocks often miss fire if they are poorly oiled, or if you don't press hard enough with your finger. I must admit I don't like those Circassian rifles either. They are a bit inconvenient for the likes of us--the butt is so small that unless you watch out you can get your nose scorched . . . Their sabers, now, are a different matter--I take my cap off to them!"

Then he added after thinking a little more: "Yes, I'm sorry for that poor man . . . Why the hell did he stop to talk to a drunk at night! I suppose, though, that all that happened to him was already written in that big book when he was born!"
I could get nothing more out of him. In general he doesn't like metaphysical talk.