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."