Depois de três anos esperando na fila (não-ordenada) de livros a ler, finalmente me parei a ler Stranger in a Strange Land, do camarada Heinlein. O livro tem duas edições: a primeira, publicada em 1961, com uma quantidade fantástica de cortes exigidos pelo editor (de cerca de 220 000 palavras do manuscrito original para 160 067 palavras na versão publicada, i.e., um quarto do livro foi cortado fora); e a segunda, sem cortes, publicada postumamente em 1991. Eu li a segunda.
Diagnóstico: nem lá nem cá.
O livro não é ruim. Eu até me arriscaria a dizer que o livro é bom, e recomendo se você não tiver nada mais interessante em espera no momento; julgue-o por si mesmo. Mas o que eu tinha lido ou ouvido falar sobre o livro até então tinha me feito imaginá-lo na categoria "life-changing" (junto com The Dispossessed, The Left Hand of Darkness e Anthem), e nesse quesito o livro deixa a desejar.
Para um resumo decente da história, consulte a Wikipédia. A idéia básica é que um guri humano (doravante Mike) foi criado entre os marcianos, aprendeu a usar poderes muito doidos e a raciocinar de uma maneira mais doida ainda, é trazido de volta para a Terra, tem dificuldades de entender como as coisas funcionam por aqui e como funciona o raciocínio humano, e no fim funda uma "igreja" para ensinar aos humanos o que ele sabe. Segue uma discussão de certos aspectos que me chamaram atenção no livro.
Uma porção preocupante do texto consiste de descrições do protagonista e seus amiguinhos utilizando seus poderes de telecinese e de fazer coisas desaparecerem irrecuperavelmente (o livro dá a entender que as coisas são movidas ao longo de uma quarta dimensão espacial, mas não diz quais são as implicações da existência dessa dimensão extra, nem explica por que as coisas não podem ser trazidas de volta). Uma porção preocupante dessa porção preocupante consiste do Mike fazendo as roupas da Jill e outras guriazinhas sumirem. Na maior parte do tempo, esses poderes são usados sem nenhum propósito decente por trás, apenas "for the lol" (o que não seria ruim se não fosse tão freqüente). Isso sem contar o desperdício de material (basicamente a Jill usa uma roupa menos de meia dúzia de vezes antes de ela ser mandada para o espaço pelo Mike, e a coisa fica pior quando ela e outras vão morar no templo da Igreja de Todos os Mundos). Vai ver toda a tralha que os marcianos atiram pela quarta dimensão é que é responsável pela suposta dark matter do universo.
Além disso, certas frases, como "Thou art God" e "Waiting is", são repetidas a ponto de se tornarem irritantes.
Uma review que eu li antes de escrever esta aqui me lembrou que esse livro foi escrito em 1961. Isso quer dizer que as cenas que demonstram os "preceitos sexuais" incorporados pela Igreja de Todos os Mundos, incluindo a galera pelada e as roupas que desaparecem e o todo-o-mundo-é-de-todo-o-mundo-só-que-não-exatamente, eram não apenas "incomuns", mas sim "chocantes", tão chocantes quanto o Ben Caxton parece achar em um diálogo perto do final do livro. Talvez isso justifique um pouquinho assim, quase nada, a repetitividade dessas cenas. Bom, na verdade não. De qualquer forma, é bom ter a idade do livro em mente.
Mas se por um lado a idade do livro coloca esse aspecto do mesmo em uma luz mais favorável, por outro lado o sexismo do Jubal e do Mahmoud, que para um leitor moderno parecem ou piada ou crítica social, se transportados para os anos sessenta correm o sério risco de serem interpretados como "as coisas como elas são". Em nenhum momento do livro as atitudes e dizeres desses dois (tais como "a woman who can't cook is a waste of skin") são diretamente confrontadas. Aliás, em um ponto do livro uma das gurias, quando questionada, diz explicitamente ao Jubal que "you have never at any time been rude to any of us", dando um approval às ações do Jubal até então. Ok, o Mahmoud é árabe e muçulmano, uma cultura tradicionalmente não muito favorável às mulheres, mas o Jubal, embora seja um velho de dez mil anos, era para representar uma mente "iluminada", "who can 'grok in fullness' without needing to learn Martian first".
Sem contar a pérola proferida pela própria Jill: "Nine times out of ten, if a girl gets raped, it's at least partly her own fault."
"[…] You see, Mike thinks in Martian—and this gives him an entirely different 'map' of the universe from that which you and I use. You follow me?"
"I grok it," agreed Jubal. "Language itself shapes a man's basic ideas."
"Yes, but— Doctor, you speak Arabic, do you not?"
"Eh? I used to, badly, many years ago," admitted Jubal. "Put in a while as a surgeon with the American Field Service, in Palestine. But I don't now. I still read it a little… because I prefer to read the words of the Prophet in the original."
"Proper. Since the Koran cannot be translated—the 'map' changes on translation no matter how carefully one tries. You will understand, then, how difficult I found English. It was not alone that my native language has much simpler inflections and more limited tenses; the whole 'map' changed. English is the largest of the human tongues, with several times the vocabulary of the second largest language—this alone made it inevitable that English would eventually become, as it did, the lingua franca of this planet, for it is thereby the richest and the most flexible—despite its barbaric accretions… or, I should say, because of its barbaric accretions. English swallows up anything that comes its way, makes English out of it. Nobody tried to stop this process, the way some languages are policed and have official limits . . probably because there never has been, truly, such a thing as 'the King's English'—for 'the King's English' was French. English was in truth a bastard tongue and nobody cared how it grew… and it did!—enormously. Until no one could hope to be an educated man unless he did his best to embrace this monster.
"Its very variety, subtlety, and utterly irrational, idiomatic complexity makes it possible to say things in English which simply cannot be said in any other language. It almost drove me crazy… until I learned to think in it—and that put a new 'map' of the world on top of the one I grew up with. A better one, in many ways—certainly a more detailed one.
"But nevertheless there are things which can be said in the simple Arabic tongue that cannot be said in English."
O inglês é a "maior língua", hã? Substituamos mentalmente essa afirmação por "a língua com o maior vocabulário", que pelo menos ameaça fazer sentido. Como se mede o tamanho do vocabulário de uma língua? O que conta como um item de vocabulário? Expressões compostas (e.g., computer science, washing machine) contam? Palavras com múltiplos significados contam como entradas separadas? Palavras em desuso? Há mil questões em aberto a responder antes de contar o "tamanho do vocabulário" de uma língua. De qualquer forma, não parece nem um pouco claro que o inglês tem o maior vocabulário, por qualquer medida de vocabulário, nem qual seria a segunda língua referida.
E se o inglês fosse "a língua mais rica e a mais flexível", para alguma definição de "rica" e "flexível", esse seria o motivo pelo qual ele teria se tornado "a língua franca deste mundo", e não o poder econômico do Estados Unidos, e da Inglaterra antes dele? Se a língua mais falada nos Estados Unidos fosse o cherokee ou o espanhol, o inglês ainda teria se tornado "a língua franca deste mundo", graças à sua riqueza e flexibilidade? O uso do latim como língua franca na Europa até o século 18 tem alguma coisa a ver com a "flexibilidade e riqueza" dessa língua?
E por fim: "the simple Arabic tongue"? Com "much simpler inflections and more limited tenses"? Dai-me um desconto.
"Mmm… yes. Anne, change that job title to 'staff research assistant for Martian linguistics, culture, and techniques.' Jill, in learning their language you are bound to stumble onto Martian things that are different, really different—and when you do, tell me. Everything and anything about a culture can be inferred from the shape of its language—and you're probably young enough to learn to think like a Martian… which I misdoubt I am not. And you, Mike, if you notice anything which you can do but we don't do, tell me."
"Everything and anything"? Se eu atirar uma gramática de hitita e um dicionário na sua mesa, você será capaz de me dizer absolutamente tudo sobre a cultura dos hititas?
Em outro ponto, sobre a possibilidade de Marte resolver atacar a Terra:
Mahmoud said suddenly, "Skipper, there's strong evidence to support Jubal's conclusion. You can analyse a culture from its language, every time —and there isn't any Martian word for 'war.'" He stopped and looked puzzled. "At least, I don't think there is. Nor any word for 'weapon' nor for 'fighting.' If a word for a concept isn't in a language, then its culture simply doesn't have the referent the missing word would symbolize."
"Oh, twaddle, Stinky! Animals fight—and ants even conduct wars. Are you trying to tell me they have to have words for it before they can do it?"
"I mean exactly that," Mahmoud insisted, "when it applies to any verbalizing race. Such as ourselves. Such as the Martians—even more highly verbalized than we are. A verbalizing race has words for every old concept… and creates new words or new definitions for old words whenever a new concept comes along. Always! A nervous system that is able to verbalize cannot avoid verbalizing; it's automatic. If the Martians know what 'war' is, then they have a word for it."
"I mean exactly that", só que não. Quando surge um novo conceito, novas palavras são criadas, diz el hombre Mahmoud. Então o conceito pode vir antes da palavra, não? Além disso, pode ser que haja algo sem que haja o conceito. "If the Martians know what 'war' is, then they have a word for it", mas eles podem ter o que nós chamamos de guerra sem saber o que é "guerra".
Ao longo do livro nós descobrimos que os marcianos destruíram o "quinto planeta" (entre Marte e Júpiter), por motivos não explicados, e que a Terra estaria por ir pelo mesmo caminho no final. Isso se contrapõe de certa forma com a idéia de que "da língua descobrimos tudo", embora o livro não diga isso explicitamente (talvez como um exercício para o leitor).
She tossed one [peanut] to a medium sized monk; before he could eat it a much larger male was on him and not only stole his peanut but gave him a beating, then left. The little fellow made no attempt to pursue his tormentor; he squatted at the scene of the crime, pounded his knucks against the concrete floor, and chattered his helpless rage. Mike watched it solemnly. Suddenly the mistreated monkey rushed to the side of the cage, picked a monkey still smaller, bowled it over and gave it a drubbing worse than the one he had suffered—after which he seemed quite relaxed. The third monk crawled away, still whimpering, and found shelter in the arm of a female who had a still smaller one, a baby, on her back. The other monkeys paid no attention to any of it.
Mike threw back his head and laughed—went on laughing, loudly and uncontrollably. He gasped for breath, tears came from his eyes; he started to tremble and sink to the floor, still laughing.
[…]
"Mike, what happened?"
"Jill … I grok people!"
"Huh?" ("!!??")
("I speak rightly, Little Brother. I grok.")
"I grok people now, Jill Little Brother… precious darling, little imp with lively legs and lovely lewd lascivious lecherous licentious libido… beautiful bumps and pert posterior… with soft voice and gentle hands. My baby darling."
"Why, Michael!"
"Oh, I knew all the words; I simply didn't know when or why to say them… nor why you wanted me to. I love you, sweetheart—I grok 'love' now, too."
"You always have. I knew. And I love you … you smooth ape. My darling."
"'Ape,' yes. Come here, she ape, and put your head on my shoulder and tell me a joke."
"Just tell you a joke?"
"Well, nothing more than snuggling. Tell me a joke I've never heard and see if I laugh at the right place. I will, I'm sure of it—and I'll be able to tell you why it's funny. Jill … I grok people!"
"But how, darling? Can you tell me? Does it need Martian? Or mindtalk?"
"No, that's the point. I grok people. I am people … so now I can say it in people talk. I've found out why people laugh. They laugh because it hurts so much… because it's the only thing that'll make it stop hurting."
Jill looked puzzled. "Maybe I'm the one who isn't people. I don't understand."
"Ah, but you are people, little she ape. You grok it so automatically that you don't have to think about it. Because you grew up with people. But I didn't. I've been like a puppy raised apart from other dogs—Who couldn't be like his masters and had never learned how to be a dog. So I had to be taught. Brother Mahmoud taught me, Jubal taught me, lots of people taught me… and you taught me most of all. Today I got my diploma—and I laughed. That poor little monk."
"Which one, dear? I thought that big one was just mean … and the one I flipped the peanut to turned out to be just as mean. There certainly wasn't anything funny."
"Jill, Jill my darling! Too much Martian has rubbed off on you. Of course it wasn't funny—it was tragic. That's why I had to laugh. I looked at a cageful of monkeys and suddenly I saw all the mean and cruel and utterly unexplainable things I've seen and heard and read about in the time I've been with my own people and suddenly it hurt so much I found myself laughing."
"But— Mike dear, laughing is something you do when something is nice… not when it's horrid."
"Is it? Think back to Las Vegas— When all you pretty girls came out on the stage, did people laugh?"
"Well … no."
"But you girls were the nicest part of the show. I grok now, that if they had laughed, you would have been hurt. No, they laughed when a comic tripped over his feet and fell down… or something else that is not a goodness."
"But that's not all people laugh at."
"Isn't it? Perhaps I don't grok all its fullness yet. But find me something that really makes you laugh, sweetheart… a joke, or anything else—but something that gave you a real belly laugh, not a smile. Then we'll see if there isn't a wrongness in it somewhere and whether you would laugh if the wrongness wasn't there." He thought. "I grok when apes learn to laugh, they'll be people."
"Maybe." Doubtfully but earnestly Jill started digging into her memory for jokes that had struck her as irresistibly funny, ones which had jerked a laugh out of her… incidents she had seen or heard of which had made her helpless with laughter:
"—her entire bridge club."
"Should I bow?"
"Neither one, you idiot — instead!"
"—the Chinaman objects."
"—broke her leg."
"—make trouble for me!"
"—but it'll spoil the ride for me."
"—and his mother-in-law fainted."
"Stop you? Why, I bet three to one you could do it!"
"—something has happened to Ole."
"—and so are you, you clumsy ox!"
She gave up on "funny" stories, pointing out to Mike that such were just fantasies, not real, and tried to recall real incidents. Practical jokes? All practical jokes supported Mike's thesis, even ones as mild as a dribble glass—and when it came to an interne's notion of a practical joke—Well, internes and medical students should be kept in cages. What else? The time Elsa Mae had lost her monogrammed panties? It hadn't been funny to Elsa Mae. Or the— She said grimly, "Apparently the pratfall is the peak of all humor. It's not a pretty picture of the human race, Mike."
"Oh, but it is!"
"Huh?"
"I had thought—I had been told—that a 'funny' thing is a thing of a goodness. It isn't. Not ever is it funny to the person it happens to. Like that sheriff without his pants. The goodness is in the laughing itself. I grok it is a bravery… and a sharing… against pain and sorrow and defeat."
"But— Mike, it is not a goodness to laugh at people."
"No. But I was not laughing at the little monkey. I was laughing at us people. And I suddenly knew that I was people and could not stop laughing." He paused. "This is hard to explain, because you have never lived as a Martian, for all that I've told you about it. On Mars there is never anything to laugh at. All the things that are funny to us humans either physically cannot happen on Mars or are not permitted to happen— sweetheart, what you call 'freedom' doesn't exist on Mars; everything is planned by the Old Ones—or the things that do happen on Mars which we laugh at here on Earth aren't funny because there is no wrongness about them. Death, for example."
"Death isn't funny."
"Then why are there so many jokes about death? Jill, with us—us humans—death is so sad that we must laugh at it. All those religions— they contradict each other on every other point but every one of them is filled with ways to help people be brave enough to laugh even though they know they are dying." He stopped and Jill could feel that he had almost gone into his trance state. "Jill? Is it possible that I was searching them the wrong way? Could it be that every one of all those religions is true?" […]
Esse é um dos trechos que mais me incomoda nesse livro. Não meramente porque eu não concordo com a conclusão, mas pelo fato de a Jill não contra-argumentar decentemente, o que dá uma sensação de o autor ter escolhido os fatos cuidadosamente para sustentar a teoria. Trocadilhos são o exemplo mais óbvio de coisas que causam riso sem relação aparente com "dor e sofrimento". E eu tenho vinte e dois anos de experiência com risadas (e "real belly laughs, not smiles") baseadas apenas em dizer e conceber bobagens, no pain involved. Se há alguma associação entre riso e "wrongness", é no sentido de que o que causa riso normalmente é algo inesperado, que escapa da lógica normal das coisas, mas definitivamente não necessariamente "wrongness" no sentido "marciano" usado no livro. De qualquer forma, é interessante pensar sobre o assunto.
(By the way: diversos filmes de comédia estadunidenses têm a propriedade de me fazer sentir "wrongness". Pode ser que eu escreva um post sobre isso.)
Para compensar as críticas, eis aí um trecho do livro que eu realmente gosto, no capítulo XXX. Eu ia copiá-lo aqui, mas o trecho relevante é longo, e o começo do mesmo, junto com uma das esculturas referidas, pode ser encontrado aqui.
Uma impressão com a qual eu fiquei do livro logo que terminei (mas agora já não tenho mais certeza) é que as idéias interessantes do livro poderiam ter sido igualmente expressas em um ensaio de vinte páginas sem perdas significativas. O livro não passa uma imagem muito complexa da maior parte dos personagens. Depois que a Jill consegue levar o Mike para a casa do Jubal, a história parece não ter muito foco, os personagens não têm objetivos muito definidos, não há muito suspense. Tomo as palavras do supra-citado review:
Beyond that, there isn’t really a plot. It starts out looking as if it’s going to have a plot—politicians scheming against Mike—but that gets defanged, politicians are co-opted. The rest of the book is Mike wandering about the US looking at things and then starting a religion where everybody gets to have lots of sex and no jealousy and learns to speak Martian. Everything is too easy. Barriers go down when you lean on them. Mike can make people disappear, he can do magic, he has near infinite wealth, he can change what he looks like, he’s great in bed… Then out of nowhere he gets killed in a much too parallel messianic martyrdom, and his friends eat his body.
Acho que não tenho mais nada a declarar por ora.
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Iron Maiden NÃO!, 2013-02-20 22:17:03 -0300 #
Não li nada, mas essa música é muitcho loca.