A Livraria A Casa de Vidro (https://bit.ly/2u95fX1) deseja a todxs um futuro sempre repleto de leituras instigantes e diversificadas, provocativas e inquietantes, que sejam como “machadadas no mar congelado que temos por dentro” (Franz Kafka: https://bit.ly/2rHvnY2) e que façam fluir melhor as águas da inteligência, da sensibilidade, da empatia.
“I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we’re reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? So that it will make us happy, as you write? Good Lord, we would be happy precisely if we had no books, and the kind of books that make us happy are the kind we could write ourselves if we had to. But we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us. That is my belief.” – FRANZ KAFKA
“You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book (Lady Chatterley, for instance), or you take a trip, or you talk with [someone], and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children. And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death.
(…) Some never awaken. They are like the people who go to sleep in the snow and never awaken. But I am not in danger because my home, my garden, my beautiful life do not lull me. I am aware of being in a beautiful prison, from which I can only escape by writing.” – ANAIS NIN
Leituras que nos salvem da “banalidade do mal” de que falava Hannah Arendt, aquela que só viceja num habitát de irreflexão e de submissão cega a pseudo-mitos e fake-líderes. Leituras que desenvolvam as antenas de um senso crítico sempre vigilante que nos impeça de sermos cúmplices ou coniventes com aqueles que nos oprimem – a ponto às vezes de não notarmos a opressão que sofremos e nos pormos na situação patética de lambermos as botas, sujas de sangue, dos que trucidam o futuro humano.
Que vocês possam ler muito e ler de tudo, nunca crendo na estúpida lorota de que há um livro “sagrado” que contenha a resposta para tudo e a verdade absoluta, pois crer no Livro Único, sacralizado e visto como melhor que todos os outros, é caminho seguro para alguém desperdiçar sua vida ao tornar-se um crente de mente fechada e atitude sectária. Que os livros abram novos horizontes ao invés de fechar corações e mentes nas celas estreitas dos dogmas!
Nesta publicação, que abre com ilustração maravilhosa do Ricardo Siri Liniers, convidamos todos à leitura, compartilhada por Brain Pickings, do seguinte texto inspirador sobre livros da Rebecca Solnit:
Nearly every book has the same architecture — cover, spine, pages — but you open them onto worlds and gifts far beyond what paper and ink are, and on the inside they are every shape and power. Some books are toolkits you take up to fix things, from the most practical to the most mysterious, from your house to your heart, or to make things, from cakes to ships. Some books are wings. Some are horses that run away with you. Some are parties to which you are invited, full of friends who are there even when you have no friends. In some books you meet one remarkable person; in others a whole group or even a culture. Some books are medicine, bitter but clarifying. Some books are puzzles, mazes, tangles, jungles. Some long books are journeys, and at the end you are not the same person you were at the beginning. Some are handheld lights you can shine on almost anything.
The books of my childhood were bricks, not for throwing but for building. I piled the books around me for protection and withdrew inside their battlements, building a tower in which I escaped my unhappy circumstances. There I lived for many years, in love with books, taking refuge in books, learning from books a strange data-rich out-of-date version of what it means to be human. Books gave me refuge. Or I built refuge out of them, out of these books that were both bricks and magical spells, protective spells I spun around myself. They can be doorways and ships and fortresses for anyone who loves them.
And I grew up to write books, as I’d hoped, so I know that each of them is a gift a writer made for strangers, a gift I’ve given a few times and received so many times, every day since I was six.” (Rebecca Solnit)
Leiam, leiam e leiam de tudo! Nenhum livro é sagrado, o pecado é não ler-nos em sua profana e profusa diversidade. Tomem um porre de livros, pois a ressaca é de cultura! E de coragem.
Virando 2019 / 2020