The Brazilian
What gets in the Brazilian’s way is the Brazilian himself. What a formidable Brazil it would be if Brazilians liked other Brazilians.
Our fiction is blind to the national lust. For example: you will not find in the work of Guimarães Rosa, not one sexual plundering.
The Brazilian goodness is deteriorating. Every fifteen minutes that goes by increases the wear and tear of our gracefulness.
The worst kind of loneliness is in the company of a paulista.
Don’t pay any mind if I mix the usage of “tu” (thou) and “você” (you). I don’t believe in the Brazilian without agreement errors.
The Brazilian, when he’s not a scoundrel the evening before, he’s a bastard the next day.
The Brazilian is not prepared to be the greatest in the world at anything. To be the greatest in the world at something, even long-distance spitting, implies a serious, heavy and suffocating responsibility.
The Brazilian, also called doctor, shakes in his shoes. Whether a king or an architect, migrant traveler, merchant or minister, he has a trembling lip and glistening gaze.
The Brazilian is a holiday.
Friday is the day when virtue prevaricates.
The bar is as resonant as a sea shell. All Brazilian voices pass through it.
Saturday is an illusion.
The Artist
As a rule, each one of us dies on only one scarce occasion. Only actors are repeat infringers. The actor or actress may die every night and twice on Saturdays and Sundays.
Boos are the thunderous applause of the dismayed.
An artist has to be a genius to some and a fool for others. If you can be a fool for everyone, even better.
The audience is only respectful when they’re not understanding anything.
A great booing is a thousand times stronger, more powerful, and nobler than the great apotheosis. Admirers corrupt.
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