Tinha eu uns dezassete anos quando um livro me deu um chapadão na cara. Era a voz subterrânea, do Dostoievski. "I am a sick man. ... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased." O fulgor durou talvez dois anos. Dei o livro a tudo o que tinha de amigo, fiquei mesmo sem exemplar próprio. Entretanto a minha vidinha mudou. Abandonei, ou forcei-me a abandonar o "lado negro da força" e do livro não guardava mais que uma recordação vaga. Convenci-me que era (mais) sugestionável no tempo em que o tinha lido, que era melodramática e que o livro não tinha tanto valor assim (é isto um recalcamento?). Fui neste intervalo, e sou ainda, um humano normalizado, mais conforme os padrões da união europeia.
Este final de semana voltei a pegar nele. O gajo tinha-o comprado em saldos um dia destes. Li a primeira parte toda de enfiada e só não acabei porque tive que voltar para casa. Desta vez não veio como um murro. Mais parecia um remédio azedo. Parecia azeitona preparada com alho. Come-se de uma vez, é formidável e apetecível, é compulsivo e sabemos que nos faz mal e depois passa-se o dia todo com um sabor horrendo a alho na boca. Não o pedi emprestado para me forçar a comprá-lo de novo. Hei-de comprar e ler tudo de novo e sublinhar muito e postar aqui. Hei-de voltar a oferecê-lo.
"It was as though it were my most normal condition, and not in the least disease or depravity, so that at last all desire in me to struggle against this depravity passed. It ended by my almost believing (perhaps actually believing) that this was perhaps my normal condition. But at first, in the beginning, what agonies I endured in that struggle! I did not believe it was the same with other people, and all my life I hid this fact about myself as a secret. I was ashamed (even now, perhaps, I am ashamed): I got to the point of feeling a sort of secret abnormal, despicable enjoyment in returning home to my corner on some disgusting Petersburg night, acutely conscious that that day I had committed a loathsome action again, that what was done could never be undone, and secretly, inwardly gnawing, gnawing at myself for it, tearing and consuming myself till at last the bitterness turned into a sort of shameful accursed sweetness, and at last - into positive real enjoyment! Yes, into enjoyment, into enjoyment! I insist upon that. I have spoken of this because I keep wanting to know for a fact whether other people feel such enjoyment? I will explain; the enjoyment was just from the too intense consciousness of one's own degradation; it was from feeling oneself that one had reached the last barrier, that it was horrible, but that it could not be otherwise; that there was no escape for you; that you never could become a different man; that even if time and faith were still left you to change into something different you would most likely not wish to change; or if you did wish to, even then you would do nothing; because perhaps in reality there was nothing for you to change into."
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