EUGÉNIO LISBOA

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A cobardia e o calculismo

são o que mais ordena

Aos 92 anos, com a sagacidade e a truculência própria de quem viu muito e leu mais, Eugénio Lisboa entende que o nosso meio inteletual anda a pedir uma honesta e radical barrela.

𝑂 𝑛𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑜 𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑢 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑎́𝑟𝑖𝑜 𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑎 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑎𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑠 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑔𝑜𝑠𝑜𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑎 𝑠𝑎𝑢́𝑑𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑙. 𝐸𝑚 𝑣𝑒𝑧 𝑑𝑒 𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝑠𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑚, 𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒̂𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑎 𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑚𝑖𝑑𝑎 𝑣𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑑𝑒 𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑧𝑒𝑟 𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑎𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑖𝑠𝑎𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑒 𝑠𝑎̃𝑜, 𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑜𝑠 𝑎 𝑢𝑚 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑙𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝑎𝑐𝑜𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑠, 𝑎𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑠 𝑛𝑜 𝑠𝑒𝑢 𝑚𝑒𝑑𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝑜𝑓𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒 𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑢𝑝𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝑖𝑛𝑓𝑙𝑢𝑒̂𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑎 𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑣𝑎́𝑣𝑒𝑙 𝑗𝑢́𝑟𝑖 𝑑𝑒 𝑢𝑚 𝑝𝑟𝑒́𝑚𝑖𝑜 𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑒 𝑔𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟 𝑑𝑒 𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑏𝑢𝑛𝑎 𝑐𝑟𝑖́𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑎.

𝐸𝑚 𝑣𝑒𝑧 𝑑𝑒 𝑢𝑚 𝑡𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑚𝑢𝑛ℎ𝑜 𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑒̂𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑜, 𝑜𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒-𝑠𝑒-𝑛𝑜𝑠, 𝑞𝑢𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑟𝑒, 𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝑚𝑖𝑥𝑜́𝑟𝑑𝑖𝑎 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑑𝑎 𝑎 𝑎𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑎𝑟 𝑎 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑔𝑜𝑠 𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑖𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑠. 𝐹𝑎𝑧 𝑙𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑟 𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑧𝑖𝑎 𝑑𝑒 𝑢𝑚 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑙𝑜 𝑠𝑒𝑟 𝑜 𝑐𝑎𝑣𝑎𝑙𝑜 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑑𝑢𝑧𝑖𝑑𝑜 𝑝𝑜𝑟 𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑎̃𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝑚𝑢𝑖𝑡𝑎𝑠 𝑜𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑜̃𝑒𝑠. 𝐴 𝑛𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑎, 𝑒𝑚 𝑣𝑒𝑧 𝑑𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑟 𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝑒𝑠𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑡𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑒𝑐̧𝑎̃𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑣𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑠, 𝑒́ 𝑢𝑚 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑗𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝑝𝑒𝑠𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑠. 𝐸𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑒 𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑖𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝑛𝑎̃𝑜 𝑎𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑚 𝑎 𝑡𝑜𝑑𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑠 𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑡𝑢́𝑙𝑖𝑎𝑠 𝑑𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑢́𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑎 𝑒 𝑜 𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑟 𝑑𝑒 𝑛𝑎̃𝑜 𝑖𝑛𝑜𝑣𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑚 𝑜 𝑠𝑢𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑜𝑏𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑚 𝑎 𝑏𝑒̂𝑛𝑐̧𝑎̃𝑜 𝑑𝑜𝑠 𝑔𝑢𝑟𝑢𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑐̧𝑜, 𝑜𝑠 𝑗𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑜𝑠 𝑎 𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑜𝑟 𝑗𝑎́ 𝑛𝑎̃𝑜 𝑠𝑎𝑏𝑒𝑚 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑑𝑜 𝑠𝑒 𝑣𝑖𝑟𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑚. 𝐴 𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑎 𝑒́ 𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑖𝑟𝑎, 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑜 𝑑𝑖𝑧𝑖𝑎 𝑎 𝑓𝑜𝑔𝑜𝑠𝑎 𝐿𝑢́𝑐𝑖𝑎 𝐿𝑒𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑘𝑖.

𝐴 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑎 𝑑𝑎𝑠 𝑣𝑒𝑧𝑒𝑠 𝑒𝑚 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑝𝑒𝑔𝑜 𝑛𝑢𝑚 𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑢𝑔𝑢𝑒̂𝑠, 𝑎𝑝𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑐𝑒-𝑚𝑒 𝑖𝑟 𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑜 𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑒𝑟 𝑎̀ 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑎 𝑑𝑒 𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝑏𝑜𝑎 𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑐̧𝑎̃𝑜 𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑎 𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑎. 𝐼𝑠𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑎𝑧-𝑚𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑟 𝑜 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑙ℎ𝑜 𝑠𝑎𝑢𝑑𝑎́𝑣𝑒𝑙 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑣𝑎 𝑜 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒 𝑅𝑎𝑦𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑙𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑜𝑠 𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑠: “𝑆𝑒 𝑎 ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜́𝑟𝑖𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑐̧𝑎 𝑎 𝑒𝑠𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑟, 𝑓𝑎𝑐̧𝑎 𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑟 𝑢𝑚 ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑚 𝑎𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝑝𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑙𝑎.” 𝐸́ 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑒𝑢 𝑚𝑒 𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑖𝑥𝑜: 𝑛𝑜 𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑜 𝑑𝑎 𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑐̧𝑎̃𝑜 𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑢𝑔𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑎 𝑛𝑢𝑛𝑐𝑎 𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒 𝑜 𝑠𝑎𝑙𝑣𝑖́𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑜 ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑚 𝑎𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝑝𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑙𝑎. 𝐹𝑎𝑙𝑡𝑎-𝑙ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑑𝑎𝑑𝑒, 𝑣𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑑𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑒 𝑢𝑚 𝑏𝑜𝑚 𝑏𝑜𝑐𝑎𝑑𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑒𝑧𝑎.

𝐹𝑎𝑙𝑡𝑎-𝑙ℎ𝑒, 𝑠𝑜𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑢𝑑𝑜, 𝑛𝑎̃𝑜 𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑔𝑜𝑛ℎ𝑎 𝑑𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑜 ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑚 𝑑𝑎 𝑝𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑙𝑎. 𝑇𝑒𝑚 𝑚𝑒𝑑𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑠 “𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑟”, 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑎𝑣𝑎 𝐻𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑦 𝐽𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑒𝑟𝑎 𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑙 𝑓𝑎𝑧𝑒𝑟, 𝑝𝑜𝑟 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑑𝑎 𝑑𝑒 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑒́ 𝑠𝑒𝑢 𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑝𝑎𝑙 𝑑𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑟-𝑛𝑜𝑠. 𝑇𝑒𝑚 𝑚𝑢𝑖𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑒𝑑𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑟 𝑢𝑚𝑎 ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜́𝑟𝑖𝑎, 𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑜𝑠 𝑔𝑢𝑟𝑢𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑎𝑚 𝑜 𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑚 ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜́𝑟𝑖𝑎 𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑜. 𝐼𝑠𝑠𝑜 𝑙𝑒𝑣𝑎𝑟-𝑛𝑜𝑠-𝑖𝑎 𝑎 𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑜𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑧𝑎𝑟 𝑜𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑜 𝑜 𝐷𝑜𝑚 𝑄𝑢𝑖𝑥𝑜𝑡𝑒, 𝐴 𝐶𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑢𝑥𝑎 𝑑𝑒 𝑃𝑎𝑟𝑚𝑎, 𝑎 𝐺𝑢𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑎 𝑒 𝑃𝑎𝑧, 𝑎 𝐴𝑛𝑎 𝐾𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑎, 𝐴 𝑃𝑟𝑖𝑚𝑎 𝐵𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒, 𝑜 𝐷𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑑 𝐶𝑜𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑖𝑒𝑙𝑑, 𝑀𝑖𝑑𝑑𝑙𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑐ℎ, 𝐴𝑠 𝐴𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝐻𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝐹𝑖𝑛𝑛 𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑟 𝑎𝑖́ 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑎, 𝑡𝑢𝑑𝑜 𝑜𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑎𝑠 𝑑𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜́𝑟𝑖𝑎, 𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑧 𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑜𝑙ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑟 𝑎𝑠 𝑣𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑠 𝑑𝑜 𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑐̧𝑜𝑙ℎ𝑜 𝑚𝑜𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑜 𝑙𝑢𝑠𝑖́𝑎𝑑𝑎.

𝑂 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑎𝑙 𝑂𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑔𝑎 𝑦 𝐺𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑚 𝑠𝑒 𝑒𝑠𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑓𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑜𝑚 𝑜 𝑠𝑖́𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑒 𝑑𝑜 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑎𝑟 𝑑𝑒 𝑝𝑒́𝑟𝑜𝑙𝑎𝑠: 𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑡𝑒𝑚 𝑣𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑟 𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑎𝑟 𝑠𝑎̃𝑜 𝑎𝑠 𝑝𝑒́𝑟𝑜𝑙𝑎𝑠 𝑒 𝑛𝑎̃𝑜 𝑜 𝑓𝑖𝑜, 𝑚𝑎𝑠, 𝑠𝑒𝑚 𝑜 𝑓𝑖𝑜, 𝑛𝑎̃𝑜 ℎ𝑎́ 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑎𝑟. 𝑁𝑜 𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒, 𝑎𝑠 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑠, 𝑎𝑠 𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑐̧𝑜̃𝑒𝑠, 𝑜𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑜𝑠 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑒 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑠 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑎̃𝑜 𝑜 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒, 𝑚𝑎𝑠 𝑎 ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜́𝑟𝑖𝑎 𝑓𝑢𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑜 𝑜 𝑓𝑖𝑜 𝑑𝑜 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑎𝑟 𝑑𝑒 𝑝𝑒́𝑟𝑜𝑙𝑎𝑠: 𝑠𝑒𝑚 𝑒𝑙𝑎, 𝑛𝑎̃𝑜 ℎ𝑎́ 𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒. 𝐴 ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜́𝑟𝑖𝑎, 𝑎𝑜 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑎́𝑟𝑖𝑜 𝑑𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑚 𝑜𝑠 𝑠𝑛𝑜𝑏𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑙𝑜𝑠, 𝑒́ 𝑓𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑙, 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑚𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑗𝑎 𝑑𝑒́𝑏𝑖𝑙, 𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑛𝑎̃𝑜 𝑒́ 𝑜 𝑐𝑎𝑠𝑜, 𝑛𝑎𝑠 𝑜𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑠 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑐𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑖.

𝑇𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑜, 𝑝𝑜𝑖𝑠, 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑜𝑟𝑜𝑠𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑒 𝑎𝑜𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑜𝑠 𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑗𝑎𝑚 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑚𝑖𝑑𝑜𝑠, 𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜 𝑒́, 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑛𝑎̃𝑜 𝑡𝑒𝑛ℎ𝑎𝑚 𝑚𝑒𝑑𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑟 𝑢𝑚𝑎 ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜́𝑟𝑖𝑎 𝑒 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑛𝑎̃𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑖𝑒𝑚 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑜 ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑚 𝑎𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝑝𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑙𝑎. 𝑀𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑚 𝑏𝑢𝑔𝑖𝑎𝑟 𝑜𝑠 𝑔𝑢𝑟𝑢𝑠 𝑙𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑠, 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑜𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑐𝑎𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑛ℎ𝑜𝑠 𝑛𝑎 𝑐𝑎𝑏𝑒𝑐̧𝑎 𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑢𝑐𝑎 𝑐𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑐𝑖𝑑𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑑𝑒 𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑎𝑟.

* Engenheiro, crítico literário, ensaísta e escritor. Autor de uma obra de imprescindível leitura "CRÓNICA DOS ANOS DA PESTE"

IN "iN" - 01/07/22 .