Borges, numa genealogia especulativa de Kafka, disse que cada autor cria os próprios precursores, porque o seu trabalho modifica a nossa concepção do passado, como há-de modificar o futuro.
Sempre achei esta ideia particularmente apta para definir um curioso efeito secundário da escrita de Donald Barthelme, que implanta no leitor (pelo menos neste leitor) uma espécie de radar: é-me quase impossível ler ou reler seja o que for sem andar à cata de sinais exteriores de Barthelmismo, que se costumam manifestar, com total desrespeito diacrónico, nos lugares mais inesperados:
«In a hollow of the grey-green hills of rainy Ireland, lived an old, old woman, whose uncle was always Cambridge at the Boat Race. But in her grey-green hollows, she knew nothing of this: she didn't know that there was a Boat Race. Also she did not know that she had an uncle. She had heard of nobody at all, except of George the First, of whom she had heard (I know not why), and in whose historical memory she put her simple trust. And by and by, in God's good time, it was discovered that this uncle of hers was not really her uncle, and they came and told her so. She smiled through her tears, and said only, 'Virtue is its own reward'.»
(G. K. Chesterton, The Napoleon of Notting Hill)
«In a hollow of the grey-green hills of rainy Ireland, lived an old, old woman, whose uncle was always Cambridge at the Boat Race. But in her grey-green hollows, she knew nothing of this: she didn't know that there was a Boat Race. Also she did not know that she had an uncle. She had heard of nobody at all, except of George the First, of whom she had heard (I know not why), and in whose historical memory she put her simple trust. And by and by, in God's good time, it was discovered that this uncle of hers was not really her uncle, and they came and told her so. She smiled through her tears, and said only, 'Virtue is its own reward'.»
(G. K. Chesterton, The Napoleon of Notting Hill)
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