Carta ao Legente

Sintra, July 4th, 1998 


    (For Lúcia Castello-Branco and her students)


Dear Lúcia, 


_______________ I lack a white flower to compose, with rigor, a lilac branch. These are the colors of today. And, in order to know with rigor where I am, today, I went to the newspaper to see the date. I compared it intuitively and in silence, with the same date in previous years. With the disturbance of writing, I felt that life grows to a form or branch, which I still hope to see.

Floats on the line of the books, from the first, and

from the previous to the first,

which I did not write and harvest, in each, the emblematic flower of its memory. This harvest, I will call it autobiography of a readent.

Someone who picks up the flower that is missing to calm my personal agitation,

someone who gathers the tone of each of the titles I have written,

someone who brings me the branch that I have made ​​of my life 


to the fact of reading me identified with the readent that extends, slimmer and restless,

besides the one who wrote. In each written

book there is – read – a portal, a porch.

To enter, again, for them inside,

And repeat the act of love with which I wrote them. To accept the request they make me

to enter again

and sit down, disturbed by the body, where the readent chooses

sit with him and enjoy the shade, the line, the tone,

tell him “this is thought”,

and let it fall into the memory again, in the trickle of the text.

This autobiography that I will write to me, with it ​​reading, I will call it Branch, implying a flowering tree

in the meadow of my house

or in the corridor of my life.

For the text ____________________________

Higher over the fount there is another book – O senhor de Herbais –, which is the desert place where the figure of the readent was born to follow the uniqueness of this writing. He shares with me the pain of sense which appears, and vanishes.

But the progressive sense has never hidden himself.

There is another emerging book

Of marginal men, holding, under the lacerating will of the powerful, the text of the world. It is a sharp pain that makes them bend with hands gripping the belly. I will never call him Joshua again, Companions and Lovers, but

The Naked Man.

I think about the stellar companies of galaxies and the brightness they have assumed, in my eyes, the landless and the tramps – Readents of pain without knowing how to read. Lacking willful acts, they were born hungry.

And it is set by the world fiction (not the text) that they will go hungry


It is urgent that they know the disease afflicting them

is the one that Baruch Spinoza had – and continues to suffer.

I have to return to Herbais in order to, with a stake, settle my life there. To this contemplative territory of the readents

before leaving for the battle which shall multiply their forces

and tenfold amplify the reticent look. 

I continue reading who reads, in a fast track – quick cascade of intuitions and flares. I went out to my patio, in another place than this strength becomes accumulated and embroiders a new text of which I have absolute necessity. I want to share it and read it. You begin to come, giving me company I would trade for anything.

It is the top of the garden which the thought allows, as I wrote one day. 

Perhaps there is still another book to appear behind the towel which cleans my face this morning. I’ve certainly forgotten some because it only opens, at this point, the path of the unknown.

One of the readents said:

   We know deeply the rest of the text. 

I am closer to death, and I know I’m leaving.

Finally, I passed only by the writing. A female word like me. I’m adding it a branch, while grows the flowering tree _______________ 




(trad.: Fernanda Mourão)

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