[Read Epub] ♇ Os Cus de Judas ☿ Famulantenaustausch.de

L anno scorso come tutti i turisti che vanno a Porto, ho visitato la libreria Lello, quella che ha ispirato la Rawling per la biblioteca di Hogwarts Ma mentre tutti si interessavano alle scale di legno in stile gotico fiorito, io sono stata attratta dal libraio, con il quale ho iniziato io in italiano, lui in portoghese, una discussione su Saramago e in particolare Cecit che per lui un libro cult e per me invece il simbolo della senilit per usare un eufemismo della letteratura europea E mentre io gli consigliavo di leggere Calvino ah la leggerezza lui mi consigli In culo al mondo che, nella mia ignoranza, non aveva mai sentito nominare.L intero libro il lungo racconto dei diciannove mesi passati in Angola di un ufficiale medico durante la guerra contro i ribelli alla colonizzazione Le vicende della guerra coloniale sono drammatiche ai limiti dell indicibile E invece Antunes riesce a dirle in un flusso di coscienza continuo del suo personaggio mischiandole ai ricordi d infanzia, agli amori vissuti e scomparsi, alle riflessioni rabbiose sulla politica, alle considerazioni scanzonate sul tempo e sulla vita Ma non si tratta di pensiero autoreferenziale, bens di un monologo rivolto di notte in un bar di Lisbona a guerra ormai finita a una donna appena conosciuta che il medico protagonista sta cercando di portarsi a letto Con questo espediente e con una scrittura letteralmente satura di aggettivi e di metafore divertenti e mai banali Antunes riesce a intrattenere senza pesantezza al punto che la ferocia di certi episodi accaduti in Angola colpisce a tradimento, del tutto inattesa nell atmosfera quasi ironica di certe pagine Si rimane senza fiato Difficile dopo una simile lettura continuare pensare che una guerra di invasione possa avere un senso Eppure Afghanistan e Iraq sembrano dimostrare che la letteratura europea non mai troppo frequentata dagli americani, pseudo strateghi del mondo contemporaneo. , Liberation , Harold Bloom, Saramago. [Read Epub] ♋ Os Cus de Judas ♁ Logo Depois De Voltar Da Guerra Em Angola, Ant Nio Lobo Antunes Escreve Os Cus De Judas, Sobre Suas Experi Ncias Naquele Pa S O Romance Se Tornou Um Enorme Sucesso, Vindo A Ser O Primeiro Grande Livro Sobre O Conflito E A Independ Ncia Angolanos E Uma Refer Ncia Hist Rica Obrigat RiaNuma Narrativa N O Linear E Fragmentada, Lobo Antunes Revela As Inquieta Es Existenciais De Um Ser Humano, Na Indel Vel Experi Ncia De Uma Guerra, Que Se Misturam S Mem Rias De Inf Ncia E Juventude Na Lisboa SalazaristaO Autor Utiliza Se, Na Maior Parte Do Romance, Do Fluxo De Consci Ncia E Da Associa O De Id Ias, Para Construir A Hist Ria E O Perfil De Seu Narrador Protagonista, Um Personagem Que, A Partir De Uma Dolorosa Aprendizagem Da Agonia , V Sua Vida E Seus Valores Estilha Ados Pela Melancolia O Que Lhe Resta S O Fragmentos De Mem Ria A Crian A Que Visitava Com Os Pais O Jardim Zool Gico Aos Domingos, O Jovem Que Assiste Impass Vel A Seu Futuro Sendo Tra Ado Pela Autoridade Inquestion Vel De Uma Fam Lia Salazarista, O Adulto Ap Tico E Frustrado Diante Da Viol Ncia Que Lhe Retira As R Deas E O Sentido Da VidaO Leitor Vai Estar Frente A Frente Com Decad Ncia, Putrefa O, Pestil Ncia E Morte Adicionando Canalhice, Viol Ncia E Insensatez Para O Jornalista Portugu S Nuno Barbosa, Lobo Antunes, Dando Plena Express O A Uma Escrita Impiedosa E Grosseira Consegue Uma Harmonia Preciosa Entre A Viol Ncia Do Narrado E A Rudez Dos Termos Utilizados As Suas Palavras Ganham, Portanto, Uma Credibilidade Muito Maior, Criando Um Elo Profundo Com A Realidade O Livro, Que Recebeu O Pr Mio Franco Portugu S Conferido Pela Embaixada Da Fran A Em Lisboa, Est Na Edi O Em Portugal E J Foi Vendido Para Mais De Dez Pa Ses Como Inglaterra, Fran A, It Lia, Alemanha E Su Cia Como el culo le ha ido a este trasunto del autor en los ocho a os transcurridos desde los casi tres pasados como m dico militar en la colonia portuguesa de Angola El recuerdo de la mutilaci n y muerte de compa eros, de nativos, de la amante negra en una guerra est pida e injusta en la que se obstina la dictadura salazarista de Caetano mantenida con el apoyo de familias como la del protagonista le atormenta en cada uno de sus d as y en cada una de sus nochesuna muerte en la que nada hab a de com n con la muerte as ptica de los hospitales, agon a de desconocidos que solo aumentaba y reforzaba mi certeza de estar vivo y me ofrecieron el v rtigo de mi propio fin en el fin de los que com an conmigo, dorm an conmigo, hablaban conmigoNoches como esta en la que, presumimos que una vez m s, le cuenta su vida a una mujer cualquiera encontrada en un bar en un mon logo que bien pudiera haber sido transcrito sin cap tulos ni puntos y aparte a la manera de un derrotado Thomas Bernhard con el que comparte el sentimiento de amor y odio hacia su propio pa s Al igual que con el escritor austriaco, leer a Lobo Antunes requiere concentraci n m xima No es dif cil perderse en los muchos afluentes que se abren en el curso principal que forman sus interminables frases llenas de rincones polvorientos, soportales oscuros, habitaciones que huelen a cerrado con sabanas empapadas de sudor culpable, donde las met foras cabalgan unas sobre otras en una selva que en muchas ocasiones hay que ir abriendo a machetazos de relectura Todo puede estar animado en el universo de Lobo, los sonidos, los objetos, los edificios, todo puede tener intenciones y deseos, todo puede remitir a otra cosa por fino que sea el hilo que las una.Y sin embargo, el esfuerzo que su lectura requiere ser ampliamente recompensado por este mon logo sobre la desintegraci n moral de una v ctima m s de la guerra que usa la palabra como catarsis y que se embarca en una nueva y triste aventura er tica con una desconocida en la in til esperanza de encontrar una grieta por la que poder escapar de s mismo aunque solo sea una noche, aun sabiendo que terminar , como todas las noches, conel chapoteo del bid , donde las grandes efusiones se desvanecen a costa de jab n, ardor y agua tibia Tal vez me descubra unicornio, la abrace, y usted agite los brazos espantados de mariposa clavada en un alfiler, empalagosa de ternuraUna po tica diatriba de alguien al que obligaron a ir donde no le correspond a y que volvi lleno de culpa y verg enza a un pa s que ya no reconoc a, al que ya nunca podr a volver a sentir como suyo Un grito de socorro por la soledad del que no se siente part cipe de la vida, del que no comprende como todo y todos pueden seguir con la suya como si nada hubiera pasadoLo que los dem s exigen de nosotros, entiende , es que no los cuestionemos, no sacudamos sus vidas en miniatura selladas contra la desesperaci n y la esperanza, no rompamos sus acuarios de peces sordos flotando en el agua fangosa del d a a d a, aclarada al bies por la l mpara so olienta de lo que llamamos virtud y que s lo consiste, si se la observa de cerca, en la ausencia tibia de ambicionesAunque de vez en cuando se encuentran perlitas de ingenio en forma de met fora, como cuando asemeja a las cacat as de cabezas ladeadas con contempladores de cuadros o cuando se ala el puro de gestor como el complemento perfecto de los camellos de expresiones aburridas o cuando nos habla de la m quina de coser que tos a hilos y botones o los ascensores que sub an y bajaban por los edificios como nueces de ad n, la verdad es que el humor no abunda en la literatura de Lobo, a no ser que queramos ver un humor de cara de palo a lo Buster Keaton cuando se refiere a aquel rbol inesperado que surgi del bosque para explicar como unos compa eros estrellaron su coche, o cuando revela el macabro juego de descubrir en los rostros de los compa eros los futuros habitantes de los f retros que transportaban Pero tambi n es posible hallar una cierta dosis de humor negro cuando se piensa en la paciente y sufrida desconocida del bar Uno se pregunta, dado el estado del protagonista, c mo no estar esta se ora para querer aguantar una vomitona de m s de doscientas p ginas de rabias y penas y aun as querer acompa arlo a su casa seducida por la posibilidad de una noche de amor tan insulso como la merluza congelada del restaurante Mucho instinto maternal me parece para una se ora a la que ya se le empiezan a notar las arrugas y las patas de gallo Y a uno, que le parece un poco pervertido el m todo de seducci n, le da por pensar si no ser la se ora solo un deseo imaginado de compa a producto del alcohol, una extra a fantas a masturbatoria con la que contrarrestar tanta muerte y tanta cobard a en una fr a, solitaria y nost lgica noche lisboeta Lo que ocurre es que en este nuevo escenario es mucho m s dif cil encontrar el chiste, es todav a m s horrible el aislamiento y la soledad que vive el protagonista de este doloroso relato y que ya solo pretende la felicidad de una digesti n sin acidezPorque siempre he estado aislado, durante la escuela, el instituto, la facultad, el hospital, el matrimonio, aislado, aislado con mis libros demasiado le dos y mis poemas pretenciosos y vulgares, el ansia de escribir y el tormento de no ser capaz, de no lograr traducir en palabras lo que deseaba gritar al o do de los otros y que era Estoy aqu , Miradme que estoy aqu , O dme hasta en mi silencio y comprended Alcoholic soliloquist leaning against the zinc of a Lisbon bar to charm a woman with shapes blossoming through a glass of whiskey that empties But is one really trying to seduce No we do not delude about feelings we want his square of skin that we will be able to flourish to the rhythm of his own impulses For our man has it in the bag, enough to make you drain the sewers of the Pra a do Comm rcio of the filth of all kinds that strew his thoughts Thoughts croupies in this dirty war in Angola, borborygms and flatulence of this ass of Judas, submission to the negligence of the generals and to a society subdued in an uchronic society where the brush disengages the grenade, and especially cum in a boiling boiling distilling solitude always harder to hide What is true is palpable the mossy sex from a woman but also her leg severed by a mine, hoses airLobo Antunes, doctor lost in a dirty war, sick overripe fruit of this company benchmarks transcribe in a spoof of the holy sacraments, reminded me of some idiot who would strangely reappeared in the 70s in Salazar s PortugalGreat moment of reading that I could not advise to all the style is syncopated and you must know how to dive into a chapter without being able to catch its breath at the risk of being completely lost in this ass of Judas 3,5E s compreendi isso quando vi os prisioneiros no quartel da Pide, a resignada espera dos seus gestos, as barrigas gigantescas de fome das crian as, a aus ncia de l grimas no pavor dos olhos preciso que entenda, percebe, que no meio em que nasci a defini o de preto era criatura amorosa em pequenino , como quem se refere a c es ou a cavalosLer Ant nio Lobo Antunes foi dos maiores desafios liter rios que me coloquei em 2019 Sem escapar certeza de que gostos s o gostos, h v rios motivos para se ler H quem leia para se entreter, o que muito v lido, e eu sinto que, ultimamente, s leio para me inquietar Sabia que o este psiquiatra e eterno candidato a Nobel da Literatura me haveria de inquietar, mas receava que a inquietude n o me chegasse devido s barreiras estil sticas Em contrapartida, apesar de cumprir bem a miss o de me p r a pensar a nossa Hist ria e este falhan o bo al que foi a Guerra do Ultramar, n o me senti entretida nem posso dizer que tenha gostado Gostei de partes, mas o todo parece me espinhoso N o tenho especial prefer ncia por livros em que preciso remover as espinhas para chegar ao n cleo Sa uma noite de casa e fui ao centro comercial odeio centros comerciais compr lo N o me esque o porque queria a edi o da D Quixote, e porque para isso tive de ficar na fila da Bertrand, naquela altura do ano em que os pais v o levantar livros escolares porque n o encomend los online , a v lo no topo de uma prateleira qual n o chegava, e a ensaiar como diria o seu t tulo ao rapaz que me atendesse quando a fila desaguasse na caixa Tudo porque estava ansiosa para l lo Quando mo meteram na m o, corri para casa e estendi me no sof , abri o, sorvi algo a respeito do Jardim Zool gico de Lisboa, pensei que era familiar, que amos dar nos bem, e depois sofri um golpe e fiquei deriva Deixei de entender, perdi me nas voltas e reviravoltas, volutas e floreados do discurso Larguei o de imediato, mas volvidos poucos meses voltei a pegar lhe n o havia de vencer me Tinha de cumprir o desafio de ler Ant nio Lobo Antunes, e ainda para mais esta obra encaixa no perfil de livros de 200 p ginas ou menos que ando a devorar, porque, de repente, livros maiores do que isso intimidam me um autor nacional e sei que devo muitas leituras ao universo de autores nacionais, e um poss vel candidato a Nobel e queria conhec lo antes de receber esse poss vel galard o Queria tamb m permitir lhe a possibilidade de me levar, pelos sentidos, guerra e ao absurdo do Ultramar O maior desconforto foi o de sentir sempre que as frases deveriam terminar e com grande classe, claras e pujantes ao quil metro tr s, mas v las prolongarem se por mais cinco quil metros de met foras desnecess rias e pura agonia, at uma morte estrepitosa Dei por mim a reler algumas frases que come avam com asas, e que me enchiam o peito de compreens o e assombro, e a cortar o que vinha em acr scimo, e que s servia para deturpar a perfei o do come o Abaixo dois exemplos desse exerc cioO que seria de n s, n o , se f ssemos de facto felizes J imaginou como isso nos deixaria perplexos, desarmados, mirando ansiosamente em volta em busca de uma desgra a reconfortadora, como as crian as procuram os sorrisos da fam lia numa festa de col gioouO medo de voltar ao meu pa s comprime me o es fago, porque, entende, deixei de ter lugar fosse onde fosse, estive longe demais, tempo demais para tornar a pertencer aqui, a estes outonos de chuvas e de missas, estes demorados invernos despolidos como l mpadas fundidasApesar de ter conseguido termin lo, e dos vislumbres arrepiantes da genialidade que lhe adivinhava, e que com certeza lhe concede a reputa o que conquistou no mundo das letras, acabei por acarinhar as imagens, as ideias, o mundo visto pelos olhos do autor, mas detestei o estilo Detestei as in meras men es a artistas Vermeer, Picasso, Mir , Chagall , e a m sicos Coltrane, etc e a filmes e atores James Dean, Humphrey Bogart, etc Foram demasiadas Tal era como os rel gios derretidos do Dali e tal era magro como os galgos de Velasqu z parafraseando , e a gabardina transformava senhor tal no Bogart, ou a ganga dava lhe um ar de James Dean, etc J deitava essas men es pelos olhos At fui capaz de as seguir, porque adoro arte, mas achei uma exibi o desproporcionada de snobismo num livro t o pequeno Talvez em 1979, quando fui publicado, ca ssem melhor.Acabei por entrar no ritmo, oscilar entre a noite lisboeta onde este ex m dico de guerra tenta engatar uma rapariga, e os horrores que testemunhou na guerra e que vai debitando, acabando por nos elucidar tamb m sobre a sua inf ncia privilegiada e a estrutura familiar comum e at mon tona Achei de grande mestria que consiga saltitar entre o Chi me e a terra vermelha de frica e o vodka no copo em Lisboa, o seu apartamento vazio, a sua vida vazia de entusiasmo de homem de quase meia idade divorciado, enquanto constr i um retrato com pinceladas algo impressionistas um borr o aqui, outro acol e as sugest es de sombras, figuras e express es por detr s e eu a cair nas met foras do autor Estamos ao balc o do bar, e este m dico de quem creio nem chegamos a saber o nome est b bedo, e vai cambaleando em dire o mulher em quem prendeu a aten o nesse dia de semana, o que sugere que nem consegue manter uma ocupa o Vai se repetindo e revisitando as mesmas ideias, mas em ocasi es surge algo que nos cativa por completo, nos agonia, nos d a volta ao est mago E, por todo o livro, h um sentido de absurdo e de desnecess rio, e um odor p trido que exala dos caix es de chumbo dos mortos do ultramar, que sabiam que morriam em v o, por uma causa perdida, e que se perpetua pelo chorrilho de horrores que cometeram no limiar da loucura tropical e que testemunharam Suic dios, minas, estropiados, viola es, viol ncias v rias, torturas, mesquinhice, cobardia e bravura, tudo em v o Tudo a terminar nos mesmos caix es de chumbo remetidos metr pole qual, depois de voltar, o m dico j n o sente que pertence.N o um livro que me tenha arrebatado por completo, mas uma narrativa que imprime imagens muito fortes de humanidade e politiquices na nossa mente, e que explora a natureza humana sem filtros nem acanhentos, expondo a distorcida, cruel, desesperada.Aconselho como introdu o ao dif cil Ant nio Lobo Antunes. , 24 5 , 31 2 Os cus de Judas . with nearly two dozen books to his name, ant nio lobo antunes is unquestionably portugal s greatest and most accomplished living novelist there are many myself not included that believe the swedish academy awarded the 1998 nobel prize to the wrong portuguese writer, though rumors persist that lobo antunes is an annual contender for the much coveted literary prize his dense and powerful works are often compared to those of joyce, faulkner, and c line, though he denies influence from either of the former the land at the end of the world os cus de judas is lobo antunes second novel, originally published in 1979 the work has been published previously in english under the title south of nowhere, with a translation by elizabeth lowe 1983, random house this new rendering by margaret jull costa bears the distinctive quality that one expects of her translations saramago, mar as, pessoa, e a de queir s a side by side reading of the two english editions shows clearly that the new translation is much richer and fluid than its predecessor margaret jull costa also translated the fat man and infinity, a fantastic collection of essays and short stories that demonstrates another side to lobo antunes many literary talents.maragaret jull costa writes in the introduction, the title of this novel in portuguese is os cus de judas,cu de judasbeing a slang term for any very remote, desolate place the back of beyond, the middle of nowhere, the boonies but literally it means judas s asshole the book s original title so than the land at the end of the world is both a literal and figurative allusion to the book s harrowing narrative it aptly conveys the harsh desolation of both the setting and the main character s internal state.the story relates the tale of a nameless narrator as he recounts his time serving as a medic in the angolan interior during the portuguese colonial war the land at the end of the world may well be lobo antunes most autobiographical work, as he, too, spent over two years during the war as a medic nearly all of the book s action takes place in a bar as the narrator, while attempting to charm a woman he wishes to spend the night with, offers up the harsh details and inescapable memories of his time in the war zone his long, dark and often resentful monologues illustrate the timeless horrors of armed conflict and the lasting repercussions on individual lives and the nation as a whole the narrator also muses upon the repressive portuguese government and the factors that led up to the 1974 revolution we weren t mad dogs when we arrived here, i said to the lieutenant, who was seething with anger and indignation, we weren t mad dogs before the censored letters, the attacks, the ambushes, the mines, the lack of food and tobacco and cold drinks and matches and water and coffins, before we were told that a berliet truck was worth than a man and before we found out that the death of a solider merited just three lines in the newspaper, he died in combat in angola, we weren t mad dogs, it s simply that we meant nothing to the mealy mouthed state, who shat on us and used us as laboratory rats and who now at least are afraid of us, so afraid of our presence, of our unpredictable reactions and the remorse we represent that they cross the road if they see us coming, they avoid us, they don t want to face a battalion destroyed in the name of a lot of cynical ideas no one believes in, a battalion destroyed merely to defend the wealth of the three or four families who shore up the regime, the giant lieutenant turned to me, touched my arm and begged in a voice that was suddenly a child s voice, doctor, fix me up with some illness before i explode right here in the street from all the shit inside me. ant nio lobo antunes crafts remarkable prose full of vivid description and analogy his writing is both visceral and cerebral, combining for an effect that is both haunting and breathtaking despite the horrific subject matter, lobo antunes manages to infuse the narrator with a dark humor that enlivens his character while decrying rampant atrocity and state sponsored neglect or, rather, indifference , lobo antunes is still able to breathe a beauty into the work that contrasts sharply with the emotions the story is intended to elicit his literary dexterity allows both the story and the language to flourish, and the synergistic effect truly is bewildering the land at the end of the world has been hailed as lobo antunes masterpiece, and it certainly is deserving of such praise his other works, however, resonate with as fevered a pitch, and if this story offers something the others do not, it may simply be that it was informed by the young novelist s own experiences of the tragedy and absurdity that is modern warfare with ant nio lobo antunes training as a psychiatrist, his insight into war s effects on the mind and spirit offer another dimension that lend this work its great richness and relevance the land at the end of the world is an exceptional work of art, one that further demonstrates the potent talents of a masterful storyteller no, seriously, happiness, that vague state resulting from an impossible convergence of parallel lines in the form of a good digestion and a smug egotism untouched by regrets, still seems to me for i belong to the glum category of the sad and restless, eternally waiting for an explosion or a miracle something as abstract and strange as innocence, justice, honor, those profound, grandiloquent, and ultimately empty concepts that the family, school, the catechism, and the state solemnly imposed upon me so as to tame me easily, to nip in the bud, if i may put it like that, any stirrings of protest and rebellion what others demand of us, you understand, is that we don t cause them to doubt, that we don t disturb their teeny tiny lives, which they have carefully insulated against despair and hope, that we don t shatter their aquariums of deaf fish floating in the slimy water of the day to day, lit obliquely by the sleepy lamp of what we call virtue, which, when looked at closely, turns out to be merely the lukewarm absence of ambition. The Portuguese VietnamWhile the USA was engaged during the 1960 s and 70 s in its insane war in Vietnam, Portugal was digging proportionately even deeper graves in its African colony of Angola one and one half million men went to Africa, from a population of ten million almost 80,000 died on all sides Somewhat lower tech than the American effort, the Portuguese troops went out not by jet plane but by ship This was hardly a morale building experience they travelled in the same cargo holds that carried the coffins which would bring many of them home Lobo Antunes was a doctor conscripted to help reduce the number of coffins needed.Military discipline doesn t mitigate the emotional immaturity, frustration and fear of young soldiers, it condenses extreme emotions for periodic explosive release The explosions, as we know, may continue for a life time Alcohol and prescription drug abuse seem to be popular longer term dysfunctions but the immediate effect of putting lethal weapons in the hands of half cooked, troubled adults is a casual, unpredictable inhumanity and the occasional massacre and, of course, a chronic inability to talk coherently about the experience, even if that s all they do talk about It s called post traumatic stress disorder.Lobo Antunes s voice it can hardly be called a protagonist since it doesn t even have a name has PTSD He can t shut up about what he s gone through except to comment on what he s going through at the moment as a consequence Guilt alternates with the effects of military irrationality, is it the guerrillas who are murdering us or is it Lisbon, or is it the Americans, the Russians, the Chinese, or the whole fucking lot of them determined to screw us good and proper in the name of certain interests that escape me now Is there anyone who can explain this absurdity He understandably avoids mention of the secret police, the PIDE, which had power than the army, and was dangerous than the enemy.They return unfit for normal life, as they always do, because war makes everything relationships, possessions, personal history cheap, disposable, and temporary The young soldiers, shipwreck victims , are shunted into islands of despair , military hospitals of a quality and capability of the 19th century However, for the Portuguese returning from Angola, as undoubtedly for those Americans returning from Vietnam, those French from Algeria, those Dutch from Indonesia and those Russians from Afghanistan, among so many others, it is the malign indifference of one s fellow citizens that is the final crushing blow The shock of loss is far profound than the relief of safetyWe spent twenty seven months together in the asshole of the world, twenty seven months of anguish and death in the sands of Eastern Angolawe ate the same homesickness, the same shit, the same fear, and yet it took us just five minutes to say goodbye, a handshake, a pat on the back, a vague embrace, and then, bent under the weight of our baggage, we were gone, out through the main gate and off into the civilian whirlwind of the city Would that young men realise that this is inevitable and refuse the commands of the old men who hide it from them Only then might the old men stop. I do believe that everyone should eventually read this book Eventually, because they should be ready for it It s not to be trifled with That would be a waste Thanks to Neal for bringing this to my attention.My reviews do not tell the story That can be found elsewhere the official blurb, other reviews This is the story of a medical doctor who was drafted into Portugal s military to tend the wounded in the war against colonial Angola in the 1970s We follow him into the military camps and villages of Angola and back to his new life in Lisbon We hear only his voice as he drones on in horrific and painful detail, that reads like poetry.It is a story of war and its horrors It is a story of love and sex in the painful ambiguity that marks us all It is a bizarre story of a man and a woman who have met in a bar and go home together for meaningless sex that he wants to give some sort of meaning to while recounting his story of war and what it has done to him And, yes, this is poetry Ant nio Lobo Antunes, whose own story can likely be found here somewhere, is a poet He unfolds his story in a sea of words using every literary device necessary to charm and hold the reader, while sparing none of the detail I might add that, as usual, Margaret Jull Costa has performed her translation role like a master of skill by bringing another s words to life For all of the pain and agony portrayed, for all of the despair and self hatred revealed, the language can be beautiful As I read, I had to stop often to take in the images, both cruel and loving, to absorb the content in all of its lush humanity I will let some of these words speak for themselves I shall randomly chose sentences from different parts of the book The sentences are often long, stream of consciousness sentences Read them patiently, as you would poetry Remember that this is a monologue, a man talking to a potential actual sexual partner Remember also that the author was a conscripted doctor serving in that war Read them aloud if you can At least doing his military service will make a man of him This vigorous prophecy, muttered throughout my childhood and adolescence by false teeth of indisputable authority, continued to be delivered in strident tones at canasta tables, where the females of the clan provided a pagan counterweight to Sunday Mass at two centavos a point, a nominal sum that served as a way of venting, by playing the winning card, ancient enmities patiently secreted over the years p 26 Perhaps one day, if we get to know each other better, I ll show you the photo in my wallet of my green eyed daughter whose eyes change when she cries and become the color of a wild equinoctial sea leaping the seawall in an angry crochet of foam, I ll show you her smile, her mouth, her fair hair, the daughter I dreamed about for nine months in the sweaty heat of Angola, because, as Laundino an Angolan anti colonialist writer used to say, we are the only ones who truly exist, and all the rest is a lie, we are the only ones who truly exist, she and I and her long body, her hands so like mine, the indefatigable curiosity of her questions, her anxious questions if I m silent or sad, we are the only ones who truly exist and all the rest is a lie p 103 Doctor, you re needed, someone had stepped on an antipersonnel mine on the path, we drove three miles in the Mercedes truck as fast as we could and found the squad in a clearing with Corporal Paulo lying on the ground moaning with nothing below his knee but a mangled bloody pulp, nothing else mister president and messieurs eunuchs, nothing, imagine mister president what it would be like to suddenly lose a part of yourself, yes, the legitimate descendants of Cabral and Da Gama disappearing in fractions an ankle an arm a length of intestine your balls your beloved balls blown away, he died in combat the newspaper says but this is what it really means to die you sons of bitches p 122 I happened to walk into the sergeants bathroom, into the eternally flooded, stinking pigsty known as the sergeants bathroom, and saw the officer clutching the prisoner to him in a kind of epileptic frenzy, the shy, silent girl was leaning against the tiled wall, her eyes blank, and above their heads, through the window, the plain opened out in a majestic fan of subtle shades of green, where one could make out the slow, zigzagging, almost metallic sheen of the river and the great peace of Angola at five in the afternoon, refracted through successively contradictory layers of mist p 197This is the poetry of a man who hates war He hates his country s fascist government He hates the colonial inheritance he is there to defend He hates the poverty and destruction he sees in Angola, which is someone else s home Mostly, he hates what it has done to him He hates his own cowardice in participating, in not speaking up against that is wrong He hates that he has left part of his own humanity back in the jungle and cannot show his love to his now estranged wife, that he cannot provide a proper loving home to his daughter Ant nio Lobo Antunes s poetry not only show s us all of this horror By showing us what is lost, he is showing what he had and what Angola had or could have had were it not for the sons of bitches and their colonial stupidity.This is where I could go on a long rant on the damage done by colonial attitudes that continue to this day I could rant about the imperial colonialism that continues to drop bombs on civilians in Syria and Iraq about colonial attitudes that continue to push Palestinians onto smaller and smaller pieces of land about colonial policies here in Canada that keep our First Nations people living in crumbling shacks without clean water, adequate food or decent education Colonialism denies other people their humanity and eats away at our own in the process We become inhuman idiots Just look at the clown presidential candidates in the U.S Like I said, I could go on a rant, but I won t Get in touch with your humanity and read the book It s beautiful.