Saturday - by Ian McEwan -
Parece que ofereceram este livro - Saturday de IM - à Mixikó (uma amiga atenta do Macro) - que desconhecia. Pois que lhe faça bom proveito e depois diga o nele mais gostou. Por acaso o Sábado é também o dia da semana da minha eleição. Como Feliz seria o mundo se fosse um eterno Sábado.. O Sábado evoca-me o cheiro das torradas e do sumo de laranja.. O Sábado - Seria feliz, mas, por certo, pouco produtivo. Se calhar para que o Sábado tenha esse sabor tão especial - de promessas e esperanças no nosso universo mental - é forçoso que os restantes dias da semana sejam dias de algum desgaste ou pena psicológica. No fundo, o ideal seria que não houvesse dias, nem semanas, nem meses, nem anos, nem décadas, nem séculos, nem milénios nem estações a compartimentar-nos o tempo (Verão, Outono, Prima-Vera, Prima-Mixicó, In(f)erno..). Apenas houvesse Tempo - na linha da eternidade. Mas fica a questão: que memórias nos deixam os sábados?! Creio que são eles que nos alimentam. Um dia apenas da semana a carregar com os outros todos.O que me leva a supôr que o Sábado é um monta-cargas... Mas, como diria o "outro": "o problema é se eu morro".. E quando pensamos no "outro" vemo-nos ao espelho neste jogo de reflexos mais ou menos tangíveis, até porque passamos uma eternidade mortos depois de vivermos a vida que temos e gozamos. Tudo isso, afinal, não passa dum intervalo. São, porventura, as tais férias que a morte concede à vida - num tempo breve - porque a eternidade, essa - aguarda-nos!!! UM MOMENTO DE LITERATURA, ao Sábado...
Excerpt from Saturday 
He crosses the bedroom and goes to the dressing room, to the corner where he stores his sports gear. These are the small pleasures at the start of a Saturday morning—the promise of coffee, and this faded squash kit. His daughter, Daisy, always a neat dresser, fondly calls it his scarecrow outfit. The blue shorts are bleached by patches of sweat that won’t wash out. Over a gray T-shirt, he puts on an old cashmere jumper with moth holes across the chest. Over the shorts, tracksuit pants, fastened with old cord at the waist. The white socks of prickly stretch towelling with yellow and pink bands at the top have something of the nursery about them. Unboxing them releases a homely aroma of the laundry. The squash shoes have a sharp smell, blending the synthetic with the animal, that reminds him of the court, the clean white walls and red lines, the unarguable rules of gladiatorial combat, and the score. It’s pointless pretending not to care about the score. He lost last week’s game against Jay Strauss, but as he crosses the room with cushioned, springy stride Henry feels he’ll win today. He opens the shutters, and the thought is instantly dispersed by the flood of low winter sunlight and by the sudden interest of what’s happening outside. [...].
He crosses the bedroom and goes to the dressing room, to the corner where he stores his sports gear. These are the small pleasures at the start of a Saturday morning—the promise of coffee, and this faded squash kit. His daughter, Daisy, always a neat dresser, fondly calls it his scarecrow outfit. The blue shorts are bleached by patches of sweat that won’t wash out. Over a gray T-shirt, he puts on an old cashmere jumper with moth holes across the chest. Over the shorts, tracksuit pants, fastened with old cord at the waist. The white socks of prickly stretch towelling with yellow and pink bands at the top have something of the nursery about them. Unboxing them releases a homely aroma of the laundry. The squash shoes have a sharp smell, blending the synthetic with the animal, that reminds him of the court, the clean white walls and red lines, the unarguable rules of gladiatorial combat, and the score. It’s pointless pretending not to care about the score. He lost last week’s game against Jay Strauss, but as he crosses the room with cushioned, springy stride Henry feels he’ll win today. He opens the shutters, and the thought is instantly dispersed by the flood of low winter sunlight and by the sudden interest of what’s happening outside. [...].
posted by Macro at 14:06
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