Story of the obsession of a
man in acquiring a
tomb in a cemetary, is even so not condemned to the death, nor neither sick. The narrative, ciphered stranger and, seem to support themselves in aforismos as this, perpetrated for one of the personages, one velhinha: “When we open the book of the life, also we open of the funerals. The pencil makes one alone trace ". At a time indefinite, but surely future, the intention of the personage is, when dying, to be buried instead of cremado, habit then en vogue. The business, however, if materialize in secrecy, after many weeks of an interminable dialogue, supposedly philosophical, concerning the life and of the death the candidate to the tomb, a decent
place in the cemetary, and suspicious and the enigmatic funerary agent enters , of name Ernest. At the same time the conjugal life of the
narrator if spoils, and it feels, to the few, to run away among its fingers the respectful relationship that keeps with the wife. Compound of platonic dialogue with the exotic tradition narrative of the European east, of forceful and necessary masters of the black mood, as the Czechs Franz Kafka and Karel Tchápek, the Hungarians Dezsö Kosztolányi, István Örkény and Sándor Márai, and the Rumanian Ion Lucas Caragiale, the novel
The private door if it also discloses an uncommon and unexpected tram police: an involuntary murder and without blood. When acquiring
little by little, by means of extensive colloquies with the stranger Ernest, the tomb that never will go to occupy, the narrator as that he practises a species of act
vodu against the wife, who adoece and dies, going to occupy the place that the husband reserves for proper itself. A crime sidereal, therefore, and perhaps Metaphysical, arquitetado under the disguise of the indifference and perhaps. The last pages, even so pparently unpretentious, reserve new surprise to the reader, and they pardon me if I disclose it: the narrator, so soon loses the
wife and buried, the incapable one to perhaps forget Ernest, who he coexisted during many weeks, he becomes simulacro of this, exerting equally the melancholic profession to it to take care of to despaired for a place in the cemetary and them to obtain a stream bed cômodo under the land, first native land of the man and thus exaltada by Ernest: “When in we confuse them with the nature, we do not need you are welcome more than our naked body ". It has visible influences of Kafka, Borges, a little also of Cortázar and of unjustly forgotten Dino Buzzati; it would say despite of the instigante Boris Vian, author of
The foam of the days, with an only edition in Brazil (New Border, 1984) e, certainly, evil for our critical one. But what it has of fact is a renewal, in high degree, of the queerness that locks up and singulariza, since always, all and any narrative born in the ground of this hypothetical redoubt the east of the Europe and that the imaginary line confides after that, cutting vertically the continent, divides it in two different halves: the first one, occidental person, who reasons; e the second, eastern one, that it creates. Of this last one in them fábula arrives this precious modern that it is
The private door, composed of strange lives: a mysterious and loquacious grave-digger, put the philosopher, who says: “The years pass e, in the end, are crumbs that the wind will exhaust”; a stubborn man in being embedded instead of cremado and a woman who, almost absent of the tram, finishes if becoming the only victim of the same one, through a nonsense and improbable act
vodu, materialize for the fugidia suggestion of the thought and the words. No husband never “deprived itself” thus with as much subtility of the wife. It is evident that it did not kill it, but is evident also that something killed it: something mined its health and it poured it, without life, in that tomb reserved with as much antecedence and desired with in such a way ardor for its friend. It is as if a supreme, creative possessed person to be of everything, and all watchman, pronounced, is of itself, at the same time in attention to I appeal it the desirous protagonist and of puniz it: - How thus either! - and an anathema launched it on the loved and vulnerable being next. Soon at the beginning it has one speaks of Ernest who seems to corroborate such assumption: “we cannot decide who will leave and when, who will remain and until when ". However, as Stanley Elkin said the North American writer: “Who is that he is not died?"
More reviews about the The private door