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“It was normal for it to rain, but in October- who could forget the rains of October?- now this disturbingly silent rain was falling. That was so nebulous that it was pretty; that, if it had not been wet, no one would have believed it was raining; that was so slow that it was possible to follow its fall with one's eyes. That which villagers called 'the rains of October' was the accumulation of the serenity of such a life. Eyes almost broke into tears on looking at the sun subdividing itself, at the end of the afternoon, in each drop of that snail's-pace precipitation, as if the great star had dissolved each day an infinitesimal bit more.”

SilenceRainSilentAfternoonOctoberSoftSlowGreat Star
Book:The Whistler
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“The elders say- difficult to prove- that winged creatures also dream. The birds are lovers of heights, always searching out landing spots, never constant here at the foot of the human race. 'It's that they discovered a magical advantage...' they say, 'the sound of silence.' At the foot of the clouds the raindrops come earlier, it's true, and the silence of the sky is something unattainable for those who don't fly- we have never experimented. The dream of the birds was that man of them headed for a land where they experienced a similar magic to that lived by them. In the final analysis, music is the only human sound similar to that of silence.”

SoundSilenceMusicLandHumanAdvantageCloudsFlyingBirdsMagicalSearchingAfrican AuthorsFootLanding Spot
Book:The Whistler
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“The morning was, therefore, a mixture of a plenitude of densities, from the presence of the placid birds, to the mundane premonition, to the spring of small glisters which accompanied that autumnal rain. The music, in a simple whistle, recreated a new universe with the parish and all the hearts that were witness to it- padre, pigeons, swallows, the world!- were clothed in a new carnivalesque colouring: a celebration from within.”

UniverseSoundMusicMorningRainProseCelebrationHeartsAfrican AuthorsSpiritual ExperienceParishWhistleAutumnal
Book:The Whistler
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“The endlessness of the extent of that whistle resulted, without a doubt, also in an enormous metaphysical knowledge of the art of whistling, which mingled, not just with the hearing of people, but extended, in an incisive manner, to the depths of their souls, the protected corner where each one hid their things- that frightening cave, which many call the centre of their being.”

SoulSoundEndlessMetaphysicalBeingAfrican AuthorsWhistling
Book:The Whistler
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“Uma noite, quantas madrugadas tem? Andas a contar? Eu não. Lhes apanho só, conforme lhes vejo e sinto. Atrevo: uma só noite tem bué de madrugadas; cada uma dessas madrugadas tem bué de brilhos. Confesso-me aqui, nos lábios da sinceridade: gosto muito disso - acreditar no impossível das palavras, lhes maltratar no português delas, ser livre na boca das estórias e me deixar tar aqui, sentado dentro de mim, abismático. E sonhar!, sonhar até chegar nesse quintal onde dentro de mim nascem barulhos e não só: nascem brilhos. Vejo búzios que riem à toa como se fossem conchas de pousar na areia depois de lhes apanhar numa noite de lua brilhante. Depois do barulho das vozes os búzios se calam e eu, no respeito, me calo também.”

PoesiaLíngua
Book:Quantas Madrugadas Tem a Noite
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“Era comum chover mas, em Outubro – quem pode esquecer as chuvas de Outubro? – caía aquela chuva perturbadoramente silenciosa. Que era tão nebulosa que ficava bela; que, se não molhasse, ninguém acreditaria tratar-se de uma chuva; que era tão lenta que dava para acompanhar com os olhos o seu cair. Aquilo a que os aldeões chamavam «as chuvas de Outubro», era o cúmulo da mansidão daquele viver. Os olhos quase descaíam em choro mirando o sol subdividindo-se, ao fim da tarde, em cada gota dessa precipitação lentadinosa, faz conta, o astro maior se fosse derretendo todos os dias um poucochinho mais.”

Chuva
Book:The Whistler
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