Letras e realidade

Ou, como diz o adágio goetheiano: Dichtung und Wahrheit. A prosa académica do BB, saboreada furtivamente numa noite de verão em Santa Monica, recorda-me como escrever uma tese é um exercício de malabarismo em que às vezes esquecemos onde está o sonho, e onde a realidade.
E ainda bem que temos esta opção. Por exemplo, quando se trata de miúdas. As de cá são na maioria assim:


Não, não é uma fata morgana. A fata morgana é esta, do Raymond Chandler:

"It seemed there was a woman and she was sitting near a lamp, which was where she belonged, in a good light. [...] She was so platinumed that her hair shone like a silver fruit bowl. She wore a green knitted dress with a broad white collar turned over it. There was a sharp-angled glossy bag at her feet. She was smoking and a glass of amber fluid was tall and pale at her elbow. [...]

I stopped these furtive movements and said: 'Hello.'

The woman withdrew her gaze from some distant mountain peak. Her small firm chin turned slowly. Her eyes were the blue of mountain lakes. Overhead the rain still pounded, with a remote sound, as if it was somebody else's rain.

'How do you feel?' It was a smooth silvery voice that matched her hair. It had a tiny tinkle in it, like bells in a doll's house. [...]

She was tall rather than short, but no bean-pole. She was slim, but not a dried crust. She went back to her chair. [...]

She was silent. Smoke floated dimly from her cigarette. She moved it in the air. Her hand was small and had shape, not the usual bony garden tool you see on women nowadays. [...]

I stood beside her, touching her knees. She came to her feet with a sudden lurch. Our eyes were only inches apart.

'Hello, Silver-Wig', I said softly. [...]

I leaned against her and pressed her against the wall with my body. I pushed my mouth against her face. I talked to her that way. 'There's no hurry. All this was arranged in advance, rehearsed to the last detail, timed to the split second. Just like a radio program. No hurry at all. Kiss me, Silver-Wig'.

Her face under my mouth was like ice. She put her hands up and took hold of my head and kissed me hard on the lips. Her lips were like ice, too.

I went out through the door and it closed behind me, without sound, and the rain blew in under the porch, not as cold as her lips." (The Big Sleep)

*Suspiro*