História Natural

"No Itamaraty, para os diplomatas chefes de missão que morriam em posto, fora do Brasil, havia uma segunda cerimônia, com grande pompa, quando os despojos voltavam ao solo pátrio. Eram-lhe prestadas honras militares, equivalentes às que havia recebido antes, no país em que estava acreditado. Um embaixador, nesses casos, tinha o direito a duas mortes, lá e cá, como aquele boêmio baiano que Jorge Amado inventou e cujo berro ainda ecoa. 

A glória póstuma era subtraída, em alguma medida, pela classificação que o corpo recebia para que, embalsamado, pudesse entrar no Brasil devidamente rotulado. Na nossa nomenclatura alfandegária, era chamado de “exemplar de história natural”, o que correspondia aos fatos, mas nada acrescentava à reputação."

(A morte sem os mortos, por Marcos de Azambuja, Revista Piauí http://revistapiaui.estadao.com.br/edicao-61/memorias-pouco-diplomaticas/a-morte-sem-os-mortos)

O Cálice, seguro

"Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs' cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang a come-all-you about O'Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires." (Araby, in Dubliners by James Joyce)