Aujourd’hui, maman est morte. Ou
peut-être hier, je ne sais pas. J’ai reçu un télégramme de l’asile: “Mère
décédée. Enterrement demain. Sentiments distingues.” Cela ne veut rien dire.
C’etait peut-être hier.
Albert Camus, L’étranger
I did not kill my father, but I
sometimes felt I gad helped him on his way. And but for the fact that it
coincided with a landmark on my physical growth, his death seemed
insignificant compared to what followed. My sisters and I talked about him the
week after he died, and Sue certainly cried when the ambulance tucked him up in
a bright red blanket and carried him away. He was a frail, irascible, obsessive
man with yellowish hands and face. I am only including the little story of his
death to explain how my sisters and I came to have such a large quantity of
cement a tour disposal.
Ian McEwan, The cement garden
(No fim, tu morres. No fim do
livro, tu morres. Assim mesmo, como se morre nos romances: sem aviso, sem
razão, a benefício apenas da história que se quis contar. Assim, tu morres e eu
conto. E ficamos de contas saldadas.)
Miguel Souza Tavares, No teu
deserto
No final ela morre e ele fica
sozinho, ainda que na verdade ele já tivesse ficado sozinho muitos anos antes
da morte dela, de Emilia. Digamos que ela se chama ou se chamava Emilia e que
ele se chama, se chamava e continue se chamando Julio. Julio e Emilia. No
final, Emilia morre e Julio não morre. O resto é literatura:
Alejandro Zambra, Bonsai
