#11

“Man lebt in seiner Sprache, escrevia Hanns Johst, um dos nossos melhores poetas nacionais-socialistas: «O homem vive na sua língua»” (id: 575).

I AM MAN

“I knew what it was to be a woman. I was one of them. I knew what it meant to wake up before the others, to get breakfast, to listen to the children, who all want to talk at the same time. Ironing at daybreak, mending in the early morning, homework at dawn. Then the empty house and an hour of working frantically to do the bare minimum, sorting dirty laundry, preparing the vegetables for the day's meals, scrubbing toilets. Bathing, doing your hair, putting on your makeup, fixing yourself up, if not you'll have a guilty conscience: “A woman should always be clean and nice to look at.” Taking the youngest to nursery school or kindergarten. Don't forget the shopping basket for doing errands, later. Go to work. The only work that counts, the work you're paid for, without which there would be black misery. Come back for lunch. The older children eat at the cafeteria, the youngest one is home. She has to be given affection, to feel the warm presence of her mother. The older ones will look after her in the evening. Provided they don't get into mischief, play with matches, cross the street without looking. Out again shopping. Orders from superiors received and carried out as fast as possible, as best you can. Errands in the evening. Not a penny in your pocket. It doesn't matter. Use your ingenuity to put together a meal that is appetizing and good: “A good meal drives away unhappiness.” The shopping baskets which are heavy on your arms. The fatigue which begins to gnaw at your head and at your back. It doesn't matter: “A woman must pay for the happiness of bringing children into the world”. Home again. Listen to them all. Prepare the dinner. Hang up the wash. Bathe the children, supervise their homework. Put the soup on the table. Fry the apple fritters while their finishing their noodles. Tired legs. Brain heavy with sleep. The dishes. See as a reproach the fingerprints on the walls and doors, the windows which need to be cleaned, the knitting isn't getting anywhere: “You've made your bed, now you can lie in it, my daughter. A dirty woman, a dirty house.” I'll do it on Sunday, I'll do it on Sunday. The following day it begins again: move the furniture, down on your knees, scrub the floor, carry the baskets to the market, pick up the kids, keep counting the small change without which you can't buy anything. Look at the beautiful dress in the shop window, costing more than you earn in a month... And keep up giving kisses when all you want is to sleep, to rest. Have a guilty conscience because of it, play the game, regret not getting anything out of it, fear another pregnancy. Fight off bad, selfish thoughts: “You should be as much a wife as a mother if you want a good husband.” How many days to the end of the month? Am I going to manage? My God, a child crying! It's the baby. Just so she isn't sick. I've taken too many sick days this year, what with the oldest getting measles and the others getting the flu. I'm going to wind up in trouble. Start up from sleep, get up in the night. Night in the apartment made of concrete, crying in the distance from other people's children having nightmares, flushing toilets of neighbors coming back late, the drunk on the thrid floor yelling at his wife. To sleep. To Sleep” (id: 262-263).

#09

“I could not be loved, I could not please (...) I could only be rejected. In this way, I experienced every departure, every misunderstanding, every separation as abandonment. A streetcar I failed to catch stirred up the thing. I was a failure and as a consequence I failed at everything” (Cardinal, 1993: 144).

CARDINAL, Marie (1993). The Words To Say It. Translation by Pat Goodheart. London: The Women's Press.

#07

“Se o homem não é com certeza, ao contrário do que pretenderam certos poetas e filósofos, naturalmente bom, não é também naturalmente mau: o bem e o mal são categorias que podem servir para qualificar o efeito das acções de um homem sobre outro; mas são (...) fundamentalmente inadequadas, senão inutilizáveis, para ajuizarmos do que se passa no coração desse homem” (Littel, 2006: 537-538).

LITTEL, Jonathan (2006). As Benevolentes. Tradução de Miguel Serras Pereira. Lisboa: Publicações Dom Quixote.