Today there is something to celebrate, at least that's what I believed for a moment. No, not the book, it's not finished yet. But something else did finish.
I finished publishing the articles from the black file. OK, I still have about 30 texts to finish, but they are something else, papers presented in recent conferences or ongoing projects, such things. But I finished the black file; I've just sent the corrections for the last, tiny paper concerning Verlaine for Romanica Silesiana. he book also helped me, it absorbed some semi-papers that simply disappeared in the flow of the literary history.
And then I saw it.
The last paper.
The one that cannot be absorbed, and the one that was missing.
Apparently it's just another tiny paper, dating back from the time of beginnings, written in 1998 I think. Just a reading of two tiny poems.
And suddenly all the puzzle composed itself. As peças todas a encaixar. Making sense. In illo tempore.
But what are the poems?, you would ask. Oh, that's the old Sena, just two poems from Metamorfoses, one about the mosque of Córdoba, and the other about Cistercian cloister of Alcobaça, and something about the the reconstruction of theologies that Sena does, and such things. There is nothing particularly original in all this, neither from my side, nor Sena's. He is just working over Malraux, Les metamorphoses des dieux, he is just commenting on it, poetically, and I'm commenting on him. But this is something that lays beyond the words, and beyond the ideas, and beyond the stones. Beyond originality, in fact. It is just excessus purae mentis in Deum, as Bernard de Clairvaux would call it.
I shall not publish this paper as a paper. I shall make it a starting point for my "mid-career balance", Garden and Desert. Yes, I'm still thinking about offering this small gift to myself, in 2017, for the 20th anniversary of my academic work. I will delve deep in this time of the origins to get something that might stay with me, the source of sense, the primordial moment of actually choosing this, as my life.
The anniversary strikes wrong, by the way. Nothing happened in 1997. It is something that comes from behind, something that had been born when I was still at school, and studying art history. I thought my choice was to be an artist, not a scholar. But now I see what it really was. It doesn't matter, by the way.
Et ego in illo, and I'm back to the original moment, and I see why, and what is the way in front of me. Suddenly the clouds break apart, and I see where the summit is. And I feel a great safety.
do espírito provável
da expectação tranquila
mortal da eternidade