Ontem estava lendo os cadernos de Chekhov, uma espécie de blog do autor. Dei com isto:
Solomon: Oh! how dark is life! No night, when I was a child, o terrified me by its darkness as does my invisible existence. Lord, to David my father thou gavest only the gift of harmonizing words and sounds, to sing and praise thee on strings, to lament sweetly, to make people weep or admire beauty; but why hast thou given me a meditative, sleepless, hungry mind? Like an insect born of the dust, I hide in arkness; and in fear and despair, all shaking and shivering, I see and hear in everything an invisible mystery. Why this morning? Why does the sun come out from behind the temple and gild the palm tree? Why this beauty of women? Where does the bird hurry, what is the meaning of its flight, if it and its young and the place to which it hastens will, like myself, turn to dust? It were better I had never been born or were a stone, to which God has given neither eyes nor thoughts. In order to tire out my body by nightfall, all day yesterday, like a mere workman I carried marble to the temple; but now the night has come and I cannot sleep … I’ll go and lie down. Phorses told me that if one imagines a flock of sheep running and fixes one’s attention upon it, the mind gets confused and one falls asleep, I’ll do it …
Solomon made a great mistake when he asked for wisdom.
Nunca tinha visto a coisa por esse lado. Talvez a vida dele tenha mesmo virado um inferno. De qualquer modo, o que vai acima bate com o que ele escreveu:
And further, by these, my son, be admonished: of making many books there is no end; and much study is a weariness of the flesh. (Ecclesiastes 12:12)
Em português, sempre li “enfado da carne” como tédio.
Além disso, filho meu, sê avisado. De fazer muitos livros não há fim; e o muito estudar é enfado da carne.
Mas não é exatamente de tédio que ele está falando, é?