Moby Dick, de Herman Melville

"Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me."

Há páginas assim. E percebemos que alguém se esgotou absolutamente no acto de Dizer.

Poe

De uma assentada ficámos com a Poesia Completa e com Todos os Contos (2 vols.) de Edgar Allan Poe. Se lhes juntarmos a antologia de Helena Barbas - Poética (Textos Teóricos) - ficamos com a Obra quase completa do Autor. À parte as célebres traduções de Fernando Pessoa, Poe era muito mal tratado em edição portuguesa e estava disperso. Vou "afundar-me" em Poe - e confirmar que o meu Mestre Bloom não tem razão quando dizia que os seus contos "estão horrivelmente escritos (como também os seus poemas) e ganham ao ser traduzidos, até para inglês" e chamando-lhe "o abominável Poe" (Harold Bloom, Como Ler e Porquê, Lisboa, Caminho, 2001, pp. 34 e 49).