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Anyhow

A pedophile terrorist, a merciless narrator. In his sixth book, Azevedo builds a narrator whose machine gun shoots in all directions, except at the mirror. Some kind of an essayistic novel, Anyhow honors the tradition of damned texts and definitely inserts the author in the hall of writers who put aesthetics above everything.

One of the first works of our Translation+ project.

- Español

- Português

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Trecho do livro

While my son sank in a bacterial lung, I delighted myself with a ruthless Canadian whore, who spoke with enthusiasm about Frederic Beigbeder’s literature. According to Julie, French authors did to me what Jesus Christ never could.

“Of course they can. They are perfect for you, since you want to go through life skipping questions, never answering anything. Always hidden in this cemented uterus, protected and isolated. Yes. Isolated. Is it right, isolated? Is that how you say it?”

I pushed her head towards my dick.

She moved back, looking like a communist:

“Jerk!”

A unique moment with double meaning. But I didn’t think about it at the time. Throughout most of the day, I don’t think about anything.

Vancomycin can be successful in up to 84% of infections caused by Staphyloccocus Aureus. Nevertheless, it’s useless against Acinetobacter and Biliah Coli. You must prescribe Oxacillin, an antibiotic with restricted application, which works in just 4% of all cases of pneumonia in children. My ex-wife, Antonia, prayed for Guto to be inside those four percent. He could be number 232. Or 349. Or 4958. It didn’t matter. What she really wanted was for him to be one of those people who react to the medicines, who start to breathe better after eight hours of treatment. Those boys who get out of bed and want to play ball. The kids that go home.

Julie kept laying on my chest, making foolish feminist speeches. One of her molar teeth, darkened by an old filling, would show up sometimes when she laughed. I liked it in the beginning. After a while, I couldn’t look at it anymore. Little by little, gold turns into silver, then bronze, tin foil, drywall.

My son had four cardiac arrests that afternoon. He died before the sun set. As for me, I ejaculated three times. None in the mouth.

“You begin life wanting to live. It’s merely a biological fact, nothing else. When you get sick, all you want is to dive into death. The true illness takes us to the real meaning of human life, which, at the end, is none.”

Those were my words for Antonia. Comforting words.

Well, I tried.

Resenha

Sobre o autor

Mauricio Azevedo is professional writer and lives in São Paulo.

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