Van Gogh’s Ear (1994)
Van Gogh Gogh’s Ear is a collection of short stories. In the story that gives the book its name, the author describes an almost tragic human situation, punctuated by an eerie detail.
Our fragile human condition (2017)
In this collection of pieces, originally published in the newspaper Zero Hora, readers will find Moacyr Scliar’s sensitivity directed towards the culture, history and memory of the Jewish people. Literature, cinema, politics, humor, nothing escapes the sharp eye of one of the greatest names in Brazilian literature. With his characteristic intellectual honesty, Scliar combines his political aspirations with a radical affirmation of tolerance. The doctor and writer, who would have turned eighty in 2017, juxtaposes his dispassionate reflections with the barbarity of the facts, aiming straight at a fervent defense of peace, as enlightening as it is necessary in our times.
The land of emotions (2013)
This collection of chronicles continues the project by Companhia das Letras to publish a significant selection of the chronicles written by Moacyr Scliar during his more than thirty years of collaboration with the Porto Alegre newspaper Zero Hora. Literature and medicine are two constant themes in Scliar’s thinking: the writer, a doctor of public health himself, tirelessly returned to the subjects that fascinated him. In his mind, the two are linked by the word. Thus, these chronicles showcase doctor-writers (from Galen and Vesalius to Thomas Mann, Tolstoy and Molière); memories of his student days at the Faculty of Medicine of Porto Alegre; stories of medical practice; writers suffering from diseases and how they dealt with their own physical limitations; writers who wrote about medicine… And yet, in another vein, political and ethical issues, such as the collaboration of some doctors with the dictatorship, both in Brazil and in other authoritarian regimes. Scliar’s humor is more in the realm of mischief than irony. It is responsible for the enchanting lightness of these chronicles, which do not shy away from the gravity of many of the issues they address, starting with the biggest one, the core of both literature and medicine. For the writer, medicine performs “small resurrections” in the face of the “sting of death.” “Death has the last word. But until it arrives, medicine has much to say.” And so does literature.
Stories not told in the newspapers (2009)
In his weekly chronicles in Folha de S. Paulo, Moacyr Scliar reveals the fantastic side of real life by creating fictional stories inspired by the news in the newspaper. Histórias que os jornais não contam includes 54 of these pieces, in which the author skillfully transforms the most mundane events into high-quality literature with lightness and humor. From airplane etiquette to tearless onions, from corruption in Brasília to painting monkeys, nothing escapes his attention.
The way we live (2007)
The internet, books, neighbors, the character of rascal, vanity and the age-old story of the relationship between men and women are some of the themes of the chronicles found in this book. The writer’s discerning eye captures the most ordinary scenes of daily life and presents them in these pages. This book brings the great novelist very close to us. And, as Luís Fernando Verissimo said, it’s great to have him in our neighborhood.
Stories of Porto Alegre (2005)
This book is for those who live in Porto Alegre and those who simply want to know more about the soul of the city. It is for those who are interested in fond memories of the most important Brazilian cities, and for those who have a penchant for the joyful and humorous literature of Moacyr Scliar. Illustrated with photographs by Beto Scliar, the author’s son and photographer, (Stories of Porto Alegre) consists of short and engaging texts about different facets of the city and its inhabitants. It is a sentimental journey through Porto Alegre, and the guide is none other than one of Porto Alegre’s most illustrious natives: Moacyr Scliar. In addition to his skills as an excellent writer, which gives lightness and flavor to the texts, Scliar as public health expert, makes use of other lesser-known qualities to better understand the soul of his hometown and fellow citizens. He is a bit of an art history expert when it comes to the city’s historical buildings and architectural styles; an anthropologist when scrutinizing the habits (dietary, sexual, soccer-related…) of the Gauchos; a geographer when discussing the Guaíba (is it river, lake, estuary or what); a linguist when commenting on the idiosyncrasies of “Gauchês” (the Southern Brazilian dialect) and “Portoalegrês” (the Porto Alegre way of speaking); a mixture of political scientist and historian when recalling the state’s political past and its emblematic figures; and also a cook, delving into the eating habits and providing the recipe for one of the most typical dishes of southern Brazilian cuisine. Famous Gauchos permeate these pages (Elis Regina, Lupicínio Rodrigues, Getúlio, Simões Lopes Neto, Lya Luft, Borges de Medeiros, Erico Verissimo), and other famous non-Gauchos, such as Albert Camus, Barão de Itararé and Di Cavalcanti, also pay a visit to the southernmost capital of Brazil. In the style of a true sentimental journey, Scliar visits the four corners of Porto Alegre, accompanied by his son Beto. Father and son put themselves in the position of residents of Porto Alegre, but with the detachment of observers, which makes (Stories of Porto Alegre) as informative as it is a pleasure to read.
The best chronicles of Moacyr Scliar (2004)
In a chronicle, as in everything else in life, everyone gives what they have. In the case of the chronicler, there is another feature: not only does he convey what is in his soul, but he has to depersonalize or detach himself, who knows, in order to capture the mysteries and banalities of everyday life. It’s like an antenna (perhaps parabolic) open to the world, catching what’s new, always filtered through a certain temperament and life story. How compelling it is to say that chronicler Moacyr Scliar, one of Brazil’s great fiction writers, reveals at every turn in his columns, his circumstances as a doctor and a Jew, the son of immigrants, and is extremely proud of both. This condition accentuates his critical view of life and “often the ironic angle, if not the humorous one” (Jewish humor), as Luí s Augusto Fischer points out in the preface to (The best chronicles of Moacyr Scliar), collected for the first time in a book. It’s also only natural that, as an authentic fiction writer, many of his chronicles are identified more with fiction than with pure unleavened journalism. Great. The seed of imagination superimposed on simple observation often has the gift of jolting readers, awakening them to another dimension of reality, if not throwing them into total absurdity. Absurdity also serves, almost surreptitiously, for social criticism, the condemnation of human vanities, and a reflection on the pitfalls of modern life. But whether he delves into the absurd or captures the everyday, the writer never loses the power to communicate with readers through clear, colloquial language, with no embellishments, the language of the people, but refined by strict discipline. As Fischer observes, “his chronicle gives readers the pleasant feeling of sharing we have when we talk with our partner. Could there be any better dialog?”
Popcorn (2003)
The Imaginary Horse We all attended the same school in that small town in the countryside. It was a private and very expensive school, which, for our parents, was not a problem: my friends and I were the children of estate owners. Our parents owned vast properties. And they had a lot of money. We lacked nothing. We always dressed very well, bought whatever was needed for school, and spent a lot of money at the school café. On Sundays, we would gather to go horseback riding. Horses were abundant on our parents’ estates, purebred and beautiful animals. Each of us had our own mount, and I’m not talking about ponies, those tame little horses; no, I’m talking about real horses, horses that ran fast and jumped obstacles. I’m talking about horsemanship, that noble sport. Our parents insisted that we become excellent riders. We even had a teacher who trained us in the art of riding. I said each of us had a horse, but that’s not true. There was one who didn’t have a horse. Francisco. Francisco was not an estate owners’ son. His father had a humble profession; he was a cobbler. In fact, Francisco was only in our school because he had received a scholarship – he was a very intelligent and hard-working boy. But what was he doing in our group? Good question. I don’t think any of us would know how to answer. Unlike the other boys in the school – most of whom disliked us – he admired us to the point of reverence. Whenever he could, he would hang around. More than that, he offered to do small jobs for us. If one of us wanted a soda, Francisco would fetch it. If one of us failed to turn in the work requested by the teacher, Francisco took care of it. For that reason, and for that reason alone, we tolerated him. For that reason, and for that reason alone, we allowed him to hang out with us. During the week, of course; because on Sundays, things changed. On Sundays, he went back to his place. Sunday was the day for horseback riding, and from the top of our saddles, we looked down, proud, at the world around us. As I said, Francisco didn’t have a horse. That didn’t stop him from being at the equestrian club early, waiting for us. He watched us while we galloped back and forth. And we liked having him as an audience because he applauded us enthusiastically. More than that, he tried to imitate us: he galloped back and forth as if he were riding an imaginary horse. We were on the track, riding him, next to the track, trotting back and forth and shouting as we shouted: those cries that riders release when engaging in the reining sport. In general, we found it funny. Not Rodrigo. Rodrigo was an unpleasant guy. Even we, who were friends with him, had to admit: he was an unmanageable kid, aggressive with classmates and teachers alike. The bad reputation our group had was mainly due to him. But the truth is, we had to accept him: his father was not only the largest estate owner in the region, but he was also the mayor of our city. Rodrigo was his youngest son – and the most spoiled. A spoiled kid, as my father used to say. Rodrigo didn’t like that story at all. And he told us: “I don’t want to see this poor Francisco imitating us anymore.” We tried to convince him that it was just a joke. It was useless: Rodrigo was really furious. “I’ll handle this my way,” he assured us. And that’s what he did. One Sunday, while Francisco was riding his imaginary horse, Rodrigo approached him. He got off his horse and commanded: “Get off your horse.” Francisco obeyed: he got off his imaginary horse. “We’re going to make a bet,” said Rodrigo. “If I lose, I’ll give you my horse. If you lose, you give me yours.” “What kind of bet is that?” asked Francisco, in a trembling voice. “A race,” said Rodrigo. He pointed to some trees, about two hundred meters away: “To there, and back. Whoever gets there first, wins.” I remember the blood rushing to my head. “Look here, Rodrigo,” I began to say. “You can’t…” Francisco interrupted me: “I accept the bet,” he said, with a firm voice, although somewhat choked up. “I want to race.” It was a pathetic thing to see. The two stood side by side, and at the signal, that crazy race began. Rodrigo simply trotted on his magnificent horse. Francisco ran after him – unable to catch up. Rodrigo rode to the trees and came back. Minutes later, Francisco, panting. Rodrigo looked at him arrogantly: “It looks like I won, doesn’t it?” Francisco, still panting, remained silent. “Your horse is mine now,” Rodrigo continued. “And you know what I’m going to do with it? I’m going to release it into the field. It is now free, you can’t ride it anymore, understand?” Moacyr Scliar. In: Pipocas / Moacyr Scliar, Rubem Fonseca, Ana Miranda. 1st ed. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 2003, p. 10-13. Collection Literature in My Home; v. 2 Chronicle and Short Story.
