O fim do terceiro mundo
The end of the third world (novel)

"Yes, I write novels.
In the 20th century, writing novels is a bit like working in paleontology.
People who write novels nowadays are like those fishermen on the island of Madagascar who, in 1938, caught a prehistoric coelacanth, in excellent health, swimming in the Indian Ocean.
However, while acknowledging the fact that the novel is an art form on the verge of extinction, or possibly already totally extinct, I do not believe its disappearance bears any similarity to the speedy extinction of the saurian species when they disappeared off the face of the earth. This business of the death of the novel, if we take certain specimens of the genre as examples, is more like the extinction of the dodo bird than the cataclysms of the Cetacean era.
That’s why every time I begin to write a novel, I soon realize that I’m committing an exotic and extemporaneous act. I sit before the computer keyboard and am hypnotized by the pulsing of the cursor. What happened to the old magic? What happened to the delight of a well-told story which transported us and evoked images of other existences and universes? What happened to all those well-rounded, resonant, warm and friendly words that were metamorphosed in literature?
I have already published many books and nobody can try to convince me at this stage in life that my overwhelming sensation of rapture was nothing more than one of the manifestations of a primitive world, the rustic vagaries of an old-fashioned mind.
Gide used to say that Stendhal's great secret was to put pen to paper immediately, without stopping to organize random thoughts and crystallize them into words. But what can we do in this day and age when one has to keep running merely to be able to stay in the same place?
However, I'll keep trying."

Loyalty (novel)

"What came over me in Caiena? The image that always springs to mind is that of the muddy river estuary and its upturned boats, the smoke rising from the fires and a dull sensation of pain that was nothing more than internal angst. But there was something else: a new mood had come over me. I used to while away every afternoon engrossed in reading. For hours on end those books would keep me busy and destroy my ingenuous certainties with revelations like deciphered cryptograms. I had entered the city with the arrogance of a conqueror and left it suffused with incurable insanity. I had lost my shyness and started cultivating a veritable passion, a furore which initially highly amused minister Batista Campos, as it was so unlike me. Awestruck, I read Voltaire, Diderot, Rousseau, and a few political tracts from the Revolution of 1793. I kept these volumes in a wooden box that I never removed from my parents house. The light of justice, liberty, equality and fraternity. The first rays of dawn of the vain hope to change Grão-Pará, the real Grão-Pará that could not be seen from the halls, the mansions, or from the sacristies. In this manner, I learnt that all the philosophy of freedom professed, all the iniquities, the horrors, the portals of hell, was true. And that the philosophy was a void, an illusion, a vapor that stuck to my skin, a freezing wind that penetrated my nostrils. And from the bottom of my heart, I acknowledged that the old enemies were, in fact, the ones who beat the tyrants for the triumph of righteousness, justice – freedom fighters. And I pardoned my old enemies."