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272 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1945
I hear knocks, shots, curses, the jingling of spurs, the stamping of shoes on worn bricks. Shreds of cloth and sounds were scattered about. Fear. It was fear that guided me during my first years, real terror.
It was not possible to distinguish other sounds from the song of the frogs in the Penha dam – voices that were acute, grave, slow, fast, and among them intermediate or discordant sounds, the bellow of a bullfrog, a terrible animal that bites like a dog; if he catches a Christian, he will turn him loose only when the bell tolls. It was the laundress Rosenda who explained that to me. Admirable bell! What was a bullfrog like? According to my information, he possessed a nature like a human being’s. Peculiar.
The news came too quickly: they were going to put me in school. They had already spoken to me about it in their moments of anger, but I was not convinced; this would never happen unless I threatened their peace. School, according to information worthy of belief, was a place where rebellious children were sent. But I always behaved correctly; shrunken and tepid, I glided like a shadow. My games were silent. And I didn’t even dare to bother the grown-ups with questions. Consequently I had crazy ideas caused by the sayings I heard in the kitchen, in the store, or near the backgammon table. School was horrible – and I couldn’t deny it as I denied hell. I considered my parents’ resolution an injustice.
No nível micro do indivíduo, a confusão espiritual do cristianismo de "tempo nenhum" se expressa no que poderíamos chamar de "página-em-branquismo". [...] As particularidades e contingências de nossas histórias pessoais são eliminadas por uma versão da graça que, em vez de nos salvar, simplesmente apaga esse "eu" que tem um passado. [...] Mas a nova criação é ressurreição, e não uma reinicialização; [...] o "eu"é salvo apenas se esse eu, com essa história pessoal, ressuscita para uma nova vida. [...] Cada um de nós é um poiēma singular, Paulo nos diz: uma obra de arte singular, original e exclusiva precisamente porque apenas esse "eu", com essa história, poderia ser a pessoa que Deus pode usar dessa maneira. (James Smith, Como Habitar o Tempo, p. 81-82)