Them from the past, us from the present

I'm lucky to be spending this year's holiday in the south of France, in the Occitania region, in a country house surrounded by the sound of cicadas. The heat is intense. Like a good "south-brazilian", every time the thermometer goes above 30ºC I start to crawl around like a polar creature suffering from climate change. If I won a single Euro every time I hear "but aren't you Brazilian? you should be used to the heat!" I'd already have a pretty reasonable amount of money. For those who don't know the climate of my hometown, Curitiba, the official data says that the maximum temperature registered until 2010 was 89ºF, so imagine how I feel with the 122ºF under the sun yesterday!

But let's go back to the track here, cause I want to talk about this summer trip.

There are many things that can describe my joy at being here. I will not mention the fact that I am with my family and great friends, because this is not a blog about my personal life. And I wouldn't even be able to describe how good it is to be with these people I love so much; so let's move on to the joys of the historian and writer.

I am in Saint-Mamert du Gard, a small town of 1634 inhabitants (census of 2017), whose origins I did not find, but which has a XII century church. However, I didn't come to talk about Saint-Mamert du Gard and its 1634 inhabitants. I want to talk about Nîmes and the reflections it has inspired me.

In the year 27 of our era, under Emperor Augustus, the city was definitively incorporated into the Roman Empire under the name Nemausus. Sixty years later, an arena, or amphitheatre, was built there, where gladiators fought each other and against animals, in a spectacle that has the proper name of panem et circensis. Those who follow the political practices in place until today in any country, democratic or dictatorial, will not be surprised to know how little these things have changed since the first Homo decided to walk on two legs once and for all, which in itself earned him the nickname sapiens.

And it is precisely this parallelism or rather this continuation of being that fascinates me and proves itself, before my eyes, on every occasion like this, when visiting a place that has been inhabited for so long and that still retains so many vestiges of the past.

In normal times, the Arena of Nîmes serves as the stage for numerous shows, concerts and performances, especially in summer. In this year 2020, all events had to be cancelled. The reason? I know I don't even need to tell you why since in your head you already answered COVID, in a split second. This cancellation is bad. Many people were counting on the summer work and the emotional, social and economic consequences of COVID will still be felt for a long time.

But I am only human and I have my not small part of selfishness here, so I allow myself to see the good side of it: I was able to walk through the amphitheatre, from the bleachers to the arena itself, the stage of the Roman shows. And what I learned during the guided tour (very well organized, by the way), was the confirmation of a key that those who know me closely are aware that I' ve been hammering for a long time: there is no them from the past and we from the present.

In the image of this post you can see by the architecture of the amphitheatre how the places were distributed. If you do a quick Google search on the world's most famous football stadiums, you'll see in the oval shape, the entrance arches and the audience stairs a similarity that has nothing to do with coincidence.

And after I tell you here what a day of shows was like, maybe you'll see even more similarities and come to the same conclusion as me: we're still the same people, the same old socio-political-emotional creatures. Or at least the same from two thousand years ago.

Ready for a trip back in time? Then let's go:

But wait a minute. Before we start, you must choose a role.Because since man is man, we are all the same, but as George Orwell wrote, "all animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others." Among the audiences that frequented the shows, we have:

slaves and freed men (someone who was freed from slavery by his master):

those who are female;

those who serve the poor;

those who serve the merchants;

those who serve the rich owners and merchants;

those who serve the patricians;

those who hold public office (notaries, accountants, treasurers, administrators, physicians, architects);

those that serve the Emperor directly.

Free people:

but female;

but still a child boy;

but miserable (unemployed and homeless)

but poor (those who are not part of an important family, rural workers, construction workers);

but with a poor income for an almost dignified life (small traders and artisans);

but rich: traders and landowners, who own slaves in sufficient number to allow them a life away from manual labor;

Citizens:

but female;

but patricians: men belonging to the political elite, generals and military commanders, from a traditional Roman family itself, or from ancient tribes who allied themselves with Rome - as in the case of Nemausus ;

How can we distinguish one from another during the festivities, since the Nîmes amphitheatre could contain the impressive number of twenty-five thousand spectators? Very simple: see how everyone is dressed.

But first, let me give you some advice: forget everything you've seen in the series, games or movies. At that time, as until recently, clothes were very expensive artifacts that required talent and time, and colorful or sophisticated fabrics were imported from various regions of the Empire and this required a lot of money. So keep in mind that during the three days of shows and festivities, whether you are a patrician or a citizen, you will have the right to wear your probably only toga and your only cloak. If your character on this trip is a female citizen, you will wear a stola, a toga style dress, which is nothing more than a wide square or rectangular fabric that your servant had attached to your shoulders by a fibula - a sort of pin. Above the stola, because you are an honest, honorable woman, who values your modesty, you will put on the palla, a beautiful cloak adorned according to what your husband's or father's purse allows you to have.And one thing you can be sure of: the pater families who run your life will provide you with the best clothes possible. Because social events in Rome are the occasion to see and be seen. And who knows, maybe even make good contacts between one fight and another, or to arrange a good marriage for your daughter, who has just turned twelve. Good luck to you if it's hot: in the name of your social status you will wear your heavy clothes all day long, proudly and without complaint. But don't worry, during the performances, slaves will pass by the bleachers sprinkling lavender and other aromatic plants water to disguise the smell of sweat and other biological secretions.

If you are a freedman or a slave, you will use what your money allows you to buy, but in no way will you be allowed to dress like a citizen. Because if today we can play rich with counterfeit clothes and accessories, in Rome that would not be accepted. Everyone dresses according to their status. So, no toga for you. But slave or freed man, it is possible even for you to be richer than the Lord whom you serve, so choose a beautiful cloth for your presentation, being careful not to look like someone you are not. Because if you are unmasked, you will be thrown out of the bleachers under punches and kicks!

Now that we know who's who, we'll distribute the audience around the stands. the more power you have the less you cry, isn't it? Not at all: you'll sit among your own, whatever the sesterces you have in your bag , they are useless here, because the performances in the arenas were open to the public and absolutely free.I know, it's a little hard to accept, since nowadays it's not the origins, but money that sets the rules (but whether it's money or a pompous surname, aren't both a way of distinguishing the privileged from the disadvantaged?). Anyway, the "cradle" keeps differentiating even the privileged ones: if in the present days you are a nouveau riche who was invited to a party given by traditional families, maybe you know what I am talking about.

Through the 60 entrance arcades of the amphitheatre, each one found its way to its proper place. You have chosen to be a patrician: don't worry about having to climb all four floors up there. You have a reserved space in front of the arena, in the very first rows. A little above you is the governor of the province, his closest friends and luckily for you, on that day you will be a few steps away from the Emperor himself.You are a free man, a citizen, so you can settle along the first and second floor. You can even stick yourself around the VIP area to give a nod to your landlord, who will probably pretend not to see you.On the last two floors, squeeze the rest of us: rich and poor slaves, free but miserable men, foreigners, children and women. Yes, my dear (in case you chose to be a woman): whether you're a pauper slave under a pauper lord, or the governor's wife, you'll sit among the throng.

For on the Roman social scale, a woman is a childish being, devoid of maturity, as are children or slaves, although among the latter stands someone who before being captured was a great lord among his own. Be glad anyway, because until recently, you were even forbidden to enter the amphitheatre.

Well, none of that matters anyway, because the show's about to start.

Although the arena is almost completely crowded, it only took ten minutes for everyone to get inside, because this fantastic architecture allows you to get in and out with the utmost fluidity, without any fuss (no one here is saying there were no accidents, but the show must go on. Sorry for the unfortunate one who fell from above).

All "in their places", slaves stretched out over the bleachers the velum, a shelter fixed by masts, which surrounded the whole stands, protecting the spectators from the sun and rain (does this sound familiar?). Each amphitheatre offered performances according to the importance of the region. Rome's Flavianum Amphitheatre was large enough for fighting elephants, giraffes, lions and tigers. Our amphitheatre in Nemausus is not the poorest, as the region is rich, but still the arena is encircled by a wall no taller than ten feet. Better to leave lions and tigers aside. But there will be wolves, boars, deers and dogs. There will also be music and a bit of theatre in these three days. But what you really want to see is a gladiatorial battle. You want to see unlucky men who were arbitrarily enslaved and who are now forced to fight to the death. You want to see the Emperor's thumb point horizontal, as a sign of mercy, or down, as if he were a Queen of Hearts saying "cut off the heads". I'm sorry, but I will disappoint you again. The time for fighting to the death is past, and it didn't last long. Gladiators are fighting professionals now. Instead of Russell Crowe, put an Anderson Silva here. But if you won't see a combat to the death, you will get a lot of blood, plenty of violence, and may even gamble on your favorite fighter, if during that time gambling is allowed. Otherwise, you'll bet in secret, covertly. And if the idea of this blood show displeases you, don't worry, the name arena comes from the latin word for sand, which was scattered over the combat soil, to absorb the blood.

But sitting under the canopy, thrilled with such euphoria, makes you hungry. Don't worry, though. A Roman version of "popcorn, beer, hot dog" will pass in between. And best of all, it's free! And if things are getting boring and you and your comrades are showing signs of quietness and fatigue, instead of hot dog and beer ( I mean roasted meat, bread and wine), coins will be thrown to the crowd. Yes my dear time traveler, not only will the three days of spectacle are free, not only will you be given the opportunity to eat and drink until you burst, but you will also get paid for it, as a thank-you note. Three days of festivities and not a penny will be spent. At night you can sleep at friends' homes, or in the taverns, in case you have come from far away.

I bet now you're saying, "Wow, how cool those Romans are, how generous! They knew how to throw a party!" Easy there! Now is the time to bring you back to the present day. All this generosity has a reason and a price.

The Emperor provided the urban plan for the city of Nemausus, which was executed at the expense of the local lords, because he wanted to ensure the Romanization of the Volcae Arecomici, a Gaul people who fought with Julius Caesar against the also Gaul Vercingetorix not many years ago.

The performances were offered by the lord of Nemausus, who aspires to make grown in importance the name of his family and, hopefully, to have one of his descendants in the senate or even on the imperial throne (a strategy that will yield the expected fruit in 138, with Antonino Pio). And whoever offers bread and circus, in return receives votes, supporters and political force.This is how the dynamics between rich and poor, but especially the place that each person occupies in this society determines the destiny of a people through politics. Whether it is the spectacles of the past, or the rallies of today, the ways in which we are governed sometimes depend less on the aptitude of the rulers than on their room for manoeuvre.

And if the political dynamics were not enough to convince you that we are still the same, in a next text we can talk about something simpler, like private life.

I hope you enjoyed the show.

*If you do not have the opportunity to visit the Arena of NÎmes and follow the wonderful guided tour offered by the organization of the Arena, you can learn a little more about the battles in Gaul and the defeat of Vercingetorix by Julius Caesar himself, since he left us his experiences as written in: CÉSAR, Jules. The Gallic Wars. The book was written between 57-51 BC. Nowadays, there are some commented editions translated in modern languages.

Whose book is this?

“When I look at you, your eyes avert mine.

When you come in search of my warmth,

It is me who don’t have a while in this anguished timeline.

You call my name, a love appealing echoes in your voice.

I call you, but an indifferent ear is what I find. Not a sign of rejoice!

But you and I, we get in tune for a moment,

All of our differences fall in parts.

We stand side by side recklessly, satisfied, with some peace of mind.

How long will we remain like this? Heavens! May this love last beyond our hearts!

And may we have each other just like this in this flowing and light-hearted love of a kind.”

By reading these lines, what comes to your mind?

The story of a couple who doesn’t understand each other?

A couple who does understand each other in some moments only?

Or do you see a reflection of a relationship you have lived or have been living?

Do you “hear” a woman talking? Or is it man?

Is that voice young or old?

Would it be a father’s or a mother’s words talking to their young child?

After all, what does this poem say and to whom does it talk to?

Well, I will tell you what I had in mind when I wrote the poem and then you say, “Oh, okay?”

I wrote it for my two cats regardless. For having a cat is living a constant “when I want you, you don't want me.” But when the cat and its master get in tune, moments of the most perfect joyfulness go on, which convinces us that this coexistence is worthwhile.

But chances are you read something quite different from what I had in mind when I wrote the poem.

The same way a book, a story told in the form of letters on some paper (or on the screen of our electronic paraphernalia), will also be read by the reader's eyes.

Although J.R.R. Tolkien (1892-1973) had said the opposite, he could do nothing to avoid comparing The Lord of the Rings to World War II, nor could the most elaborate theories about the “real” meaning of his works.

Niccolò Macchiavelli’s name (1469-1527) was remarked as “(action or person) in which cunning, bad faith and opportunism predominate*,” from his most famous work, The Prince. But not even the fact that Macchiavelli served as war secretary in the Republic of Florence and his work had been considered a major influence to the wave of kingdoms transformation becoming republics from the sixteenth century, prevent many from considering The Prince as a work of exaltation of the monarchy.

I do not even believe it is necessary to mention here the interpretation of the canonical texts of the three current greatest religions: the Torah, the Bible and Al-Quran.

The book is read with the reader's eyes ...

When I was groping for the paths the book Berenice from Cappadocia would take, it was my dear editor who told me, “once published, Berenice will not be yours anymore; it will be the reader's Berenice.”

At that moment, I became jealous. What do you mean it won't be my Berenice anymore? Who that Berenice will be?

The book was then released and people started telling me what they had read. And I was delighted with the Berenices that were described to me, as they were inspiring characters. But each one in its own way.

People weren’t so moved by the passages which touched me the most. They were not even impressed with what had impressed me, but with passages I did not find so relevant at the time I was writing them.

It happens since the book connects itself to individual experiences. It will bring up a variety of childhood memories, different views on friendship and one’s own versions of romance and love.

And as much as I have a kind of Cappadocia landscape and the Roman Empire model of the 4th century in mind, as much as the streets of the cities where Berenice passed through are revealed to me in a certain color palette, whoever reads the book will see, smell and feel those same streets in a very different way.

I wonder if someone will identify themselves with Llewellyn's nebulous hues (especially to what is coming on Volume 2), or with another character in the story.

Much is discussed about the reader's influence on the writer, and how pernicious it can be (why do you think George R. R. Martin has not finished A Song of Ice and Fire aka Game of Thrones yet?). I myself admit that if I keep thinking a lot about what pleases the readers, I will end up with my hands completely tied, since I just don't know what pleases them. As there is no formula for writing the perfect story. Each reader is unique and wanting to know what goes on in their minds would be some unparalleled arrogance.

And this is valuable to me. Such universe of reading and interpreting possibilities gives me unlimited freedom. My only commitment is to the story itself. I can describe all the human emotions I am capable of doing, for I know they will echo in many spirits freely, without the bonds of my own intention.

From this point of view, I come back to the editor's statement. Here is Berenice from Cappadocia, the no hero’s journey, for you, it is yours; I put it in your hands. And I have no doubt that before your eyes, the book might end up being much better than the one I wrote myself.

Have a nice reading!

Not giving in to a world which no longer reads

This topic is recurrent in many other communication channels: people are reading less.

I will not mention the probable reasons for this phenomenon here. It is complex, archaic, and I have no authority to discuss this matter in a way that could effectively bring some contribution to the discussion. But, if you want to go deeper into the question, I will leave some interesting links at the end, just for you.

I can't explain why people are reading less. But I can defend the act of reading and the reason I have been dedicating myself to the literary universe for quite some time.

I had always been a lonely child at school. Not only for constantly moving to different cities and — as a consequence, I was always the "newcomer" in class — but also for living immersed in an internal world of my own. It took me a long time to learn the small talk art and become a more sociable teenager. Because talking to others is an art you learn; only few people can navigate without stumbling in the whirlpool of social relations.

Everyone, who was a lonely child in the past, knows the disadvantages of loneliness. I did not belong to any group, I had always been the last one to be chosen for a team and I do not even know if my colleagues remembered my name spontaneously. Either I was present or absent, it probably made no difference.

But I did not come here to whine about this fact. I came to tell why I defend the book, the literary universe and the reading itself (things that seem synonymous, but are not). Well, I defend these ideas because my childhood and adolescence partner was the book.

And many situations marked my relationship with reading, especially when I entered adolescence, which is a period when the loneliness of childhood stops being a vague notion and becomes something concrete, because it is when we finally realize our loneliness.

The first anecdote is what I consider the milestone of my true, definitive and with no return entrance into the world of reading: it was when my parents brought home an encyclopedia, those of door-to-door sale, that perhaps some of you have known. It was love at first sight. I was so delighted that I did not know which one I would read first, whether the medical encyclopedia or Moby Dick.

It was the medical encyclopedia that answered many of my doubts about puberty, a time we feel like knowing things, but we do not dare to ask about. It was also because of it that I developed a quite bizarre habit, I admit, of using medical terms for diseases and human anatomy (it's not removing the tonsils, it's tonsillectomy. I do not have pain in the shoulders, but in the trapezius muscle and pain in the back has to come with cervical, thoracic or lumbar indication). The pages had a peculiar smell of bright paper and photo printing that I never forgot. The bookworms who read this text will understand what I am talking about. I liked reading just for the pleasure of knowing things. But without me realizing it at the time, it was this collection of books that made me love and value science. The text was technical, but accessible and, little by little, it revealed to me the history of discoveries, the importance of scientific research and how life was more arduous and uncertain before these innovations.

Now Moby Dick inspired my series of very amateur illustrations of sperm whales. I must have scribbled a hundred of them on every sheet of paper. Up to this day the simple opening of this book still fascinates me. But these three words introduce us to the strength of the story : "call me Ishmael." And if up to this day I still do not know how to pronounce Queequeg, my memory has perfectly outlined the image of this harpoon man of few words that say a lot. I remember, as I was enthusiastic about the book, I spontaneously wrote a multipage essay and courageously proposed myself to read for my classmates during a Portuguese class.

I also vividly remember the teacher's reaction, when I was reading half of the second page, interrupting me and saying, "Will it take you too long to finish?” I'm pretty sure she hated me - teacher Sonia, if you are reading this text, you are the one I am talking about - but precisely because my writing was inspired by the book and not by the classes in which the teacher's opinion did not matter much to me. In my view as a girl, teacher Sonia did not like stories, so she could not understand what I was talking about.

Around this period, I had finished Elementary School and started the fifth grade (now sixth grade), with Junior High students. I was a tiny girl and, besides, I was a year in advance. That is why even the school seemed too big for me. I wandered around the corners as lost as a lamb apart from its mother, being even more distracted in my particular universe of fantasy and adventure which was fed by books. Few days after beginning the new school year, I discovered the library. As I write these words, at that very moment, the sound of a choir of Angels and a diaphanous light comes to me by simply mentioning the word “Library!”

As hardworking as my parents were, the number of titles we had at home was quite limited. But as I passed through the doors of Ivo Leão State College library, I entered a universe that, until then, existed only in my head.

From one moment to the other, I could go from a Space trip to Ancient Egypt. It was as if the whole world could fit in that room. And to complete this space of freedom and world conquest, there was a globe, which I would rotate and, with my eyes closed, randomly point to know where I would live when I grew up — at some point, I must have pointed at France!

The experience was already being decisive to influence my spirit forever, but it was when I was looking for a book to borrow — how powerful I felt by having the “library card” — and a copy whose title, as I was 10, 11, sounded funny, fell into my hands: the Divine Comedy, by a certain Dante Alighieri. It was a thick book, but I already knew that the number of pages did not matter. And I read Dante's Journey, who had none other than Virgil as guide and also the beautiful Beatrice (any approach with Berenice is not mere coincidence!). And after that, I never stopped.

After this meeting, I spent a lot of time among the bookshelves of the library. It was my refuge of silence, non-judgment and fantasy. It was the place where I could learn only what interested me.

As time went by, I started making friends, and the library became a haven to which I no longer needed to flee, but which I visited for the simple pleasure of meeting it again.

In the years to come, reading Dante prepared me for many other books. It was also Dante who showed me that every book has its value. Yes, if I was able to read such complicated piece of work, which is respected to this day, I also read feel-good novels (one from which I learned about the diaspora of Holocaust survivors and Yiddish), and I cried my eyes out with a book from the Reader's Digest collection: a story about a teacher who settles in a quaker village in the 19th century.

I don't consider myself a great reader — and I mean it — but books occupy an important part in my life and in my well-being. Up to now I preserve my inner world and I guess it is the book that allows me to do so.

Books give me rest, encouragement. It takes me from difficult times to take me to unknown lives and landscapes. The instant I start reading I cease to exist to become a simple observer. I have no problems or commitments. No afflictions or expectations. I just watch.

And that is why for me, above all, Berenice from Cappadocia is a tribute to the world of storytelling. The cycle of baton passage among Matathias, Berenice, Flavius and the reader celebrates our human capacity to abstract ourselves, to come out of ourselves to imagine solutions to questions of life through the life of others' invented stories. The writer's adventure has not been easy. It is difficult to engage the audience, to convince people to give the book a chance. But I believe in it. I believe in the power of reading because I myself am a beneficiary of that power.

There are many reasons why people do not read or stop reading and everyone knows what makes their soul vibrate. But in case you are wondering if it is worth spending a few minutes of your days immersed in book pages, I can only congratulate you. By choosing to read, you are allowing yourself to have a meeting with a faithful friend, who owns the word gift and who will always reflect the best of yourself.

Have a nice reading!

Here are the links to provide you the understanding of the relationship between Brazil and reading.

Are we Reading Less, and If so, Why?

Why We don't Read, Revisited

Almost half of the adults in the UK aren't reading books