We, intellectuals (who, me?), trade words with the world

The reporter’s profession is refined in the humanities. But the meme of Milena who wants to sell her art on the beach comes to mind at once. Let us not fool ourselves. Journalism can get around difficult moments in the economy and lapses in public prestige if it sees beyond views or laughs.

It is not about being disconnected, because I am connected to the truth that journalism is predominantly practiced by intellectuals, and I can prove it.

In sixth grade, I treasured Cléber’s friendship. He was a type similar to the one I carried in good memory from my previous school. For lack of anything better, I wrote a letter that changed his heart, and won an eternal friendship lasting until eighth grade.

All those thoughts, seemingly independent of you, were from the start compromised by your unfavorable verdict. (Our translation.)

Franz Kafka, in “Letter to the Father.”

If my letters were not always successful as notes, let alone as literature. I made pairs of blunders with letters that, thanks to senility, I do not remember sending, but I did. The poems, what a pity.

As for the poems, for all intents and purposes, I feel a certain shame.

Trial coexistence

In high school, I got an internship with Gibran Khalil, that is, journalists Nara Moreira and Mary Hellen Woche introduced me to the well-written contemplations of the Lebanese author. I quickly learned to drink white wine at vernissages that had service, and to take double doses before those that did not. So many jurist poems, so many dishcloth paintings!

I come to the conclusion that books are like wines: what is good is what I like to read. (Our translation.)

Before college, I ventured into many readings that went wrong. The greatest symbol, perhaps, was starting Josh McDowell’s “Evidence That Demands a Verdict.” I was, I don’t know, in fifth grade. I also abandoned the “Divine Comedy” (fooled by the funny title), or even “Crime and Punishment” when I was older.

I was negligent about the university bibliography, with the perennial excuse of having leaned toward professional practice, when I preferred working for free in the most wretched newsroom to doing homework.

My story is the common one of intelligent, restless youth. At one moment or another I bumped into people who are not very fond of literature or, on the contrary, turn conversation into a quiz show with authors’ names — tacky! But I became very attached to the next episode.

‘We intellectuals’

Journalist and historian Nilson Thomé (who gave Sonia Bridi a student column for three years) had a curious habit with me. He would say “we intellectuals, Vinícius…” And I would ask myself “who, intellectuals?” It was his way of boosting in me the shamelessness of liking ideas, reshaping them and presenting them anew — just as science is (paraphrasing Montesquieu in “Persian Letters”).

We intellectuals can be proud of being in the humanities, of believing in human development, and of undoing mediocrity by trading words with the world.