segunda-feira, 9 de abril de 2012

“O amor que não ousa dizer seu nome”

                                         Oscar Wilde


Utilizada para referir-se ao amor entre pessoas do mesmo sexo, a frase o amor que não ousa dizer seu nome é o último verso do poema Dois amores de Lord Alfred Douglas (Bosie), publicado na revista The Chamaleon em 1894.

Lord Douglas era amante do escritor Oscar Wilde e seu poema “Dois amores” foi utilizado pela acusação no famoso processo que condenou Wilde à dois anos de prisão pelo crime de “homossexualismo” em 1895.  O discurso de defesa de Oscar Wilde também ficou celebre e causou imensa comoção à época. Mas Wilde negava suas relações homossexuais e havia jurado inocência mesmo para seus advogados. Seu discurso não resistiu à investigação dos promotores e à delação de alguns de seus amantes.

         from The Chameleon, December 1894.

I dreamed I stood upon a little hill,
And at my feet there lay a ground, that seemed
Like a waste garden, flowering at its will
With buds and blossoms. There were pools that dreamed
Black and unruffled; there were white lilies
A few, and crocuses, and violets
Purple or pale, snake-like fritillaries
Scarce seen for the rank grass, and through green nets
Blue eyes of shy peryenche winked in the sun.
And there were curious flowers, before unknown,
Flowers that were stained with moonlight, or with shades
Of Nature's willful moods; and here a one
That had drunk in the transitory tone
Of one brief moment in a sunset; blades
Of grass that in an hundred springs had been
Slowly but exquisitely nurtured by the stars,
And watered with the scented dew long cupped
In lilies, that for rays of sun had seen
Only God's glory, for never a sunrise mars
The luminous air of Heaven. Beyond, abrupt,
A grey stone wall. o'ergrown with velvet moss
Uprose; and gazing I stood long, all mazed
To see a place so strange, so sweet, so fair.
And as I stood and marvelled, lo! across
The garden came a youth; one hand he raised
To shield him from the sun, his wind-tossed hair
Was twined with flowers, and in his hand he bore
A purple bunch of bursting grapes, his eyes
Were clear as crystal, naked all was he,
White as the snow on pathless mountains frore,
Red were his lips as red wine-spilith that dyes
A marble floor, his brow chalcedony.
And he came near me, with his lips uncurled
And kind, and caught my hand and kissed my mouth,
And gave me grapes to eat, and said, 'Sweet friend,
Come I will show thee shadows of the world
And images of life. See from the South
Comes the pale pageant that hath never an end.'
And lo! within the garden of my dream
I saw two walking on a shining plain
Of golden light. The one did joyous seem
And fair and blooming, and a sweet refrain
Came from his lips; he sang of pretty maids
And joyous love of comely girl and boy,
His eyes were bright, and 'mid the dancing blades
Of golden grass his feet did trip for joy;
And in his hand he held an ivory lute
With strings of gold that were as maidens' hair,
And sang with voice as tuneful as a flute,
And round his neck three chains of roses were.
But he that was his comrade walked aside;
He was full sad and sweet, and his large eyes
Were strange with wondrous brightness, staring wide
With gazing; and he sighed with many sighs
That moved me, and his cheeks were wan and white
Like pallid lilies, and his lips were red
Like poppies, and his hands he clenched tight,
And yet again unclenched, and his head
Was wreathed with moon-flowers pale as lips of death.
A purple robe he wore, o'erwrought in gold
With the device of a great snake, whose breath
Was fiery flame: which when I did behold
I fell a-weeping, and I cried, 'Sweet youth,
Tell me why, sad and sighing, thou dost rove
These pleasent realms? I pray thee speak me sooth
What is thy name?' He said, 'My name is Love.'
Then straight the first did turn himself to me
And cried, 'He lieth, for his name is Shame,
But I am Love, and I was wont to be
Alone in this fair garden, till he came
Unasked by night; I am true Love, I fill
The hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.'
Then sighing, said the other, 'Have thy will,
I am the love that dare not speak its name.'


“The love that dare not speak its name’ in this century is such a great affection of an elder for a younger man as there was between David and Jonathan, such as Plato made the very basis of his philosophy, and such as you find in the sonnets of Michelangelo and Shakespeare.  It is that deep, spiritual affection that is as pure as it is perfect.  It dictates and pervades great works of art like those of Shakespeare and Michelangelo, and those two letters of mine, such as they are.  It is in this century misunderstood, so much misunderstood that it may be described as the “Love that dare not speak its name,” and on account of it I am placed where I am now.  It is beautiful, it is fine, it is the noblest form of affection.  There is nothing unnatural about it.  It is intellectual, and it repeatedly exists between an elder and a younger man, when the elder man has intellect, and the younger man has all the joy, hope and glamour of life before him.  That it should be so the world does not understand.  The world mocks it and sometimes puts one in the pillory for it.”


O Amor que não ousa dizer seu nome, em nossa época, é esta imensa afeição de um homem maduro por um outro mais jovem, parecida àquela que unia David e Jonathan, parecida àquela sobre a qual Platão ergueu os fundamentos de sua filosofia, parecida também àquela que se encontra nas obras-primas de Michelangelo e de Shakespeare. É esta afeição profunda, espiritual, tão pura quanto perfeita. Ela inspira e anima as grandes obras como as de Shakespeare e de Michelangelo e as cartas que escrevi, se não se as deturpa. Ele é incompreendido em nossa época, tão incompreendido que pode ser descrito como “o Amor que não ousa dizer seu nome”, e é por causa dele que me encontro agora aqui. Ele é belo, ele é grande, ele é a forma mais nobre da afeição. Não há nada nele que seja contra a natureza. Ele é intelectual, ele nasce fatalmente entre um homem maduro e um mais jovem quando o mais idoso tem gostos intelectuais e quando o mais jovem tem toda a alegria, a esperança e as miragens da vida diante de si. Que tem de ser assim, é o que o mundo não compreende. O mundo reprime este sentimento e põe no pelourinho os que são tocados por ele.

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