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Prehistoric Digital Poetry An Archaeology of Forms 1st
Edition Christopher Thompson Funkhouser Digital
Instant Download
Author(s): Christopher Thompson Funkhouser, Sandy Baldwin
ISBN(s): 9780817380878, 0817380876
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 3.04 MB
Year: 2007
Language: english
Prehistoric Digital Poetry
MODER N A N D CON T EMPOR A RY POET ICS

Series Editors
Charles Bernstein
Hank Lazer

Series Advisory Board

Maria Damon
Rachel Blau DuPlessis
Alan Golding
Susan Howe
Nathaniel Mackey
Jerome McGann
Harryette Mullen
Aldon Nielsen
Marjorie Perloff
Joan Retallack
Ron Silliman
Lorenzo Thomas
Jerry Ward
Prehistoric Digital Poetry
An Archaeology of Forms, 1959–1995

C. T. F U N K HOUSER

T H E U N I V ERSI T Y OF A L A BA M A PR ESS
Tuscaloosa
 Copyright © 2007
The University of Alabama Press
Tuscaloosa, Alabama 35487-0380
All rights reserved
Manufactured in the United States of America

Typeface: Minion

∞
The paper on which this book is printed meets the minimum requirements of American
National Standard for Information Sciences-Permanence of Paper for Printed Library
Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Funkhouser, Chris.
Prehistoric digital poetry : an archaeology of forms, 1959–1995 / C. T. Funkhouser.
p. cm. — (Modern and contemporary poetics)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN-13: 978-0-8173-1562-7 (cloth : alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 0-8173-1562-4 (cloth : alk. paper)
ISBN-13: 978-0-8173-5422-0 (pbk. : alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 0-8173-5422-0 (pbk. : alk. paper)
1. Computer poetry—History and criticism. 2. Computer poetry—Technique.
3. Interactive multimedia. 4. Hypertext systems. I. Title.
PN1059.C6F86 2007
808.10285—dc22
2006037512

Portions of I-VI by John Cage have been reprinted by permission of Harvard University
Press, Cambridge, Mass, pp. 1, 2, 5, 103, 435. Copyright © 1990 by the President and
Fellows of Harvard College.
To my comrades in the present and to cybernetic
literary paleontologists of the mythic future
“The poem is a machine,” said that famous man, and so I’m building one.
Or at least I’m having it built, because I want something big and impressive and
automatic.
You see, people will stand in front of it and insert money, dimes or quarters,
depending upon the poem’s locus.
Yes the whole thing will clank and hum and light up and issue a string of words
on colored ticker-tape.
Or maybe the customers will wear ear-phones and turn small knobs so the
experience will be more audile-tactile than old fashioned visual.
In any case they will only get one line at a time,
This being the most important feature of my design which is based on the
principle that,
In poetry, “one perception must immediately and directly lead to a further
perception,”
And therefore the audience will be compelled to feed in coin after coin.

Now I admit that the prototype model that you see on display is something of a
compromise, as it has a live poet concealed inside.
But I assure you that this crudity will eventually be eliminated
Because each machine, I mean each poem, is to be fully computerized
And so able to stand on its own feet.
—Lionel Kearns, “Kinetic Poem” (1968)
 Contents

List of Illustrations xi
Foreword xv
A Chronology of Works in Digital Poetry, 1959–1995 xix
Introduction: Evolving Circuits of Digital Poetry 1
1. Origination: Text Generation 31
2. Visual and Kinetic Digital Poems 85
3. Hypertext and Hypermedia 150
4. Alternative Arrangements for Digital Poetry 199
5. Techniques Enabled:
(Pro)Fusions after Poetry Computerized 221
Appendix A: Codeworks 257
Appendix B: Holography 265
Acknowledgments 271
Notes 275
Bibliography 325
Index 341
 Illustrations

1.1. “Computerized Japanese Haiku,” by Margaret Masterman and

Robin McKinnon Wood 57
1.2. Excerpt from “II,” by John Cage 66
1.3. Screenshot from PataLiterator, by mIEKAL aND 73
1.4. Detail from MERZ poems,
by Randolph Valentine and Doug Rogers 76
2.1. Illustration from “Computer Texts,” by Marc Adrian 96
2.2. Detail of the Boolean Image/Conceptual Typewriter,
by Carl Fernbach-Flarsheim 98
2.3. Illustration by Leslie Mezei, from untitled series 100
2.4. Illustration by Adele Aldridge 103
2.5. “Observances,” by Lillian F. Schwartz and Ken Knowlton 104
2.6. “The Flying High Tail Longhorn Gate,” by David Daniels 105
2.7. “Ninho de Metralhadoras,” by Erthos Albino de Souza 106
2.8. “Automatergon 72-1,” by Greta Monach 107
2.9. “Stability” (1992), by Clemente Padín 108
2.10. “The Collected Sayings of Time,” by Jim Andrews 109
2.11. Illustration in Polkinhorn, Bridges of Skin Money 111
2.12. Storyboard diagram for Roda Lume, by E. M. Melo e Castro,
in Antologia Efémera 120
 xii / Illustrations
2.13. Roda Lume diagrams, by E. M. Melo e Castro, illustrated in
Antologia Efémera 121
2.14. Povo-Ovo, by Silvestre Pestana 125
2.15. “INSTANCENCE,” by Geof Huth 127
2.16. Screenshot from “Amour,” by Philippe Bootz 129
2.17. Stills from “Le mange-texte [The Text Eater],” by
Jean-Marie Dutey 130
2.18. Illustration from “4320,” by Alan Sondheim 140
2.19. Still from “Voies de faits,” by Jean-Marie Dutey 142
2.20. Illustration from “IO,” by André Vallias 144
3.1. Screenshot of main interface from “Les mots et les images,”
by Jean-Marie Dutey 159
3.2. Detail of screenshot of graphical overlay from “Les mots et
les images,” by Jean-Marie Dutey 160
3.3. Screenshot from “Autobiographie,” by Jean-Pierre Balpe 161
3.4. Screenshot from “Autobiographie,” by Jean-Pierre Balpe 162
3.5. Screenshot from A Life Set for Two, by Robert Kendall 164
3.6. Detail from introduction to Intergrams, by Jim Rosenberg 166
3.7. Screenshot from “Intergram 10,” by Jim Rosenberg 166
3.8. Screenshot from “Intergram 10,” by Jim Rosenberg 168
3.9. Screenshot of frame from “Intergram 10,”
by Jim Rosenberg 169
3.10. Screenshot from Virtual Poem 12, by Ladislao Pablo Györi 174
3.11. Screenshot from Virtual Poem 12, by Ladislao Pablo Györi 174
3.12. Screenshot from “Les trois petits cochons,” by
Jean-Marie Dutey 176
3.13. Screenshot from “Les trois petits cochons,” by
Jean-Marie Dutey 177
3.14. Screenshot from The Speaking Clock, by John Cayley 187
3.15. De¤nition for “xyzxyx,” by Geof Huth 191
 Illustrations / xiii
3.16. “Writing Instructions,” screenshot from Marble
Springs, by Deena Larsen 193
5.1. Screenshot from the arrival of the beeBox, by
Aya Karpinska 230
5.2. Detail of screenshot from the arrival of the beeBox,
by Aya Karpinska 231
5.3. Screenshot from “New Word Order,” by Sandy Baldwin 246
5.4. Screenshot from “ceci n’est pas un nike,” by
Giselle Beiguelman 247
5.5. Screenshot from Birds Singing Other Birds Songs, by
Maria Mencia 249
A.1. “Birth of God/uniVerse,” by Lionel Kearns 258
A.2. “Timesharing: Conditional Jump,” by Archie Donald 260
A.3. Illustration from “The Verse,” by André Vallias 262
B.1. Six points of view of the holopoem Adhuc, by
Eduardo Kac 266
B.2. Still (detail) from holographic poem Antitheses, by
Richard Kostelanetz 268
 Foreword

A basic statement about literature might be that any statement is possible:

literature means I can say anything. At the same time, certain statements are
already subject to regulations and distributions. A basic statement on poet-
ics might be that it deals with the possibilities for statements at a given mo-
ment: poetics means what is possible for me to say now. (Of course, I may
still say what remains impossible.) However provisional and contested these
basic statements may be, they open onto the problem of de¤ning digital po-
etry, which is no more and no less than the problem of contemporary po-
etics. The de¤nition of digital poetry remains up for grabs. For the true
skeptics—and they do exist—digital poetry is an impossibility. In this view
the computer is intrinsically unsuited for the creative act of writing poetry
for a variety of reasons, ranging from the fact of its strict programming to
the inverse fact of its lack of a structure for invention. A milder version of
this position sees no real poetry yet written in digital media—all ®ash and
no creativity, at least so far.
Even the enthusiasts of digital poetry, those in the know, cannot agree on
the de¤nition of digital poetry. Of course, this is all for the best, a necessary
debate in an emerging ¤eld. What is most interesting is the reemergence of
basic aesthetic questions from the speci¤c problem of de¤ning digital po-
etry. The question of de¤ning digital poetry devolves to the question of po-
etry itself, of distinguishing what makes a poem a poem and not something
else. If this is a very old question, it is also one that is more or less muted in
the broad normalization of avant-garde poetry. In what might be seen as
the segmented contemporary institution of poetry, especially in academic
settings, it is perfectly possible to earn a PhD or tenure as a student and
 xvi / Foreword
scholar of innovative poetry. Of course, this is also all for the best, but given
such friendly conditions for innovative work, where we know the answer to
basic questions of poetics, we too quickly cease to ask the questions. These
questions are immediate in digital poetry. Digital poetry is the contempo-
rary site of intense concern with poetics.
Loss Pequeño Glazier’s Digital Poetics: The Making of E-Poetries was the
¤rst book-length work on digital poetry and remains the benchmark. Gla-
zier led the way for the critical assessment of digital poetry as a subject of
academic study. His work cogently argued for the innovative literary signi¤-
cance of digital poems. His method is critical in the most fundamental
sense: he makes distinction. To convince that possibilities of invention and
creation in digital poetry parallel those in other media, Glazier isolates spe-
ci¤c examples of innovative practice through parallel sequences of innova-
tive poets: Williams, Creeley, and Mac Low, for example, and in digital po-
etry Cayley, Rosenberg, and Glazier himself. Make no mistake, Glazier’s list
is extendable and ®exible, and it potentially includes diverse and contradic-
tory voices. Nevertheless, the point is to exemplify and to show innovative
relations to language within each list. Both the ¤rst group and the sec-
ond group engage language as an active medium of discovery. Through the
resulting analogical relation Glazier convinces us of a continuity of inno-
vation. “The making” of Glazier’s title is as much about how e-poetry is
made as it is the basic evaluation of e-poetry as focused on innovation and
making.
The result is persuasive, and this is part of the lasting value of Glazier’s
book. Of course, the exemplary force of the persuasion narrows the ¤eld.
Glazier’s approach requires making critical distinctions within poetry, and
the critical view necessarily includes some works and excludes others. In
turn, a generation of critics and readers follow Glazier’s lead. For example,
Brian Kim Stefans’s Fashionable Noise: On Digital Poetics primarily de¤nes
digital poetry in the negative, as distinct from printed poetry. Some texts
count, and others do not. My point is not to question the value of this sort
of critical work. The grounds of appreciation and reading of digital poetry
rely on Glazier, Stefans, and others.
When I state that by contrast, Christopher Funkhouser’s Prehistoric Digi-
tal Poetry: An Archaeology of Forms, 1959–1995 is not critical, I mean this as
a statement of the book’s high value. The book’s method is fundamentally
open. Rather than a system of inclusion and exclusion, Funkhouser consid-
ers digital poetry as ®exible, indeterminate, and perhaps in¤nite in scope.
 Foreword / xvii
He maintains continuities between earlier media (print, orality, etc.) and
with an enormous range of poetic experimentation. Prehistoric Digital Po-
etry is not concerned with criticism but with the historical conditions of
possibility. Rather than start from the current production of digital poetry
and justify its value for academic study, as Glazier does, Prehistoric Digital
Poetry turns to disparate and subterranean experiments and innovations
that combined, in often startling and contingent ways, to make it possible
to speak of digital poetry at all in the ¤rst place.
Prehistoric Digital Poetry expands the ¤eld of what might be considered
digital poetry, not in the least by showing that poetic experimentation was
happening from the ¤rst invention of digital technology. Funkhouser traces
the ¤rst digital poetry to a random text generator written on a Zuse Z22
computer by Theo Lutz and described in a 1959 article. The early date is
striking, considerably earlier than allowed by any other recent discussion of
digital literature, yet it is perfectly possible to hold that this was not digital
poetry at all. In widening the dating of digital poetry well beyond the ho-
rizons of contemporary debates, Funkhouser insists on the margin between
experimentation and the formalization of a discourse. We might say that
Lutz’s piece is not digital poetry but something like a poem experimenting
with digital technology. The difference is signi¤cant and not simply seman-
tic. The experiment occurs at a preconceptual point in a discourse where
nothing could be said in or of digital poetry. In this sense the poem is sin-
gular and, in a strict sense, prehistoric. We might say that digital poetry did
not yet exist as a “positivity,” in Michel Foucault’s sense. There was no ar-
chive of digital poetry. As a result, Funkhouser offers an important resitua-
tion of the recent emphasis on materiality in poetics. While Glazier insists
on materiality as a quali¤cation of innovative poetry, a quali¤cation carried
over to digital poetry, Funkhouser’s history shows that this materiality is no
immutable ground but must be accumulated and formed. Materiality for
poetics is a historical achievement, an aggregation of possibilities for con-
sistent and renewable ¤gural relations between forms and materials. In a
¤eld that is often characterized by debates over materiality versus immate-
riality (or virtuality), I think this emphasis is timely and necessary.
Prehistoric Digital Poetry is a profound work of archaeology, describing
the historical construction of the archive necessary for digital poetry. Funk-
houser’s historical scale, from 1959 to 1995, exactly situates the boundaries
where prehistory becomes history, where experimentation becomes form,
where digital poetry becomes possible. The result is valuable both to the
 xviii / Foreword
study of digital poetry and to theoretical concerns with contemporary lit-
erary production. By outlining the institutional emergence and possibility
of digital poetry, Funkhouser models a certain kind of literary history. To
emphasize this point, let me conclude by invoking Harold A. Innis, Marshall
McLuhan’s sadly overlooked mentor, who was recently revived in the Ger-
man mediawissenschaft or “media science” of Friedrich Kittler and his stu-
dents as a supplement to Foucauldian discourse analysis. In particular, In-
nis’s Empire and Communications assessed the stability of historical empires
in terms of their ability to balance light, transportable, and spatial media,
on the one hand, and heavy, durable, temporal media on the other. This ap-
proach led Innis to resituate all available history in terms of communica-
tions media. If it is true that many good and timely reasons make us go
against Innis’s intentions and seek the destabilization of political empires,
it is equally true that the force of his analysis remains useful despite the
problems of his aims. If empires are dependent variables of media, the very
empiricity of what we experience as history becomes a function of the work
on media by communities of makers. Empire and communication are con-
ditioned by the poetics of media. Funkhouser’s archaeology shows poetics
conditioning the emergence into the history of digital poetry. Without a
doubt digital poetry today is an empire, part of a growing institution of new
media studies, and tied to academic departments, industry funding, and
government grant cycles. It becomes so, however, through the actual prac-
tices of communities of writers and readers. In the end this is the vital, pre-
historic truth that Funkhouser’s book presents.
Sandy Baldwin
Center for Literary Computing, West Virginia University
 A Chronology of Works in Digital Poetry,
1959–1995

This chronology provides the initial works done by poets (or publishers)
and the ¤rst developments in particular areas of digital poetry. Many (but
not all) of these events are discussed in the following chapters. As a record
of advancements that occurred within the genre, this document aims to be
encompassing and inclusive though not complete. Every work by every art-
ist is not highlighted, and undoubtedly more works will be brought to my
attention upon the publication of this book.

1959
• First programs of computer poems, “Stochastische Texte” (a text genera-
tor) by Theo Lutz

1960
• Oulipo founded
• Brion Gysin’s permutation poem “I am that I am” programmed by Ian
Somerville

1961
• Nanni Balestrini’s “Tape Mark I” created with code and punched cards
on an IBM 7070
• Rul Gunzenhäuser, “Weinachtgedicht” (automatic poems)

1962
• “Auto-Beatnik” (Time, May 25)
Other documents randomly have
different content
 O reinado de D. Miguel approximava-se da sua terminação, e a
tempestade, que se formára n’uma pequena ilha no meio do oceano,
rebentára já sobre todo o paiz.
Armava-se a nação em peso; guerrilhas de um e outro partido
percorriam as povoações e juntavam aos horrores da guerra civil o
assassinato, o roubo, o incendio, o forçamento e o sacrilegio.
Bem esmorecido era o ecco, que na minha cella repercutia; mas
ainda assim por elle avaliava das borrascas, que se desencadeavam
fóra. Por quanto ainda que procurasse apartar-me das coisas d’este
mundo, por tal fórma andavam todos preoccupados com os
acontecimentos, que se iam succedendo uns após outros com
rapidez incrivel, que era impossivel deixar de perceber, que havia
graves casos, a attribularem a humanidade.
Fallaram-me de combates, de mortes, de incendios, de
devastações; mas tal eu estava, que me era tudo indifferente. Antes,
porém, occasiões havia em que, confesso-lh’o, desejava que um
terremoto subvertesse o mundo para que na geral destruição
encontrasse vingança correspondente ao que me haviam feito
padecer.
Acordei das minhas meditações uma noite, ao rebate dos sinos da
povoação proxima e ao dobrar sinistro e precipitado da campa do
nosso convento. Ruidos desusados eccoavam por aquellas abobadas,
passos de quem fugia, vozes de quem pedia soccorro, supplicas,
choros, imprecações tudo se misturava e confundia.
Estava para me levantar do estudo e para saber a causa de
semelhante alvoroto; quando a figura magestosa de Fr. João da
Soledade me appareceu á porta da cella aberta de par em par.
—Ergue-te, Joaquim, disse-me, toma as tuas sandalias e o teu
bordão de viajante e caminha!
Aquella voz fóra d’horas, aquellas palavras solemnes produziram-
me effeito não inferior ao que deverá produzir a trombeta final no
Valle de Josaphat.
 —Que quer de mim, meu pae?
—Acabaram-se os dias de paz, chegaram as horas das provações
e da lucta. Os servos do Senhor são perseguidos de terra em terra
como animaes ferozes em montaria. Os impios não respeitam nem
as abobadas sagradas, nem os vasos da eucharistia. Mesmo com a
hostia sacrosanta na mão será o padre perseguido se assim o
encontrarem!
A espada de Malco substitue a palavra de amor. Volta a egreja aos
tempos da perseguição e do martyrio; segue-nos, Joaquim, as aguas
do diluvio avançam cada vez mais.
Fr. João estava profundamente impressionado. A paixão politica
ateava-lhe o zelo religioso, o homem do seculo trazia para junto dos
altares as suas affeições mundanas, e das crenças fazia evangelhos.
Pela minha parte, quasi que o não comprehendia. A linguagem
emphatica, que estava empregando, destoava muito da singelleza
em que educára o meu espirito reflexivo e concentrado. Fr. João com
o olhar chammejante, o gesto altivo, o rosto illuminado por um
enthusiasmo mais guerreiro do que apostolico, lembrava-me um
d’aquelles monges prégadores de eras affastadas, que a minha
imaginação tivesse feito surgir dos livros abertos deante de mim, e
que de espada na mão direita, e crucifixo na esquerda, queriam
abrir o caminho da redempção com o ferro destruidor, atravez das
hostes dos infieis.
—Mas, meu pae, que aconteceu?
—Aconteceu, que os exercitos invasores se approximam talando
campos e povoações; aconteceu, que na sua marcha amaldiçoada
não ha propriedade que resista, cabellos brancos que se respeitem,
honra de mulher que se recate; aconteceu que aos que cedem,
espoliam; aos que não cedem, assassinam; aconteceu, que fallam
em levantar mão sacrilega contra as muralhas defesas a profanos
d’este venerando templo. Os phariseus em motim pedem o sangue
dos justos. Deixemos a habitação de paz, d’onde nos expulsa a
malevolencia dos impios, e vamos, como os apostolos, de terra em
terra, de monte em monte, de caverna em caverna, onde suas vozes
não cheguem, onde seu braço não alcance, levantar sobre a pedra
tosca e rude a cruz do sacrificio, a hostia da redempção. Vem
comnosco filho, vem percorrer o teu Getsemani.
Entretanto o sino grande continuava a dobrar com som soturno,
os gritos da povoação disperta em sobresalto, os passos precipitados
dos frades, que desamparavam, gemendo, as cellas em que haviam
vivido por tanto tempo, e onde esperavam descançar para sempre, o
som ameaçador e irregular de um tiroteio ao longe, davam áquella
scena um caracter que impressionava profundamente. Pela minha
parte, parecia-me que um novo pesadello me vinha cortar a
somnolencia em que demorava havia tanto; resistia ao movimento e
prostrado de animo e de corpo, preferia que me matassem
n’aquelles logares a ir tentar nova sorte, n’esse mundo a que tinha
tão grande horror.
Fr. João, que nos momentos solemnes parecia transformar-se,
approximou-se de mim, tomou-me por um braço, fez levantar-me
contra minha vontade, e bradou-me com voz terrivel:
—Serás tão ingrato, que desampares teus irmãos no momento do
perigo? Aqueceria eu por ventura a serpente no meu seio?—Seria a
prova mais cruel, porque te quero como filho; mas bem merecido
castigo, por ter deposto a minha ternura n’essa vil argila. Fica-te
para ahi, e fique a minha maldição comtigo.
E com tanta força me abalou, que me ia lançando por terra.
Firmei-me porém, e respondi-lhe:
—Não, meu pae, não sou ingrato. Seguil-o-hei como a sombra
segue o corpo, como a alma segue o pensamento. Era o aspecto do
mundo que me espavoria; voltára tão mal ferido do combate, que
não seria para extranhar que vacillasse agora antes de vestir de
novo as armas. Sabe meu pae, que me não arreceio nem da morte
nem das provações; mas sabe tambem quanto me custa ir fitar de
novo essa gente, que tão grandes males me causou. Eis porque
hesitava. Aqui me tem prompto para tudo, e creia que me não
apartarei do seu lado.
O velho estendeu-me os braços, e com as lagrimas nos olhos:
—Sempre o acreditei assim, meu filho: abracemo-nos, que talvez
seja esta a ultima vez. Agora a caminho! Vamos reunir-nos a nossos
irmãos e infundir-lhes a coragem, que nos fallece. Irmão, filho; meu
filho, animo.
Como um rebanho de ovelhas, que ao presentir o lobo se reunem
em mó, e se apertam tanto, como se umas quizessem entrar nas
outras; assim os frades se apinhavam junto ás portas do convento,
espavoridos, tremulos, espalhando vistas atterradas para todos os
lados, e escutando os pavorosos sons d’alarme, que estrugiam os
ares.
Fr. João da Soledade assumira na communidade a preponderancia,
que a intelligencia forte e arrojada exerce sempre n’uma corporação
naturalmente timida e indecisa. A sua presença serenou por um
pouco os animos.
Procurando dar á voz uma entoação firme, cuidou o velho em
confortar os seus companheiros n’aquelle extremo lance, com
esperanças de melhor futuro; em que elle acreditava menos do que
ninguem.
As ultimas palavras porém, foram cobertas pelos clamores de
victoria, pelos gritos de angustia e pelos tiros de espingarda, cujos
sons misturados e confundidos pareciam precipitarem-se sobre nós
em turbilhões e redemoinhos como o vento da tempestade.
Os religiosos estremeceram, e pensaram em fugir cada um por
seu lado, a voz de Fr. João mais fortalecida e mais segura, tal era o
poder da vontade n’aquella alma de ferro, alentou-os por momentos;
entretanto os clarões do incendio tingiam de vermelho o céo e o
rasto do fogo annunciava a approximação dos guerrilhas.
Em pouco avistaram-se no cimo de um monte proximo os
inimigos, deante dos quaes fugiam em debandada alguns
miliciannos da terra, que por momentos tinham pensado em bater-
se. Um grito unisono partiu da bocca das creanças e das mulheres,
ao verem approximar-se aquelles homens sem piedade, avidos de
sangue e de exterminio; os frades transidos de medo entoaram,
erguendo os braços aos céos em signal de entranhada angustia, o
psalmo dos agonisantes.
As primeiras palavras denunciaram aos guerrilheiros a nossa
presença; ouvimol-os distinctamente clamar:—a elles, aos mandriões
dos frades,—e apontaram as espingardas.
Ao vêl-os fazer pontaria Fr. João exclamou rapido:
—Por terra, prostemos-nos, irmãos, senão estamos perdidos! Os
frades obedeceram immediatamente; o susto mesmo deitava-os no
chão; os tiros partiram; mas as balas silvaram por cima das nossas
cabeças, e uma só feriu um dos religiosos, que tinha ficado mais
distante.
Passada a descarga ergueram-se todos, e como bando de pombas
a que atirou o caçador, deitaram a fugir em diversas direcções,
caindo, erguendo-se, de rastos, gritando, gemendo, mas correndo
quanto podiam.
Junto ás portas do convento desamparado, só ficavamos, depois
da primeira descarga dos guerrilheiros, Fr. João da Soledade e eu.

V
Entrados apenas na povoação, começaram os guerrilheiros a
saquear e a devastar tudo. Do logar, em que estavamos, podia-se
conhecer de seus movimentos pelo vaguear dos archotes, pelo soltar
de gritos afflictivos, e pelas columnas de fumo, que se ennovellavam
aqui e além, sobre os telhados das habitações a que lançavam fogo,
quando a preza os não satisfazia.
A lembrança de Margarida, que não me tinha desamparado nunca,
confesso-lh’o, nem mesmo quando mais fervorosas supplicas
levantava ao céo, accudiu-me ao pensamento.
 —Meu pae, exclamei, fujamos, antes que caiam sobre o convento
e nos surprehendam aqui; sigâmos pela estrada, que vae por fóra da
povoação, e vejamos se podemos, esta noite ainda, chegar a nossa
casa, avisaremos depois sobre o que temos que fazer.
—Vamos, filho, e o Senhor se compadeça de nós.
Não era o amor á vida que me apartava d’aquelles logares. Por
minha vontade ficaria sepultado sob as ruinas do convento e fizera
da minha cella um sepulchro. Mas a essas horas quem sabe o que
seria de Margarida! Tremia só de o pensar, e o quadro que tinha
ante os olhos mais me apavorava ainda; porque d’ahi concluia dos
horrores, que ella poderia ter presenciado, se é que d’elles não
tivesse sido victima.
Não imagina nem por sombras o que seja uma guerra civil. Por
muito que lhe contem, tudo fica muito abaixo da realidade. Aquella
porém era guerra de exterminio.
Desencadeavam-se odios, que estavam em incubação, havia
dezenas de annos. Aggrediam-se visinhos, parentes, amigos e
irmãos, e aggrediam-se tanto mais cruelmente, quanto melhor
sabiam, onde haviam de ferir. Não poupavam ninguem, não havia
recanto que valesse, não havia esconderijo que salvasse, não havia
nem idade, nem sexo, que pozessem a coberto do insulto, da
affronta, da violencia, tanto mais crueis quanto partiam dos que dois
dias antes comiam á mesma mesa, e bebiam no mesmo copo.
Ao romper da manhã estavamos deante da casa de meu pae.
Tinham-me preparado para terriveis surprezas as scenas, que
presenceára pelo caminho; o que vi, porém, sobrelevou muito ao
que eu esperava.
Tudo em terra, tudo saqueado, tudo roubado, e os cadaveres de
meu pobre pae e de minha velha mãe a meio da casa, crivados de
feridas...
As lagrimas suffocaram o velho narrador, que teve de descançar
por momentos antes de poder proseguir.
 —Descance, tio Joaquim, disse-lhe já quasi arrependido da minha
indiscreta curiosidade, não continue, custa-lhe tanto... Outra vez me
contará o resto.
—Não, para quê? Tem de ser. Não é o contar que custa, é
lembrar; e raras vezes me esqueço. Isto já passa, um momento de
descanço e continúo.
Tinham entrado em casa, e dado rigorosa busca para encontrarem
os thesouros; que, segundo era fama na terra, havia em casa.
Desesperados por não acharem o que esperavam, voltaram-se
contra os dois velhos, que por mais que quizessem não os podiam
satisfazer; por quanto apenas havia começado a guerra tinham
escondido n’outra parte o seu dinheiro.
Não lhe acreditaram nos juramentos, e mataram-nos
barbaramente para se vingarem das suas negativas.
—E Margarida?
—Havia dias que partira para uma fazenda d’ali distante em
companhia de meu irmão, salvára-se da morte, e da deshonra.
—Pois quê?...
—A tudo se atreviam aquelles homens implacaveis. Não havia
barreira que se lhe puzesse deante, nem consideração, que os
demovesse, pareciam furiosos.
Pela convivencia soube o que eram esses desalmados, a quem o
amor da patria servia de pretexto, e o amor da rapina estimulava
unicamente.
—Pois o tio Joaquim?...
—Fui guerrilheiro tambem. A vista dos cadaveres de meus paes
operou em mim uma revolução pavorosa. Tive sêde de sangue, de
destruição, de vingança. Enterrei os dois velhos sem derramar uma
só lagrima. A febre do exterminio requeimava-me por dentro, cravei
uma cruz sobre a cova onde ficaram, unidos como o haviam sido
sempre, e jurei que não descançaria emquanto tivesse forças para
uma espingarda.
Fr. João, que era perseguido tambem como lobo, porque todos o
conheciam, juntou-se comigo; reunimos os mais enfurecidos do
logar, aggravámos as feridas dos que mais haviam padecido, e
levantámos uma guerrilha das mais afamadas n’aquelles tempos, e
bem conhecida pelo nome de—guerrilha do frade.—
Luctámos, luctámos com encarniçamento sem egual, e parecia
que as forças se nos augmentavam com a lucta. Andei n’aquella vida
errante perto de um mez, sem dormir uma noite somno que
aproveitasse, sem ter duas horas de descanço, sem ter um momento
sequer para pensar no passado, ou no futuro.
Seguiam-se os combates, as embuscadas, as fugas, os ataques,
sem descontinuarem, sem interrupção alguma. Era preciso homens
de ferro para aquella vida, e entretanto, de tal fórma o furor nos
trazia incendidos, que ao cabo do mez parecia que mal haviamos
começado.
Um dia ao amanhecer, um dos nossos, que andava por fóra veiu
avisar-nos de que outra guerrilha se approximava, da qual se
contavam proezas inauditas.
Esperámol-a e saimos-lhe a caminho, desejosos de nos medir com
esses tão celebrados inimigos.
Durou quatro horas o fogo, batemo-nos como desesperados de
parte a parte, até que fugiram em debandada, deixando o campo
juncado de cadaveres. Dos nossos a perda fôra consideravel
tambem, e Fr. João agonisava com uma bala nos pulmões. Saia-lhe
da bocca sangue e espuma, soluçava que fazia horror ouvil-o, e
expirou-me nos braços, procurando debalde articular algumas
palavras.
Corremos a revistar os mortos que os contrarios haviam deixado
insepultos. Entre os cadaveres reconheci meu irmão!...
 VI
Estava castigado do que havia feito como guerrilheiro; a minha
campanha estava concluida. Tinha corrido ás armas para vingar a
morte de meus paes, e arrojava a espingarda homicida diante do
cadaver de meu irmão.
Triste periodo da minha vida, entre duas sepulturas; e sepulturas
dos meus mais proximos parentes!
A guerra estava a acabar.
Tinha-se assignado a convenção de Evora-Monte, por toda a parte
os vencidos depunham as armas, e procuravam salvar-se das
represalias pela fuga, ou pelo homisio.
Caminhei sem saber como, nem por onde, para fugir ao
ensanguentado espectro de meu irmão, que parecia perseguir-me,
trazendo apoz si as victimas de quantos haviam perecido aos nossos
tiros; os meus companheiros tresmalharam-se em diversas
direcções. Separámo-nos, como nos haviamos reunido, sem pena
nem saudades. Apesar de termos vivido tanto tempo juntos, quasi
que nem nos conheciamos.
Á noite entrei na povoação.
Bati a uma casa, que, semelhante a sentinella perdida, estava
mais affastada das outras. Abriram-me a porta, soltaram um grito ao
vêr-me: eu ia dando no chão. Reconheci Margarida.
—E Filippe?
Pareceu-me que assim devera ser a voz do Senhor, quando bradou
ao primeiro fratricida:
—Cain, que fizeste de teu irmão Abel?
Não tive forças para negar, exclamei-lhe em resposta:
—Morto!
E desatei a soluçar, escondendo o rosto entre as mãos.
Á
 Á minha vista parecia ter adivinhado tudo com essa lucidez, que
dá o sentimento. Eu não podéra resistir á voz da consciencia, que
parecia accusar-me pela bocca de Margarida.
A desgraçada viuva caiu fulminada. Quando tornou a si tinha
enlouquecido.
Aquelle viver de sustos e de inquietações constantes de tal fórma
lhe haviam excitado o espirito, que um golpe tão profundo assim
rapido, quasi inesperado, achou-a sem forças para o aguentar. Ao
menos deixava de padecer.
Durou alguns mezes ainda. E tudo quanto até então eu tinha
experimentado, poderia dizer se brinco de creanças comparado aos
tormentos que aturei durante esses mezes.
Não soube nunca onde meus paes tinham escondido os seus
bens. Estavamos pobres, e Margarida, que se definhava a olhos
vistos, reclamava cuidados e despezas que me obrigaram a vender
quanto possuia, e a trabalhar de noite e de dia para acudir á pobre
enferma.
Amára Margarida com toda a vehemencia do primeiro e ultimo
amor. A paixão mais energica do homem, a que o arroja ás maiores
emprezas, ou o precipita até ás acções mais vis, tinha rebentado em
mim com toda a força ao vêr aquella santa e boa rapariga.
Aprendera com ella o que era amor, e soffrera tanto mais, quanto
via que era por outro que ella experimentava sentimento egual ao
meu. Agora, porém, tinha-a a meu lado sempre; mas como morta ou
peor ainda, porque horrorisavam e arrefeciam mais aquelles
transportes de loucura, do que os gelos e o pavor da sepultura.
Ouvi-a de noite e de dia chamar por um nome que não era o meu, e
cada vez que lh’o ouvia, parecia que com elle, d’aquella bocca pela
qual para que desabrochasse n’algumas palavras de amor, eu déra a
vida, saía uma accusação, um anathema contra mim.
O nome do meu rival, de quem me não podia vingar porque
estava morto, esse nome que ouvia a todos os momentos, era o de
meu irmão, morto pelos meus, talvez por mim; e eu vivia para que
Margarida me recordasse a todos os momentos: a mesma bala que
commettera um fratricidio, enlouquecera a unica mulher que havia
amado.
Adivinha o resto; nem mesmo eu teria forças para continuar por
muito tempo.
Margarida morreu. Eu estava só, sem meios, cercado de terriveis
recordações. Fugi a esse mundo de pavorosos espectros, e vim por
ahi abaixo procurar no trabalho o esquecimento. Tenho trabalhado;
mas não poude esquecer ainda!...

VII
O tio Joaquim acabára de fallar e parecia ouvil-o ainda. Tinham
ficado resoando-me as suas palavras, como a pancada do sino
depois de tangido, e que por muito tempo vae abalando o espaço.
Já de muito anoitecera. Com a noite começára a carregar-se o
céo, a encapellar-se o mar, a desencadear-se o vento. Rugia a
tempestade, quando o velho concluiu. O ribombo do trovão abafou-
lhe as ultimas palavras. A natureza parecera querer accrescentar um
côro magestoso áquella eloquente manifestação.
Lancei os olhos em roda; levantei-me, dei o braço ao narrador, e
começámos a descer pela encosta com extrema difficuldade, porque
já fazia muito escuro.
O tio Joaquim não dava por coisa alguma, deixava conduzir-se
como uma creança. Não parecia d’este mundo.
Ao voltar para uma azinhaga que no fim da praia cortava para a
estrada, volvi os olhos para o mar, que cada vez se embravecia mais,
e vi á luz de um relampago o sitio, onde sentado havia pouco, tinha
ouvido a historia do velho.
Comparei aquellas duas tempestades: a que ribombava
surdamente na alma do velho, e a que estalava nos ares levantando
em escarceus a agua do mar, e varrendo a terra com o furioso
soprar do furacão.
Quanto era superior o padecimento do velho!—E entretanto d’ali a
poucas horas a natureza descançava d’aquella convulsão violenta;
mas o tio Joaquim continuava a padecer, suspirando pela tardia hora
do repouso.
Só a natureza póde descançar porque é immortal; para o homem
o descanço chega, apenas, quando lhe começa a immortalidade.
Finalmente o tio Joaquim tambem descançou.

FIM
 NOTAS
[1] Na manhã do dia seguinte áquelle, em que este pequeno
conto apparecia publicado, recebia o auctor uma carta do sr. A. F.
de Castilho, em que dizia: amigo, pelos seus retratos de familia
receba um bom abraço do seu etc., etc. Estas poucas palavras
valeram para a pessoa a quem se dirigiam, mais do que largos e
empolados juizos criticos. Regista-as aqui, não por vaidade, não
por desvanecimento; mas só como um testemunho da verdadeira
estima e profunda gratidão, que tributa ao grande poeta.
[2] S. Lucas—Cap. 6.º—V.º 25 e 26.
[3] S. Matt.º Cap. 6.º V.º 28 30 31 32 33 34.
 *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OS CONTOS DO
TIO JOAQUIM ***

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