para o João
Houve uma altura em que o dia era, junto dos povos Itálicos, a mais curta divisão do tempo, e o mês a mais longa. Apenas mais tarde se começou a dividir o dia e a noite, cada um deles em quatro partes, e ainda se tardou mais a aplicar a divisão das horas. Isto vai de encontro ao facto que no estabelecimento do princípio do dia há tribos consanguíneas que utilizam sistemas diversos, e ademais os Romanos iniciavam-no com a meia-noite, os Sabéllios e os Etruscos com o meio-dia.
Theodor Mommsen. História da Roma Antiga. I.14. Versão minha a partir da versão italiana de Antonio Garibaldo Quattrini.
fotorama de Megalexandros (1980). Theodoros Angelopoulos
(mas eu queria era a cena que se seguia a esta que regista o primeiro acto revolucionários assim que tomam a aldeia: despedaçar o relógio do campanil da igreja)
Time, said Austerlitz in the observation room in Greenwich, was by far the most artificial of all our inventions, and in being bound to the planets turning on their own axis was no less arbitrary than would be, say, a calculation based on the growth of trees or on the length of time it takes a piece of limestone to disintegrate, quite apart from the fact that the solar day which we take as our guideline does not provide any precise measurement, so that in order to reckon time we have to devise an imaginary, average sun which has an invariable speed of movement and does not incline towards the equator in its orbit. If Newton thought, said Austerlitz, pointing through the window and down to the curve of the water around the Isle of Dogs as it slipped by in the last of the daylight, if Newton really thought that time was a river like the Thames, then where is its source and into what sea does it finally flow? Every river, as we know, must have banks on both sides, so where, seen in those terms, where are the banks of time? What would be this river's qualities, qualities perhaps corresponding to those of water, which is fluid, rather heavy, and translucent? In what ways do objects immersed in time differ from those left untouched by it? Why do we show the hours of light and darkness in the same circle? Why does time stand eternally still and motionless in one place, and rush headlong by in another? Could we not claim, said Austerlitz, that time itself has been non-concurrent over the centuries and the millennia? It is not so long ago, after all, that it began spreading out over everything. And is not human life in many parts of the earth governed to this day less by time than by weather, and thus by an unquantifiable dimension which disregards linear regularity, does not progress constantly forward but moves in eddies, is marked by episodes of congestion and irruption, recurs in ever-changing form, and evolves in no one knows what direction? Even in a metropolis ruled by time like London, said Austerlitz, it is still possible to be outside time, a state of affairs which until recently was almost as common in backward and forgotten areas of our own country as it used to be in the undiscovered continents overseas. The dead are outside time, the dying and all the sick at home or in hospitals, and they are not the only ones, a certain degree of personal misfortune is enough to cut off from the past and the future. In fact, said Austerlitz, I have never owned a clock of any kind, a bedside alarm or a pocket watch, let alone a wristwatch. A clock has always struck me as something ridiculous, a thoroughly mendacious object, perhaps because I have always resisted the power of time out of some internal compulsion which I myself have never understood, cutting myself off from so-called current events in the hope, as I now think, said Austerlitz, that time will not pass away, has not passed away, that I can turn back after it, and when I arrive I shall find everything as it once was, or more precisely I shall find that all moments of time have co-existed simultaneously, in which case none of what history tells us would be true, past events have not yet occurred but are waiting to do so at the moment when we think of them, although that, of course, opens up the bleak prospect of everlasting misery and never-ending anguish.
WG Sebald. Austerlitz. Anthea Bell (trad). Penguin: 2002
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