Questões para Concursos

Texto 1A1-I

Machado de Assis viria a sofrer, no governo do presidente Prudente de Morais, o que considerou uma grave injustiça. Julgando lhe ser agradável e querendo deixar-lhe mais tempo livre para seus trabalhos literários, o novo ministro, Sebastião Eurico Gonçalves de Lacerda — pai do grande tribuno parlamentar Maurício de Lacerda e avô de Carlos Lacerda — resolveu substituir Machado de Assis na Diretoria de Viação, que então ocupava, deixando-o como simples adido à Secretaria de Estado, percebendo os vencimentos que lhe competissem. Machado ficou muito magoado, achando que o ministro o julgara um inútil. Queixou-se muito, em cartas aos amigos, não se conformando em ficar de braços cruzados, ganhando o dinheiro da nação sem trabalhar. Foi durante esse período que escreveu uma de suas obras-primas, Dom Casmurro ; sempre demonstrara, em seus romances, contos e crônicas, profunda aversão aos parasitas. E era sincero. Não queria ser um deles. E não sossegou enquanto não voltou à atividade, embora diminuído funcionalmente: de diretor de um departamento, passou a ser simples secretário do ministro Severino Vieira. Quando este se demitiu, no governo de Campos Sales, para candidatar-se ao governo da Bahia, o ministro da justiça, Epitácio Pessoa, nomeado para substituir interinamente Severino Vieira, não se deu bem com Machado de Assis. Jovem, irrequieto, Epitácio estava então veraneando em Petrópolis. Pela manhã, atendia ao expediente da pasta da justiça. À tarde, ia para o outro ministério, onde Machado de Assis lhe fazia minuciosas exposições sobre cada assunto, apresentando-lhe em seguida as minutas dos despachos. Epitácio queria sempre abreviar as exposições, a fim de não perder a barca que saía da Prainha para Mauá, no fundo da baía, de onde, nos fins do século XIX, partia o trem para Petrópolis. Algumas vezes perdeu a barca, só tomando a segunda e chegando à casa já em plena noite. Por isso, um dia disse a respeito de Machado: “Grande escritor, mas péssimo secretário!”. Talvez Machado, sem o dizer, pensasse a mesma coisa de Epitácio: “Moço inteligente, mas muito afobado para ser um bom ministro!”.
Machado passou vários anos constrangido e humilhado até encontrar, em Lauro Müller — o grande ministro da viação que iniciou as obras do Porto do Rio de Janeiro e fez construir a Avenida Central, hoje Avenida Rio Branco — quem lhe fizesse justiça. Lauro Müller fez Machado voltar a ser diretor.

Raymundo Magalhães Jr. Machado de Assis funcionário público. In: Revista do Serviço Público, Brasília, 56(2), abr. – jun./2005, p. 237-248 (com adaptações).

Text 1A2-II

I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written by any author who would—that is to say, who could—detail, step by step, the processes by which any one of his compositions attained its ultimate point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to the world, I am much at a loss to say—but, perhaps, the authorial vanity has had more to do with the omission than any one other cause. Most writers—poets in especial—prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy—an ecstatic intuition—and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes, at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought—at the true purposes seized only at the last moment—at the innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view—at the fully-matured fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable—at the cautious selections and rejections—at the painful erasures and interpolations—in a word, at the wheels and pinions—the tackle for scene-shifting—the step-ladders, and demon-traps—the cock’s feathers, the red paint and the black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, constitute the properties of the literary histrio.
I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in which an author is at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his conclusions have been attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen pell-mell are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner.
For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to, nor, at any time, the least difficulty in recalling to mind the progressive steps of any of my compositions, and, since the interest of an analysis or reconstruction, such as I have considered a desideratum, is quite independent of any real or fancied interest in the thing analysed, it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on my part to show the modus operandi by which some one of my own works was put together. I select The Raven as most generally known. It is my design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition is referable either to accident or intuition—that the work proceeded step by step, to its completion, with the precision and rigid consequence of a mathematical problem.

Edgar Allan Poe. The Philosophy of Composition, 1846 (adapted).

Text 1A2-II

I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written by any author who would—that is to say, who could—detail, step by step, the processes by which any one of his compositions attained its ultimate point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to the world, I am much at a loss to say—but, perhaps, the authorial vanity has had more to do with the omission than any one other cause. Most writers—poets in especial—prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy—an ecstatic intuition—and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes, at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought—at the true purposes seized only at the last moment—at the innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view—at the fully-matured fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable—at the cautious selections and rejections—at the painful erasures and interpolations—in a word, at the wheels and pinions—the tackle for scene-shifting—the step-ladders, and demon-traps—the cock’s feathers, the red paint and the black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, constitute the properties of the literary histrio.
I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in which an author is at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his conclusions have been attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen pell-mell are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner.
For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to, nor, at any time, the least difficulty in recalling to mind the progressive steps of any of my compositions, and, since the interest of an analysis or reconstruction, such as I have considered a desideratum, is quite independent of any real or fancied interest in the thing analysed, it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on my part to show the modus operandi by which some one of my own works was put together. I select The Raven as most generally known. It is my design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition is referable either to accident or intuition—that the work proceeded step by step, to its completion, with the precision and rigid consequence of a mathematical problem.

Edgar Allan Poe. The Philosophy of Composition, 1846 (adapted).

Text 1A2-I

Languages are more to us than systems of thought-transference. They are invisible garments that drape themselves about our spirit and give a predetermined form to all its symbolic expression. When the expression is of unusual significance, we call it literature. Art is so personal an expression that we do not like to feel that it is bound to predetermined form of any sort. The possibilities of individual expression are infinite, language in particular is the most fluid of mediums. Yet some limitation there must be to this freedom, some resistance of the medium.
In great art there is the illusion of absolute freedom. The formal restraints imposed by the material are not perceived; it is as though there were a limitless margin of elbow room between the artist’s fullest utilization of form and the most that the material is innately capable of. The artist has intuitively surrendered to the inescapable tyranny of the material, made its brute nature fuse easily with his conception. The material “disappears” precisely because there is nothing in the artist’s conception to indicate that any other material exists. For the time being, he, and we with him, move in the artistic medium as a fish moves in the water, oblivious of the existence of an alien atmosphere. No sooner, however, does the artist transgress the law of his medium than we realize with a start that there is a medium to obey.
Language is the medium of literature as marble or bronze or clay are the materials of the sculptor. Since every language has its distinctive peculiarities, the innate formal limitations—and possibilities—of one literature are never quite the same as those of another. The literature fashioned out of the form and substance of a language has the color and the texture of its matrix. The literary artist may never be conscious of just how he is hindered or helped or otherwise guided by the matrix, but when it is a question of translating his work into another language, the nature of the original matrix manifests itself at once. All his effects have been calculated, or intuitively felt, with reference to the formal “genius” of his own language; they cannot be carried over without loss or modification. Croce is therefore perfectly right in saying that a work of literary art can never be translated. Nevertheless, literature does get itself translated, sometimes with astonishing adequacy.

Edward Sapir. Language: an introduction to the study of speech. 1921 (adapted).

Text 1A2-III

In January 1948, before three pistol shots put an end to his life, Gandhi had been on the political stage for more than fifty years. He had inspired two generations of Indian patriots, shaken an empire and sparked off a revolution which was to change the face of Africa and Asia. To millions of his own people, he was the Mahatma — the great soul — whose sacred glimpse was a reward in itself.
By the end of 1947 he had lived down much of the suspicion, ridicule and opposition which he had to face, when he first raised the banner of revolt against racial exclusiveness and imperial domination. His ideas, once dismissed as quaint and utopian, had begun to strike answering chords in some of the finest minds in the world. “Generations to come, it may be,” Einstein had said of Gandhi in July 1944, “will scarcely believe that such a one as this ever in flesh and blood walked upon earth.”
Though his life had been a continual unfolding of an endless drama, Gandhi himself seemed the least dramatic of men. It would be difficult to imagine a man with fewer trappings of political eminence or with less of the popular image of a heroic figure. With his loin cloth, steel-rimmed glasses, rough sandals, a toothless smile and a voice which rarely rose above a whisper, he had a disarming humility. He was, if one were to use the famous words of the Buddha, a man who had “by rousing himself, by earnestness, by restraint and control, made for himself an island which no flood could overwhelm.”
Gandhi’s deepest strivings were spiritual, but he did not — as had been the custom in his country — retire to a cave in the Himalayas to seek his salvation. He carried his cave within him. He did not know, he said, any religion apart from human activity; the spiritual law did not work in a vacuum, but expressed itself through the ordinary activities of life.
This aspiration to relate the spirit of religion to the problems of everyday life runs like a thread through Gandhi’s career: his uneventful childhood, the slow unfolding and the near-failure of his youth, the reluctant plunge into the politics of Natal, the long unequal struggle in South Africa, and the vicissitudes of the Indian struggle for freedom, which under his leadership was to culminate in a triumph not untinged with tragedy.

B. R. Nanda. Gandhi: a pictorial biography, 1972 (adapted).