Cristina Carvalho

Março 6, 2009

O GATO DE UPPSALA  JÁ  NA 4ª EDIÇÃO

***************************************************************************

O GATO DE UPPSALA EM ESTOCOLMO – Instituto Camões

O Centro de Língua Portuguesa/Instituto Camões, a Universidade de Dalarna e a Universidade de Estocolmo
em colaboração com Professoras de Português Língua Materna na região de Estocolmo convidam para um encontro com Cristina Carvalho, autora de “O Gato de Uppsala”, no dia 21 de novembro, às 17h.

Venha conhecer a autora de “O Gato de Uppsala” e os alunos de Português Língua Materna na região de Estocolmo que estão a trabalhar a obra.

“O Gato de Uppsala”, Plano Nacional de Leitura:
Livro recomendado no programa de português do 8º ano de escolaridade e para a Formação de Adultos.

Esta é uma história de amor entre dois jovens, Elvis e Agnetta, uma história feliz de iniciação, de descoberta e sonho: a viagem, a pé, desde Uppsala até Estocolmo, movidos pelo desejo de descobrir o mistério do mar e de ver uma das maravilhas do seu tempo – o grande e rico Vasa – navio de guerra mandado construir por Gustavus II Adolphus, rei da Suécia. Quis o destino que, no dia 10 de agosto de 1628, dia da viagem inaugural, a vida de Elvis e Agnetta fosse salva por um gato.

Capa e ilustrações de Danuta Wojciechowska.

Data: 5ª-feira, 21 de novembro de 2013

Horas: 17h00-19h00

Local: Centro de Língua Portuguesa/Instituto Camões, Universidade de Estocolmo, Södra Huset, Hus B, 5º andar, sala B521

Org: CLP/IC, Högskolan Dalarna, Stockholms universitet e Mary-Anne Eliasson

**************************************************************************************

LER + LER MELHOR NA RTP N

Entrevista sobre “O GATO DE UPPSALA” por Teresa Sampaio – Julho 2011

Ver: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TWOSTLV2lXk

**************************************************************

EXCERTOS DE “O GATO DE UPPSALA” EM INGLÊS com tradução de Maria João Freire de Andrade

EXCERPT from this book  – translation by Maria João Freire de Andrade

ONE EVENING…

 

Let me introduce myself: I’m a small animal that just made a long voyage. I ended up here in this city of Stockholm, newly arrived from a land further north. I came from Uppsala. I travelled inside a wicker basket carried on the shoulders of my master Mr. Elvis, a tailor and a weaver, who brought me with him; Agnetta, his wife, also came with us because after thinking carefully about his life, Elvis came to the conclusion that he couldn’t live without us, without me and without her; and I, only a small animal, thought that was something quite natural.

So, I travelled inside that basket suspended on his shoulders; Agnetta walked always a little behind Elvis, for in those days things were like that: husband on front, wife a little behind.

 

When we arrived to this big city, we felt lost since we didn’t know a soul, everything seemed strange, the people, the houses, the streets, even the clear blue sky above us seemed to have a new colour, and it was a colour without colour, unrecognizable.

Sometimes Elvis stopped and looked up to the sky, bent his head in different directions as if to figure out if he was heading north or south. But in that different sky, it was hard to find guidance. It is always very hard to guide ourselves through skies that are unknown to us because, although we say and claim that it is something we can vouch for, one thing is for sure: the stars aren’t always in the same place, nor are always the same stars that follow men lives.

 

Agnetta liked to sit in any bank of the island where they were living and stayed there for a very long time observing and thinking, without thoughts, about that multitude of small islands that her eyes could reach, listening to unfamiliar noises that corresponded to a frenzy of activity in the harbour where the gigantic vessels were being built, where they were being finished, and among them was the most famous and beautiful of all the ships, the Vasa.

It was because of her, because of the ship called Vasa, that they left their homeland and travelled by foot to Uppsala, that they walked so far making a trip that lasted a few days and a few nights; it was due to the beautiful Vasa and for all she meant, that one day they shut the wooden hatch of their cosy house; because of her, that they handed their pets and farm animal’s to their neighbours; it was because of the desired Vasa that each one of them wrapped inside a small bundle a few belongings and clothes; it was in the name of the great dream of seeing a large ship, a beautiful and powerful ship, something never seen before, something huge floating on the water – how could that be possible? –, something that remains on the surface of the lake although it’s so tremendously heavy, heavy because it is heavy, heavy because of the men and the animals and the food and the weapons and the cannons and the rigging and the sails, and because of the many statues that adorn it.

“Only if we couldn’t, we wouldn’t come, am I right, cat?”, asked Elvis, craning his neck into the basket he carried on his shoulders and looking to the cat.

“Yes”, replied Agnetta instead of the cat. “I don’t want to die without seeing the Vasa. By the way…”

 

On the night of their arrival to the city of Stockholm, Elvis and Agnetta slept leaning against each other under a kind of tunnel that connected a few buildings. It was the beginning of August. The days were mild and calm, the evenings balmy, and so spending a night or two without a shelter wasn’t a big sacrifice.

“Tomorrow we’ll find an inn to stay”, said Elvis to Agnetta. He hugged her, kissed her and they both fell asleep.

 

The cat in the basket meowed once or twice. Then he jumped quietly to the ground and slowly, very slowly, always suspicious and cautious, began walking through the land until his shadow, cast by the moonlight, was no longer seen.

 

 

ELVIS AND AGNETTA

 

All the events here described happened many years ago but they could’ve happened today since Elvis and Agnetta still exist, although with other bodies, other faces, other clothes, other habits.

The days and nights that follow the days and nights are always the same; the long desired springs always arrives with the same signs – the days grow a little longer, the leaves appear in the birches, beeches and pines, spontaneous flowers bloom on earth, and the birds are born, reborn and abound, thousands, millions, billions. Many survive and many more die, as soon as they are born. They never get the chance to know anything about something. And then comes the summer and the air is much hotter; the full moon, when it illuminates the heavenly surface in a pool of light, is really a huge full moon.

Elvis loves the full moon and says to those who will listen: “Behind this white whiteness, exists a black blackness that we will never know.”

When he says this, he’s referring to the brightness of the moonlight.

The tone of his voice and the sound of his throat rises just like the full moon over every mountain and every valley, and it climbs, climbs so high in these blue and cold nights that men and wolves venerate and respect. They are the short nights of the North.

 

Here in Kiruna, the white city where Elvis was born, the day is an amazing day, it’s always day, the sun doesn’t hide. There is not even a good horizon where the sun can set down. That’s why life here is different and hard; that’s why here there aren’t certain hours do to certain things, which in a way doesn’t hurt much. How many times, around two in the morning – the golden lake, strips of golden clouds framing the lake –, Elvis is on the lake’s bank hoisting a fishing rod. The fishing rod rises heavy with a beautiful trout in the end of the line, and Elvis stands spurring the fire of the makeshift grill made of twigs, straw and some porous stones from the bottom of the lake; he is cooking and preparing his dinner, with no rush to sleep. He can sleep at four in the afternoon or two in the morning, it will be the same. It’s always day here in Kiruna and summer is beautiful, slightly hot, and you have to take advantage of it because soon the autumn will return bringing with it its frame of mists, the trout will disappear from the rivers, and a mild but cold wind will start to blow close to the floor of the small houses in town and will climb the walls until it reaches the thatched roofs that, so fragile, stir. It is at this time of the year, Elvis favourite, when the auroras often appear. They’re a language ​​of light, light of all colours that appear as lightning, but much swifter than lightning; it is a language of light that comes hissing and sweeping across the land of Kiruna; sometimes it’s green, sometimes it’s red, sometimes it’s purple. Sometimes they can be blue. Seldom yellow.

In that place some people say that anyone who sees a purple aurora will be very, very lucky and will die very old. Apparently, it’s true.

And then comes the winter. I will say no more because the winter in the North should not be described, nor painted – there aren’t enough words.

 

After their return to Uppsala, on one hand such a sad return, but on the other so good and desired, Elvis and Agnetta had two daughters. Camila and Cassia.

The windy weather made their lives a swift whirlwind, as it happens with everybody. Their two daughters grew, married men from other counties and moved to faraway places so now they only meet once or twice a year, once in June when the ground is warm and the sun heats up and they can wear their most coloured and beautiful dresses and skirts, green, red, blue, trimmed at the hem with big sashes of bright yellow, and a second time at Christmas’s eve not only because they enjoy the juicy reindeer meat baked with tender sprigs of certain vegetables that Agnetta cooks perfectly; there isn’t anyone in the big, wide world, in the little known world, anyone who cooks so well reindeer meat like the loving hands of Agnetta; how fond are they of all the habits of that time of the year, per example, when they light up pieces of fat and go out into the snowy space outside the house, and sing hymns and chants to the stars and the heavenly universe, as they walk through the fields underneath the fresh air and cold nights of December.

Sometimes, very late at night, the whole family is gathered under the mantle of the stars that seem so close, sitting on a clean and dry slab of stone, the moon shining, the cold falling and suddenly a whiff, a waft of colour, a green mantle that extends into spirals, which turns from red to purple, whipping close to their heads and they lift up their arms towards the sky as if to touch it, as if to stroke that big light so intense that brings hope and good luck.

 

The only thing we want from this life is luck, reindeers, a little house with a thatched roof, a good hearth and some sweet berries to eat in the summer.

 

The young mister Elvis decided to undertake that very long voyage driven by a single desire: not to die without seeing the launch and christening of the huge, beautiful and never before seen Vasa ship; and since he was a wool merchant, a weaver and a tailor, he spent all that year drawing with elderberry juice root patterns and sewing clothes, suits and blankets, and everything that could provide shelter for those who wanted to buy them. As a matter of fact, that wasn’t his first big trip. A long time ago when he thought about changing his live and finding a woman to marry, he decided to leave his white city of Kiruna and move further south in direction of Uppsala. Some people said that in Uppsala you could find extremely beautiful girls, with very different ways from those that he knew until then. That city was very close to Stockholm and it was a real big city and from big cities you can only expect good things, innovations, different people, other ways, other lives.

 And, in fact, that’s what happened. Elvis travelled extensively by foot towards the south and, apparently, his life was running like he expected.

Time passed.

Now,

Back in Uppsala,

Everybody knows him.

The city is not very large, and Elvis is its only weaver and tailor. He was unlucky since he only had two daughters, and never had enough luck to have a son.

Who would be the next weaver of his family and of his city?

 His wife Agnetta always helped him between her chores; because it’s Agnetta who lights the fire in the kitchen every morning, it’s Agnetta who cooks, who takes care of the girls, who feeds the animals. On the blue and very cold mornings of autumn and winter, she gets up every day from the warm and cosy bed, wraps a shawl around her shoulders and exits to the yard where, at the back, the chicken hutches are full of eggs, poultry and the snow is packed upon the thatched roofs.

 And she does everything or almost everything: she cleans the snow, heats up the house, puts the salmon to smoke, she daily bakes potatoes in an iron pot, pours and washes and cleans with ashes the iron pot that is very, very heavy, she picks up firewood, she’s twenty-five years old, carries the wood on her back, sweeps the house, melts the wax to make the candles and the soap they use to wash themselves, knead the flour, make bread, straightens the fresh reindeer meat so that its piled up in salted layers to last all winter, she’s twenty-six years old, twenty-seven years old, time keeps moving, walking on top of everything and everyone, sometimes time walks, other times it dances, sometimes time is tiring, sometimes time tramples, crushes, dents; she’s fifty years old, and she misses her two daughters when they were little, when there were always around her and they didn’t even know how to speak and her other cat, also a nameless cat, makes her remember the girls meows, the girls who didn’t know how to speak but meowed a lot and played, played, played close to her.

 Everything passed.

 And Elvis (who draws and doodles with the elderberry root the patterns of his customers clothes, Elvis that every day cuts and sews and embellishes the clothes of his customers and does only that besides being the husband, the young householder – at the time, his family was only Agnetta) thought that the launching of the Vasa was a good reason to travel, to get out of the monotony, to escape a little, just the two of them. Yes, sir! They would see the departure of the Vasa, would go to Stockholm, which wasn’t even that far. The weather was good, you couldn’t even feel the cold, it would only return in September and the Vasa, the Vasa would sail in August.

“And the cat?”, asked Agnetta, somewhat distressed.

“The cat goes with us in a basket.”

 

 

THE CAT APPEARS!

THE VASA DISAPPEARS!

 

All the proud people of Stockholm and many of the proud people of Sweden, who came from all the parts of the country, were gathered in several of the countless islands, in those that provided the best view of events, on Gamla Stan, on the tiny island of Blasieholmen where the Vasa had been under construction for three years, and on the dunes of other islands, waiting the departure signal of the powerful and beautiful royal ship. And the Vasa, right there, in front of all of them, drifting so peacefully, serene…

Sumptuous! The solid hull built with the wood of over a thousand oaks, its ten gigantic sails blowing with the southwest wafts, the four flags that waved in the sun and the fifteen hundred sculptures carved in the magnificent wood and painted with cheerful colours; a few clouds were drifting here and there crossing the white sky, and all the golden ornaments who followed the line from bow to stern and the sixty-four canons ready to pop, and farther beyond the darkened horizon and the lofty and solemn masts with over a hundred and sixty feet and a sunny morning turns into an afternoon with some shadows and all the people shouting “Sverige, Sverige!”.

The children dream, the women chat, the men drink beer from overflowing cups, all, all without exception, waiting for the departure signal.

Only the king was absent.

The ship, at the beginning of her voyage, would respectfully pretend that the king was in Tre Kronor[1], in one of its windows and that her majesty waved at them, wishing them happiness and a long life.

Soon the Vasa would sail right in front of the royal castle, and all the members of the royal family that were there would watch; they would feel themselves full of pride and vanity for that crown jewel that still rested so quietly in peaceful waters, where the lake Mälaren joins the Baltic.

But the king was absent

Unfortunately, at the time, the King Gustavus Adolphus II was absent from the country, in Prussia, leading a war against the Poles.

It was the life of kings.

And from destiny not even kings can escape.

 

By now Elvis and his wife had run across town from north to south, always calling for their cat, always hoping to find him around a corner; as they walked and ran, they imagined seeing him with his tail lifted and ears sticking out trying to hunt something good or with a mouse stuck between his teeth; they thought they saw him in the body of other cats they found along the way. But cats are not obedient. Cats pretend they don’t see, they pretend they don’t hear, pretend they don’t want… Cats, when they look at us with their tender eyes, are lying. We can’t see anything we want to see in the eyes of a cat. They are far beyond us. Cats travel throughout the universe, throughout the stars and galaxies, as soon as they sit down with their tails wrapped around their legs. Cats know, but don’t say what they know; they sprint, with squinting eyes and an unfaltering indifference, through all the corners of the known world. The unexpected cat. The cats are beautiful!

Actually, the Uppsala’s cat was the most beautiful of all cats. Bigger than a normal cat, chestnut brown fur, green eyes, very long whiskers. A little plump. Apparently, it would be easy to find him. But no. One thing was certain: he would never step in any kind of house. Therefore he could only walk though the streets or, at the most, fall into a hole. But to run through all the city streets calling for him – Cat!, Cat!, Cat! ­– was something impossible! He could be here on that street, or a little ahead, but he could also be in the next street, or in that tunnel, or in that square, or in any other island. Impossible!

Elvis and Agnetta sat on a step of a staircase, devastated, their eyes full of thick tears that fell like hard and hurting drops of stone.

“Our beloved kitten!”, wailed Agnetta, raising her eyes to her husband and asking for solace.

“He will return, my dear. He will return…”

 

It was nearly five o’clock in the afternoon, and the sun was still shining. For a few moments, the couple fell asleep. They were tired and discouraged, due to the race through town. Then, just then, when they had fallen into a light sleep, a loud rumbling echoed through the air. You could hear a sequence of crashes, crashes that shook the walls of the buildings and that incredible thunder seemed to burst inside their own stomach.

Elvis and Agnetta woke up immediately. They were so frightened. What could it be? And they soon discovered…

Down the street that led to the harbour where the Vasa had been anchored that same morning, they saw amazed that the huge ship was slowly moving away and that it was her sixty-four canons spitting fire that caused that incredible sound.

At that moment, they decided to run to the Gamla Stan from where they had left a few hours before. Maybe in the midst of all that clutter, confusion and uproar caused by such enthusiasm, they could find their bundles and the basket where they carried the cat. And they went to the same place where they’d been. There were still spread out towels with food scraps on the ground, there were children sleeping next to their parents bundles, elderly people sitting on the dry sand of the dunes. Looking around, Elvis first saw his bundle near a clump of tall grass, then saw Agnetta’s bundle and also saw the cat basket.

“Agnetta, Agnetta! Our things are there!”, he shouted, while at the same time he pulled his wife by the hand and ran in the direction of the grass. The first thing he grabbed was the basket. Elvis picked it up, felt it was heavy, and nervously, holding his breath, wanting but not wanting, looked inside.

Their cat was fast asleep in the bottom of the basket, snug, curled over the straw. Very cosy!

“Agnetta! Our cat, our kitten, is sleeping over here. Here, inside the basket!”

And Agnetta laughed a lot and sang and danced, and suddenly all her weariness disappeared.

They felt happy.

Then Elvis picked up the basket, placed it on his shoulders as usual, grabbed Agnetta’s hand and they turned to the sea. Now, they saw clearly that the great Vasa was being towed along the island, towards south. It had sailed without them.

The vessel was preparing to sail to several islands in the archipelago, and since it was it’s maiden voyage it took many families eager to live an unforgettable moment of their lives in such a beautiful and spacious ship. That was something that wouldn’t happen again.

As the ship passed in front of Tre Kronor, the royal palace, a salvo was launched from each one of its sixty-four canons; the commander ordered the hoisting of the four main sails, and they began to swell with the light wind that blew from the southwest. A blue flag with the yellow cross and the three golden crowns, fluttering with the breeze and higher than the ship’s flag, could be seen from afar.

The Vasa, greeted by the crowd, the magnificent and huge Vasa sailed softly in the direction of the south, where the lake meets the sea.

Elvis, Agnetta and their beloved cat were now part of the countless people who proudly cheered the ship; that’s how they greeted the Vasa, already forgotten of their dream of sailing in its maiden voyage.

If the cat hadn’t fled…

 

Suddenly

As the sun weakened behind the moisture of the sea,

A heavy cloud shaded the air and darkened momentarily

The horizon.

A gust of wind

Blew with violence.

Unexpectedly,

The Vasa bobbed,

Uncontrollable, indomitable.

Imperfect.

Then

It leaned on its left side.

 

Tons of water came in through the openings of the cannons hatches and in less than ten minutes, only a hundred yards away from the banks of the island of Beckholmen, the great, the mighty Vasa, disappeared in the calm waters of Stockholm’s harbour.


[1] Tre Kronor, Three Crowns. Name of a castle of Stockholm, built in the thirteenth century, and the royal dwelling for several centuries. In 1697, it was almost destroyed by a devastating fire. Currently, in the ground floor of the north wing and the area of ​​the palace that was least affected by the fire, exists a museum.

********************************************************

NOVIDADE

LIVRO SELECCIONADO PARA O PLANO NACIONAL DE LEITURA.

Além de “O Gato de Uppsala”, o novo romance da autora “Nocturno, o romance de Chopin” foi incluído nas listas do PNL de 2011.

Também o romance “LUSCO-FUSCO, breviário dos mundos elementares” foi incluído nas listas do PNL de 2012


O romance “O Gato de Uppsala” acaba de ser incluído na lista de livros recomendados  no Plano Nacional de Leitura para o 8º Ano de Escolaridade

Acontecimento

***

Entrevista de Ana Sousa Dias a Cristina Carvalho na revista “Pública” de 22 de Agosto de 201o

*****

Artigo de José Fanha no blogue 7 leitores

*****

Entrevista à STORM -MAGAZINE

Por HELENA VASCONCELOS

Ler em :http://www.storm-magazine.com/novodb/index.htm

(pesquisar no arquivo do site, em Cristina Carvalho)

*****

O GATO DE UPPSALA nomeado para o Prémio Autores SPA/RTP 2010

A Gala da entrega dos prémios será transmitida em directo pela RTP a partir do Centro Cultural de Belém, no próximo dia 8 de Fevereiro à noite. (Ver mais)

Ver também: Jornal Público

Foi  lançado (24.11.2009)  o novo romance de Cristina Carvalho

“Nocturno – o romance de Chopin”

*****

O GATO DE UPPSALA

APRESENTAÇÃO

O Gato de Uppsala

Este  romance de Cristina Carvalho é a narrativa de uma viagem  por terras de luz, desde  Kiruna até a Estocolmo. Impulsionada pelo amor e pelo desejo de descobrir mundos,  esta aventura amorosa  combina: a sabedoria  da tradição renovada que ritualiza a paixão do jovem casal para dar perspectiva ao amor; com a força da juventude que empreende a viagem de exploração do mundo que os atrai; e ainda com a beleza (às vezes dos medos) de muitos instantes inevitáveis com que se deparam ao longo da viagem.

Graças a um estilo ático, numa escrita fluente e bem ritmada, a autora de O Gato de Uppsala  proporciona uma leitura fácil e atraente. Na sua simplicidade artística,  O Gato de Uppsala propõe  leituras diversas na história que conta. Há uma visão polissémica da natureza, do amor, da humanidade e da animalidade.  A narrativa apresenta um sentido iniciático que unifica as personagens e os elementos naturais em que vivem e que as envolvem.

Esta é uma história de amor entre dois jovens, Elvis e Agnetta, uma história feliz de iniciação, de descoberta e sonho: a viagem, a pé, desde Uppsala até Estocolmo, movidos pelo desejo de descobrir o mistério do mar e de ver uma das maravilhas do seu tempo – o grande e rico Vasa – navio de guerra mandado construir por Gustavus II Adolphus, rei da Suécia. Quis o destino que, no dia 10 de Agosto de 1628, dia da viagem inaugural, a vida de Elvis e Agnetta fosse salva por um gato.

Cristina Carvalho nasceu em Lisboa, a 10 de Novembro de 1949. Durante a sua actividade profissional, contactou com milhares de pessoas e visitou inúmeros países sendo a Escandinávia e o Oeste português as regiões que mais ama e que mais influência exercem sobre a sua personalidade enquanto transitório ser humano do sexo feminino, habitante do planeta Terra e por acaso, escritora. Publicou até à data 4 livros: Até Já Não é Adeus (Signo); Momentos Misericordiosos, Ana de Londres e Estranhos Casos de Amor (Relógio D’Água).

” O Gato de Uppsala”, uma edição da SEXTANTE EDITORA, é apresentado como uma história para todas as idades, assinada por Cristina Carvalho e com ilustrações de Danuta Wojciechowska. A sessão de lançamento decorreu no restaurante do El Corte Inglés, em Lisboa, no passado dia 4 de Março. O livro foi apresentado pelo Prof.  Nuno Crato que sublinhou a beleza formal e de conteúdo do novo romance Cristina Carvalho, tendo notado que se trata de uma obra de alcance universal que suscita muitas perguntas sobre a natureza e a vida. Para nuno Crato este é um livro interessante para todas as gerações.

A Secretária de Estado da Cultura,  Paula Fernandes dos Santos, que presidiu à cerimónia de lançamento do novo romance, enalteceu a qualidade do romance, apontando-o como uma obra que  certamente irá ter grande aceitação do público.

Cristina Carvalho leu o seguinte texto de agradecimentos:

Mesmo que essa fosse a minha especialidade – e não é, como todos os meus amigos sabem – seria incapaz e ainda mais inapropriado fazer um discurso, depois de tudo o que ouvi e senti aqui hoje. São emoções que – como hei-de dizer… – nos envolvem, nos estimulam, nos provocam sentimentos de gratidão… estou grata. E por isso limitar-me-ei a exprimir graças públicas. Ei-las:

Agradeço à minha editora Sextante, de que me passei a sentir parte e que deu a lume esta minha história.

Grata ao editor João Rodrigues que não hesitou em confiar neste projecto, quando era ainda um simples projecto por concluir. Deu-me confiança e estímulo para o concretizar em prazo breve; O João foi um editor fantástico. Deixem-me que exprima aqui perante vós o meu carinho e admiração. Vamos continuar, senhor editor, … o outro já está!!!

Grata à Joana Cabral, entusiasta, incansável, competente e com uma paciência ilimitada para aturar as minhas ansiedades. A Joana, a minha amiga Joana, foi inexcedível na dedicação que pôs na produção e promoção deste Gato de Uppsala. Obrigada Joana!

O Nuno Crato!…Nem sei bem o que dizer, meu querido amigo. Sabem, o Nuno – o mediático professor Nuno Crato – é uma das pessoas mais sensíveis que conheço. Foi o primeiro nome que surgiu na minha mente quando se pensou em pedir a alguém para fazer esta apresentação. «Mas o que é que o Nuno Crato tem a ver com este género de literatura (duvidava-se)????»…. E eu respondi sempre: inteligência e sensibilidade. Muito obrigada Nuno, pela tua sensibilidade e pela tua inteligência. Mas principalmente, Nuno, obrigada pela tua amizade e generosidade!

Obrigada Danuta, pelas mesmas razões e por mais umas. Confesso que me emocionei muito quando a Danuta me enviou o email com o PDF do projecto que viria a ser a linda capa deste livro. Até chorei de emoção ao reconhecer na síntese bela do desenho toda a história do Gato de Uppsala. Estou muito grata, Danuta. És de facto uma grande  Artista ! Temos de continuar… Agradeço também o tratamento de imagem de Joana Paz  do Atelier Lupa Design.

Uma palavra de agradecimento para o Atelier de Henrique Cayatte. O Paulo Corrêa, que não conheço pessoalmente a não ser pelo telefone realizou um trabalho magnífico!

Agradeço a competência e a simpatia da revisora, Rita Almeida Simões. Uma única gralha e da qual nem sequer é responsável. Obrigada.

Vou longa nestes agradecimentos e por isso vou terminar.

Eles sabem muito bem como lhes estou grata. Os meus amigos. Sei que não preciso de palavras porque eles compreendem-me bem, nas minhas ansiedades e naquilo que elas produzem Amo-os. Obrigada aos que estão cá e àqueles que não puderam vir. Beijos.

Muito obrigada à senhora Secretária de Estado da Cultura, Paula Fernandes dos Santos, pelo brilho e pelo reconhecimento que veio trazer a esta sessão de lançamento do Gato de Uppsala. Foi para mim um prazer e uma honra. Agradeço, ao Ministério da Cultura esta participação, esperando que a aceitação do público e a crítica venham a confirmar esta adesão.

Obrigada a todos os que quiseram associar-se a esta festa. Estou muito feliz e agradecida por terem vindo.

Na história que neste livro conto, o casal amoroso não morre e o gato que eles amam também não morre, escapando ao naufrágio do poderoso e belo Vasa. O impulso da natureza construído com sabedoria, lealdade e amor salvou-os. É assim que eu compreendo o mundo e a amizade.

Obrigada a todos


Seguir

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.