Moral panic at maximum volume:”Evil: Children abandoned, tortured and murdered. A philosophical, psychological, religious and historical investigation into the origins of human perversity.” In the philosophy course, the folks at Veja apparently skipped epistemology, however. Does that evil eye look familiar? It should: See below.
Entrelinhas is the Web log of Luiz Antonio Magalhães, politics editor of DCI and assistant editor of the Observatório da Imprensa.
The Brazilian news media’s latest feeding frenzy is the sad story of a young girl who fell to her death from the sixth floor of a high-rise apartment building here in São Paulo. Her parents are being investigated in the case.
An atomic bomb could go off in Curitiba and 50% of every evening news broadcast would still be stuck to this story like a vampire bat to the ass of a gnu.
It occupied the cover of all three major newsweeklies last week.
She is, in other words, the new Madeleine — the English waif who disappeared from the Algarve in Portugal and became the poster child of the year for amorphous postmodern anxieties.
On which see
Não dá para não ler o depoimento de Guilherme Fiúza, autor do livro Meu nome não é Johnny, reproduzido abaixo e publicando originalmente no blog do autor. Diz tudo e mais um pouco. Portanto, devagar com o andor, que o santo é de barro. Apesar de todas as evidências.
The witness of Guilherme Fiúza, author of My Name is Not Johnny, which is reproduced below from the original on the author’s Web log, is not to be missed. It says it all, and more. …
The book, about a young man from the Rio upper middle class who gets mixed up in the Bolivian marching powder industry, then finds redemption, was recently made into a film released by GloboFilmes — a sort of amalgam of Boogie Nights, Blow, and Girl, Interrupted. Slickly produced, but muddled and missing an emotional center.
A vida dos outros
Other people’s lives
É difícil escrever sobre uma tragédia sem ser acusado de insensibilidade com a dor alheia. Talvez a saída mais segura seja falar da nossa própria.
It is hard to write about tragedy without being accused of insensitivity to other people’s pain. Perhaps the best way around this is to talk about our own pain.
No dia 2 de julho de 1990 meu primeiro filho, Pedro, caiu do oitavo andar do prédio onde morávamos, em Botafogo.
On July 2, 1990, my first-born son, Pedro, fell from the eighth floor of the building where we were living, in Botafogo.
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