POV: HELENA IVYRA
This wasn't the first time Brazilian literature had faced problems with the law. That feeling lingered through time, as if a cycle was repeating itself, an ancient duel, marked by invisible battles between two inevitably opposing forces.
It seemed both were ancient rivals, almost mythical presences, as if literature itself and the law were characters in an old Western, eternally in conflict.
Brazilian literature was treated like a legendary outlaw, a kind of elegant and astute bandit, riding through the plains of the cultural old West, leaving behind a trail of education and knowledge, a silent but powerful legacy.
Meanwhile, the law, like a tireless sheriff, fiercely tracked its steps, trying to capture it with every movement.
Their relationship resembled the immortalized enmity between the Montagues and Capulets, where hatred seemed sealed by fate, until death. There was no truce, no understanding, just a clash that slowly eroded possibilities.
The latest offensive in that dispute had a name: the Fixed Price Law. It wasn't new, but it was another chapter in the continuous attacks that further weakened Brazil's already battered literary property.
The law gripped book prices with an iron fist, and the impact couldn't be more direct: expensive books become inaccessible to most of the population.
Reading, for the common Brazilian, was already a rare habit, a kind of cultural luxury distant from daily routine. Now, with that legal imposition, it became not only uncommon but practically unattainable for many.
It was impossible not to feel the weight of a country still living in the shadow of its former literary glory.
Centuries ago, powerful authorial dominators, masters of word and thought, and incredible readers, eager to unravel worlds, had existed.
But, with the natural progression of time and successive losses, that literary culture, which was once a pillar of national identity, had almost completely crumbled.
It suffered continuous, invisible, and cruel blows, until what remained today was nothing more than a distant echo of that glorious era, something similar to a cave painting, a fossilized vestige of a century long lost in the country's memory.
The history of Brazilian literature had periods of glory. However, that era ended a long time ago; in current times, the country's intellectual property was practically nonexistent.
Reading is the most basic human ability. I remember some claiming it's what differentiates us from other species.
Thanks to it, we can pass knowledge on. Among historians and scientists, the dilemma is debated: language or the computer, which would be the greatest human invention since the discovery of fire?
Many avidly claim it's the computer, because it allows technological advancement and the new Belle Époque we live in.
Those final words from Dr. Bittencourt's interview didn't leave my mind as I finished my morning chores.
There was something strange in that statement, a hidden meaning, a tone I couldn't immediately decipher. After the news, I prepared another cup of coffee and then tried to return to my studies, but I couldn't.
My mind simply wouldn't cooperate. Something about that story left me with a nagging doubt... I was already used to my brain procrastinating, a result of countless episodes of waking up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason, and the insomnia that became a constant companion.
But this restlessness was different. It wasn't just accumulated tiredness, nor delayed sleepiness.
It was as if someone was whispering in my unconscious, unspoken words, confusing signals that my conscious mind couldn't yet decipher.
What was it? What was the purpose behind that uncomfortable feeling?
I still didn't know. For now, I decided to ignore that strange sensation and returned to my books.
I sighed deeply, picked up my notebook, and decided to organize my ideas; perhaps tidying the internal mess would be a step towards clearing my mind.
"You know what... Let's take it one step at a time," I murmured to myself, spreading my notes on the table so that each topic was visible and separate.
"Right, here are all the postulates of the second-level axioms, their premises, there are the proofs, and finally the main theorems," I said in a low voice, almost as if reviewing for someone invisible. Finishing the second-level axioms was a relief.
Because they addressed how constructs could be better elaborated, I could already build some basic forms I had studied for three-dimensional models. Still, I needed to improve the resistance and versatility of the constructs.
Now, I could start studying the third-level axioms, which required even more patience and a certain almost artisanal precision, in how to connect ideas, trace logical relationships...
"Ugh, damn it!" I sighed as I leaned back in my chair to think for a bit.
Even trying to concentrate, I couldn't for some reason. Dr. Bittencourt's words seemed to echo in the back of my head, causing an almost surgical distraction. It was as if that woman had left something out, something intentionally unsaid. She assembled a puzzle but deliberately left a piece missing for someone to try and complete it.
Frustration overwhelmed me: I thought of something simple, like naming a doubt, and couldn't find the right words for it.
"Forget about that, Helena!" I complained to myself, feeling a tightness in my chest.
Only two weeks until classes started.
I needed to be prepared to start the year confidently, especially since I would have many responsibilities.
The new class, graduation events, the approaching entrance exams... all of this weighed on my mind. I wanted to focus on grasping the foundational concepts well, so I wouldn't get lost later.
And yet, there I was, stuck before a distraction that came not from outside, but from within.
Not out of ignorance or laziness. But from internal noise.
There was something curious about this: how much a restless mind could hinder even the simplest reasoning.
I always knew I had some difficulty with certain tasks; it was natural to have problems now and then. Still, today was different.
No matter the environment, whether a cup of coffee in hand, absolute silence, or free time, if there was no peace inside my head, no logical system could flourish. It was like building a library in the middle of an earthquake. It was a recipe for disaster!
"This is annoying..." I murmured, feeling the weight of discouragement.
Suddenly, I had a mental breakthrough.
"WAIT!"
'A library in the middle of an earthquake…?'
"That's it, you dummy!" I exclaimed.
As if I finally had a flash of understanding, a "Eureka" moment. Perhaps, in his time, Einstein had experienced something similar when developing Relativity, an idea that sprouts from chaos and noise.
If I couldn't study in an environment because of the noise, then...
Why not try to take my mind to an environment that would transform that noise into concentration?
A place that would be the antidote to that internal turbulence.
A library!
I checked the clock: it was still 12:06 PM. I grabbed my notes, put them in my bag, along with my wallet, blush, pencil case, and brush. Just the usual essentials. I quickly looked in the mirror. I was presentable, so I left.
Thirty minutes later, there I was, leaving home and heading towards the Provincial Library of João Batista.
Maybe it was time to find a new place to study!