Great authors produce immortal works because they speak of the universal. The phrase is so often repeated that it risks sounding like common sense. But that doesn't make it any less true! It doesn't matter if we're talking about Homer, Shakespeare, Machado de Assis, or Dostoevsky. They all survived their time because they managed to unveil something immutable about human nature.
However, it was while reading Nelson Rodrigues that I perceived an apparent paradox: there is nothing more universal than the particular. Anyone who reads his chronicles soon realizes that the "pornographic angel" speaks, almost obsessively, about himself. But not the Nelson he would like to display in an official photograph. Not the virtuous, intelligent, brilliant, or admirable Nelson. He speaks of the ridiculous, vain, petty, insecure, resentful Nelson. He reveals precisely what he would have reason to hide. And that is exactly why it works. By mercilessly exposing his own imperfections, he ends up exposing all of us.
I reread the paragraph above and I'm already dissatisfied. I don't know if I managed to explain the idea clearly. Perhaps some perceptions are easier to recognize than to express. Oh well. I'll use an example.
In my youth, I was left-wing. Today, that statement requires explanations that it didn't in the 90s. Back then, especially within the university, being "left-wing" wasn't exactly an original choice. It was almost the natural state of things. I had been catechized in environments deeply influenced by Liberation Theology. I grew up hearing about social justice, political awareness, commitment to the poor, and the transformation of structures. I'm not saying this ironically. I believed and continue to sincerely believe in these ideas. To a great extent, they shaped my worldview.
When I entered university, I found an environment that seemed to confirm everything I already believed in. I participated in the student movement for years. I was a student representative, attended councils, meetings, and assemblies. I wasn't there out of opportunism. I wasn't seeking positions. I didn't imagine wielding power. I believed. And perhaps that's the most important point of the story.
I believed that the student movement existed to defend students. I believed that political disputes aimed to improve the university. I believed that disagreements arose because honest people held different opinions about the most appropriate means to achieve a common good. In short, I believed in the mythology of the movement.
There was certainly something comforting about that belief. It allowed me to see coherence where perhaps there was only ideological alignment. It also allowed me to feel like I was participating in a morally elevated mission. I wasn't just a student. I was part of a historical project. Youth is often generous with this kind of illusion.
The 90s were a peculiar period. Collor's impeachment was still fresh in the national memory. The university left was buoyed by a sense of political protagonism. Many believed they were participating in the construction of a more just and democratic country. I certainly believed so. That's why the episode I'm about to narrate affected me so much.
It was a local student organizing meeting. The main leaders were present. We were discussing a series of proposals that should guide the movement's actions in the following months. Suggestions came one after another. More funding. More benefits. More infrastructure. More administrative requirements. More demands of all kinds.
At first, I listened attentively to everything. But as the discussion progressed, my mathematical mind, trained to find contradictions, began to compare the proposals. Some were incompatible. Others simply canceled each other out. There were demands that required non-existent resources. Others would significantly increase the university's operating costs. Some would hinder precisely the administrative processes necessary to keep the institution functioning.
I remember thinking that it didn't make sense. The more I reflected on it, the more it seemed to me that the simultaneous implementation of those proposals would produce a side effect: the university would cease to function properly.
I continued listening. I waited my turn to speak. When I finally got the floor, I formulated an objection that seemed perfectly reasonable to me. I said something close to this: “Guys, if we put all this into practice, we're going to make the university unviable. Nothing will work.”
I truly believed I had pointed out a crucial problem. Today I realize that my observation contained a hidden premise: I was assuming that everyone in the room wanted the university to function. The response came almost in a whisper. It wasn't a formal intervention. It wasn't a fiery speech. It was just a side comment from someone sitting near the key leaders.
" And who said it was supposed to work? "
The meeting continued. But I didn't. I remained seated there, trying to understand what I had just heard.
For many years I told this story as the moment I discovered the cynicism of others. Today, however, I think the truth is a little more uncomfortable. The phrase didn't just reveal something about them. It revealed something about me. Because the reality is that I already knew the agendas. I already knew the speeches. I already knew the party alignments. I knew that a large part of the student movement acted in sync with national political projects. I knew that many demands had less to do with the university than with broader ideological disputes.
I knew all of that. But I preferred to ignore the practical consequences. That sentence made it impossible to continue pretending. For the first time, I understood that, for many people in that room, the university wasn't exactly the end of the student movement. It was the instrument.
The proposals didn't necessarily need to improve the institution. It was enough that they produced political wear and tear. It was enough that they amplified conflicts. It was enough that they strengthened certain narratives. The objective wasn't the university. The university was the battlefield.
The most embarrassing aspect of this memory is that I wasn't observing that reality from the outside. I was part of it. I had also participated in the protests. I had also repeated the slogans. I had also believed that certain causes were morally superior by definition. I had also confused ideological conviction with analysis of reality.
The difference is that, on that day, I heard someone say aloud what everyone seemed to understand and what I was still trying to deny. Today I realize that the scene remains vivid in my memory because it's not just about student politics. Nor about the 90s. Nor about the university left. It speaks to something profoundly human. We all carry beliefs that organize our worldview. We all ignore certain facts to preserve the coherence of those beliefs.
However, reality often insinuates itself through an unexpected crack. An informal conversation. A casual event. A phrase uttered without solemnity. Perhaps that is precisely what Nelson Rodrigues understood so well. The universal rarely appears dressed as itself. It almost always emerges disguised in a banal, particular situation. Therein lies the secret of his chronicles.
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