The
presentation
of
the
second
romance
of
Darcy
Ribeiro
–
“The
Mule”-
at
the
Montes
Claros
Academy
of
Literature,
on
one
of
those
languid
Friday
nights
in
December,
was
an
encounter
with
happiness
and
contrasts,
with
a
loved
and
respected,
even
feared,
son
of
the
city,
to
pour
in
our
ears
the
honey
and
bile
of
saintly
heresies
and
virtues.
Sometimes
tender,
dripping
romanticism,
loved
son
of
Mrs.
Fininha
Silveira,
sometimes
the
demolisher,
pregnant
of
war,
brother
of
Mario
Ribeiro,
sometimes
compulsively
creative,
a
spiritual
cousin
to
Konstantin
Christoff.
It’s
because
Darcy
Ribeiro
was
born
far
from
the
adapted,
calm,
tranquil
ways
of
the
people
from
Minas
Gerais,
never
able
to
appreciate
silence
or
isolation.
He
was
quite
the
contrary,
bothersome
to
people
who
were
lazy
of
feelings
and
intelligence,
unflinchingly
flailing
out
with
scalpel
or
whip,
all
the
while
self-proclaiming
himself
to
be
the
best
of
the
best.
Contrary
to
Cyro
dos
Anjos,
another
famous
writer
and
son
of
Montes
Claros,
this
serene,
extremely
organized,
universal
intellectual,
well
accommodated
to
his
position
of
public
employee,
enjoying
an
invisible
silence,
Darcy
Ribeiro
is
agitated,
fiery
and
tropically
Brazilian,
heated
in
his
body
and
soul
and
displays
it
to
all,
in
his
daily
work
and
at
war,
instinctively,
feline
as
a
jaguar.
He,
the
owner
of
a
savage,
unlimited
intelligence;
Darcy
rationalizes
like
a
hurricane
of
love,
always
tuned
to
all
that
is
culture.
He
was
weathered
and
molded
primitively
in
the
sun
and
dust
of
the
hinterland
of
Montes
Claros,
telluric
fruit
of
tenderness
and
instinct,
of
a
voluptuous,
world
ambition,
Darcy
is
an
effervescent
cauldron
of
ideas,
wanting
to
live
all
lives
in
only
one.
Mortal,
he
wants
immortality
and
immortal
he
became
by
his
thousands
of
realizations.
Darcy
the
mule,
very
Brazilian
Latin
lover,
brings
in
his
soul,
the
tastes
of
the
flesh
of
all
races:
the
color
of
the
Indian,
the
color
of
the
negro,
memories
of
atavism
and
mysticism
of
the
Celts,
the
warlike
force
of
the
old
Godos,
the
taste
for
power
of
the
Iberian
soul,
a
conception
so
grand
of
space
and
glory
that
only
Phoenician
navigators
could
have
fathered
the
blood
of
the
sailors
of
old
Portugal.
There’s
more
to
it:
Darcy
is
as
lascivious
as
a
new
Christian,
fiery
as
a
nomad
Arabian
horseman.
In
truth,
he
is
a
man
with
the
heart
of
all
races,
not
just
Indian,
Portuguese
and
African
peoples,
joined
together
in
the
Brazilian
melting
pot.
Darcy
represents
the
human
race,
because
he
is
the
bearer
of
so
many
virtues
and
defects,
a
well-seasoned
soup
of
genes
cast
upon
the
winds
of
time…
why
he
was
born
in
Montes
Claros,
I
have
no
idea.
The
“Mule”
is
this
city
bursting
with
monumental
force,
humanly
a
partner
of
God
and
men,
in
the
distribution
of
life
and
death;
divinely
eager,
thirsty
in
the
search
of
love,
creatively
involved
in
the
quest
of
command
and
power.
Sensual,
opportunist,
materialist,
religiously
mystic,
hungry
for
new
experiences
and
dreaming
of
the
future.
“The
Mule”
represents
the
part
of
every
creature
that
lives
totally
together
with
his
own
homeland,
be
it
man
or
woman.
“The
Mule”
has
a
lot
of
João
Valle
Maurício
in
it,
both
in
word
and
in
subtlety,
a
lot
of
Konstantin,
in
the
opening
of
anatomy
and
in
the
force
of
his
drawings;
much
of
Crispim
da
Rocha,
in
the
ability
of
a
man
of
the
jungle,
strong
and
intelligent,
a
lot
of
Filomeno
in
the
need
to
have
and
to
command;
a
lot
of
Plínio
Ribeiro,
in
the
mysticism,
in
the
taste
of
producing
thoughts
and
ideas,
in
the
to
be
and
not
to
be
of
life.
“The
Mule”
is
