Close Range - Brokeback Mountain and other stories

Annie Proulx

Harper Perennial

2006

320 páginas

10h 40m

ISBN-10: 0007205589

Resenhas (1)

4 (Muito bom)

“There was some open space between what he knew and what he tried to believe, but nothing could be done about it, and if you can't fix it you've got to stand it”

Annie Proulx conta de maneira rápida e breve a história de um amor clandestino entre dois cowboys, e por mais que seja uma história extremamente curta, ainda deixa qualquer um emocionado e com lágrimas nos olhos.
No desenrolar do conto, é percebido claramente o ansiar que Ennis e Jack haviam um sobre o outro, ambos estavam famintos. mas como Ennis diz diversas vezes “se você não pode consertar, você tem que aguentar”, e por fim, foi dito e feito, no fim, Jack morre sem conseguir realizar seu sonho de ter um rancho com aquele que ama, apesar de ter chegado perto com outro homem.

Pessoalmente, preferi a adaptação de Ang lee do conto, mas isso pode ser algo momentâneo, já que também me levou algum tempo para entender toda a complexidade e profundidade do filme. confesso que com o conto, não consegui me conectar tão bem quanto no filme - cujo é meu favorito de todos os tempos. isso pode ter acontecido por ter lido em inglês e ter traduzido sozinha, também por conta da linguagem e gírias combinarem exatamente aonde a obra se passa, no sul do estados unidos. Por ser um conto, obviamente o filme passa mais as complicações do caso dos cowboys e te conecta mais com o casal.
Com aquele filme, senti uma dor que nunca havia sentido vendo obra alguma.

Mas mesmo por isso tudo (talvez até mesmo por um certo favoritismo com a obra) ainda achei o conto extremamente comovente e uma obra maravilhosa, por mais que esperasse mais por conta do filme.

Quanto mais Jack e Ennis passavam meses ou anos afastados, mais eles se apaixonavam um pelo outro, o que fica claro na cena em que se reencontram após 4 anos e Jack tremia tanto que a madeira do piso o incriminava, já que sacudia junto dele. Esse foi um dos detalhes que mais gostei no conto, e que gostaria de ter pelo menos uma menção ou detalhe no filme.

Jack, in his dark camp, saw Ennis as night fire

"That summer," said Ennis. "When we
split up after we got paid out I had gut
cramps so bad I pulled over and tried to
puke, thought I ate somethin bad at
that place in Dubois. Took me about a
year a figure out it was that I shouldn't
a let you out a my sights. Too late then
by a long, long while.

Later, that dozy embrace solidified in his memory as the single moment of artless, charmed happiness in their separate and difficult lives. Nothing marred it, even the knowledge that Ennis would not then embrace him face to face because he did not want to see nor feel that it was lack he held. And maybe, he thought, they'd never got much farther than that. Let be, let be.

The shirt seemed heavy until he saw
there was another shirt inside it, the
sleeves carefully worked down inside
Jack's sleeves. It was his own plaid
shirt, lost, he'd thought, long ago in
some damn laundry, his dirty shirt, the
pocket ripped, buttons missing, stolen
by Jack and hidden here inside Jack's
own shirt, the pair like two skins, one
inside the other, two in one. He pressed
his face into the fabric and breathed in
slowly through his mouth and nose,
hoping for the faintest smoke and
mountain sage and salty sweet stink of
Jack but there was no real scent, only
the memory of it, the imagined power
of Brokeback Mountain of which
nothing was left but what he held in his
hands.

Around that time Jack began to appear
in his dreams, Jack as he had first seen
him, curly-headed and smiling and
bucktoothed, talking about getting up
off his pockets and into the control
zone, but the can of beans with the
spoon handle jutting out and balanced
on the log was there as well, in a
cartoon shape and lurid colors that
gave the dreams a flavor of comic
obscenity. The spoon handle was the
kind that could be used as a tire iron.
And he would wake sometimes in grief,
sometimes with the old sense of joy
and release; the pillow sometimes wet,
sometimes the sheets.

still they clinched, pressing chest and groin and thigh and leg together, treading on each other's toes until they pulled apart to breathe and Ennis, not big on endearments, said what he said to his horses and daughters, little darlin.

“Jack, i swear”