The Catcher in the Rye, de J.D. Salinger

Se você quer mesmo ler The Catcher in the Rye, leia em inglês, mesmo que seu inglês seja apenas intermediário, como o meu, e você tenha que procurar muitas palavras e expressões no dicionário, e reler parágrafos e até capítulos inteiros, mas fuja da tradução brasileira. Eu já tinha lido O Apanhador no Campo de Centeio, e até tinha achado bom, mas a experiência passou muito longe da profunda conexão com o narrador-protagonista que a versão em inglês proporciona.

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. [...] Besides, I'm not going to tell you my whole goddam autobiography or anything. I'll just tell you about this madman stuff that happened to me around next Christmas just before I got pretty run-down and had to come out here and take it easy.

Holden Caulfield, aos 17 anos, começa sua narrativa convidando o leitor a ouvir sua história, e não a ler. O estilo será oral, semelhante à sua fala, coerente durante todo o livro, com expressões e palavras repetidas. A gente acaba conhecendo muito bem o velho Holden Caulfield não só pelo que ele nos diz, mas pelo seu jeito de falar. O que Holden procura é um leitor que o ouça pacientemente, pois enquanto fala o que lhe aconteceu, vêm à tona memórias, fantasias e opiniões sobre tudo e todos que o cercam.

A história que Holden Caulfield quer contar dura apenas três dias. Três dias em que se sentiu muito mal, deprimido e solitário; revoltado com a escola, os colegas, os adultos, e Nova York. O problema é que ele está insatisfeito com o jeito como todos vivem, inclusive ele mesmo, mas não consegue encontrar um outro caminho. A crise começa na Pencey Prep (colégio interno bem conceituado para onde os ricos mandam seus filhos) no sábado, alguns dias antes do feriado de Natal. Holden sabe que não poderá voltar à escola depois do feriado, pois foi expulso pelo péssimo desempenho em todas as matérias, exceto Inglês. Então, de repente, abandona a escola na noite de sábado e vai de trem a Nova York, onde mora, mas não vai direto pra casa. Fica perambulando pela cidade. Não quer explicar por que saiu da Pencey antes do feriado nem quer estar por perto quando chegar a carta do diretor da escola com a notícia da expulsão.

No livro, Holden conta em detalhes o que lhe aconteceu de sábado até segunda-feira, quando resolve ir para casa. Nesses três dias, Holden foi a bares e boates, conversou, dançou, bebeu, fumou, namorou, chorou, ironizou em pensamento quase todos à sua volta, se meteu em algumas encrencas e viveu outras banalidades.

Mas o que realmente importa para Holden não é a realidade, mas as digressões em torno dela. Um ridículo chapéu vermelho de caçador que ele gosta de usar com a aba pra trás. A luva de beisebol de seu irmão Allie, com poemas escritos em tinta verde. Sua amiga Jane, que gostava de manter todas as suas damas na linha de trás do tabuleiro, sem movê-las. Os patos do lago do Central Park, que ele não sabe para onde vão quando o lago congela no inverno. Uma fuga para o Oeste, onde, imagina, vai fingir que é surdo-mudo e trabalhar em um posto de gasolina enchendo o tanque dos carros, morar numa cabana perto da floresta e se casar com uma surda-muda que vai ter que escrever em um pedaço de papel quando quiser falar com ele. Sua irmã Phoebe, de 10 anos, que fica bonita rodando e rodando no carrossel com um casaco azul. O apanhador no campo de centeio (The Catcher in the Rye), que agarra as crianças que, ao brincar em uma plantação alta de centeio, correm sem saber em direção a um despenhadeiro.  

Holden tenta falar com algumas pessoas sobre seus problemas e fantasias, mas ninguém está interessado. A maioria dos seus colegas e dos adultos encaram a vida como um jogo. Você deve seguir as regras e agir de modo a conseguir vencer. Não faz sentido pensar nos patos do lago ou passar o verão jogando damas com uma garota.

Holden está na porta de entrada do mundo adulto e não quer ser como os adultos. Talvez até admita que a vida, em certo sentido, é um jogo. Mas será que não dá para ler poemas na luva entre uma jogada e outra? Ou deixar as damas paradas na linha de trás, apenas pela beleza, mesmo que seja até mais difícil ganhar desse jeito? Ou pensar no que acontece com os patos do lago? Ou usar, de vez em quando, um chapéu vermelho de caçador virado para trás? Ou agarrar alguém que está caindo?

Mais sobre a tradução

O narrador  de The Catcher in the Rye está o tempo todo falando diretamente com o leitor, usando o pronome you. Na tradução, não há esse tratamento direto, o narrador usa apenas o verbo no plural, com um vocês oculto, ou simplesmente corta a referência ao ouvinte, como na frase: God, I wish you could've been there, que foi traduzida por: Puxa, só a gente estando lá para ver.

Um dos méritos do livro é a construção da voz do narrador, com expressões e palavras que ele costuma usar, como bastard, old, pretty, goddam, damn, lousy, if you want to know the truth, I swear to God, que se repetem ao longo de toda a narrativa. Na tradução, a oralidade se perde em alguns momentos, e as palavras típicas do Holden vão sendo traduzidas ao longo do texto por palavras diferentes, dependendo da situação. O resultado é que o Holden do texto em Inglês é um jovem em crise, um “Caçador de mim”, mas que mantém o humor e um olhar poético sobre tudo. Como ele diz, ele não odeia tudo; ele odeia por um momento, mas depois sente falta. A tradução passa a impressão de um Holden mais amargo, pesado, xingando a tudo e a todos.

Deixo aqui o link de uma entrevista com a tradutora australiana Alison, que traduz literatura brasileira para o inglês. Ela explica que, para traduzir, você tem que ler o livro e estudar muito, perceber qual o impacto que as palavras, a estrutura e o som das frases causam no leitor da língua em que foi escrito o livro, e depois tentar levar, o mais aproximadamente possível, este mesmo efeito para o leitor da tradução:

O que é um tradutor, afinal? Ele também é um autor? 
Alison – Eu não sou daqueles tradutores mais militantes, que insistem que o tradutor é coautor. Acho que o tradutor merece o reconhecimento pelo que faz, não pelo que não faz. O autor criou um enredo, criou personagens, criou seu jeito de falar, criou várias coisas ali que eu não posso mexer. Eu não posso fazer nada a não ser traduzir estas coisas. A criatividade do tradutor se dá no momento em que cria soluções, procura maneiras de expressar aquelas coisas em outra língua. Mas você está criando a partir de um precedente, criando para refletir algo que já existe. Não é criação no sentido de criar do zero um texto. Eu não curto muito a palavra coautor por causa disso. Não que eu ache que o que eu faço não mereça reconhecimento. O tradutor é o tradutor – e não aquele ser invisível que ninguém se lembra de citar o nome. Acho que podia existir um esforço maior por parte das editoras para lembrar o tradutor, colocar o nome na capa ou pelo menos na primeira página. 

Mas, para você, a competência do seu trabalho como tradutora parece estar ligada a um respeito radical à voz do autor e não a uma recriação pela sua própria voz. É isso? 
Alison – Por isso eu gosto de citar pequenos trechos. Acontece muito com o Chico (Buarque), porque ele é um autor que além de contar a história, ele ama a língua, é evidente no que ele faz. Ele brinca com as palavras. E eu tenho muita preocupação em reproduzir as brincadeiras linguísticas que ele faz. Se eu apenas traduzir as palavras, perde a graça. Por exemplo. O José Costa (personagem narrador de Budapeste) diz a mesma coisa em três frases diferentes no seguinte trecho: "A lourinha era abusada, me apontava às gargalhadas e gritava para o fotógrafo: é bom saber que eu vou para a cama com esse cara, ou: comigo na cama esse cara vai saber o que é bom, ou: saiba que eu vou é com esse cara bom de cama, ou coisa que o valha; eu já me considerava prestes a dominar a língua húngara, quando falada em alto e bom som." A graça está nestas três frases que dizem a mesma coisa, com as mesmas palavras, mas mudando a sua posição em cada frase. Se fosse apenas traduzir, faria três frases completamente diferentes, com nenhuma semelhança entre si. Tive de pensar o que era mais importante ali: traduzir apenas o sentido ou traduzir toda esta brincadeira linguística que faz a gente dar risada quando lê. Para mim não havia possibilidade de apenas traduzir estas três frases. Aí é preciso vestir a camisa do poeta e recriar outra frase que contenha esta possibilidade de se desdobrar de três maneiras diferentes, mas obedecendo todas às mesmas regras. Ficou assim: "The blonde was insolent and pointed at me in fits of laughter, shouting at the photographer: I’ll get this good-time guy in bed with me, or: with me this guy’ll get it good at bedtime, or: it’s time I got this guy’s goods into bed, or something of the sort." 

TRECHOS DE THE CATCHER IN THE RYE

'What'd he said to you?'

'oh...well, about Life being a game and all. And how you should play it according to the rules. He was pretty nice about it. I mean he didn't hit the ceiling or anything. He just kept talking about Life being a game and all. You know.'

'Life is a game, boy. Life is a game that one plays according to the rules.'

'Yes, sir. I know it is. I know it.'

Game, my ass. Some game. If you get on the side where all the hot-shots are, then it's a game, all right – I'll admit it.(9)

The funny thing is, though, I was sort of thinking of something else while I shot the bull. I live in New York, and I was thinking about the lagoon in Central Park, down near Central Park South. I was wondering if it would be frozen over when I got home, and if it was, where did the ducks go. I was wondering where the ducks went when the lagoon got all icy and frozen over. I wondered if some guy came in a truck and took them away to a zoo or something. Or if they just flew away.(13)

'[...] I used to play checkers with her all the time.'

'You used to play what with her all the time?'

'Checkers.'

'Checkers, for Chrissake!'

'Yeah, she wouldn't move any of her kings. What she'd do, when she'd get a king, she wouldn't move it. She'd just leave it in the back row. She'd get them all lined up in the back row. Then she'd never use them. She just liked the way they looked when they were all in the back row.'

Stradlater didn't say anything. That kind of stuff doesn't interest most people. (33)

The thing that was very descriptive about it , though, was that he had poems written all over the fingers and the pocket and everywhere. In green ink. He wrote them on it so that he'd have something to read when he was in the field and nobody was up at bat. (40)

I slept in the garage the night he died, and I broke all the goddam windows with my fist, just for the hell of it. I even tried to break all the windows on the station wagon we had that summer, but my hand was already broken and everything by that time, and I couldn’t do it. It was a very stupid thing to do, I'll admit, but I hardly didn't even know I was doing it, and you didn't know Allie. (41)

Then I thought of something, all of a sudden. 'Hey, listen,' I said. 'You know those ducks in that lagoon right near Central Park South? That little lake? By any chance , do you happen to know where they go, the ducks, when it gets all frozen over? Do you happen to know, by any chance?' I realized it was only one chance in a million.

He turned around and looked at me like I was a madman. 'What're ya tryna do, bud?' he said. 'Kid me?'

'No – I was just interested, that's all.' (65)

Sex is something I really don't understand too hot. You never know where the hell you are. I keep making up these sex rules for myself, and then I break them right away. Last year I made a rule that I was going to quit horsing around with girls that, deep down, gave me a pain in the ass. I broke it, though, the same week I made it – the same night, as a matter of fact. I spent the whole night necking with a terrible phony named Anne Luise Sherman. Sex is something I just don't understand. I swear to God I don't. (68)

Old Phoebe. I swear to God you'd like her. She was smart even when she was a very tiny little kid. When she was a very tiny little kid, I and Allie used to take her to the park with us, especially on Sundays. Allie had this sailboat he used to like to fool around with on Sundays, and we used to take old Phoebe with us. She'd wear white gloves and walk right between us, like a lady and all. And when Allie and I were having some conversation about things in general, old Phoebe'd be listening. Sometimes you'd forget she was around, because she was such a little kid, but she'd let you know. She'd interrupt you all the time. She'd give Allie or I a push or something, and say, 'Who? Who said that? Bob or the lady?' And we'd tell her who said it, and she'd say, 'Oh,' and go right on listening and all. She killed Allie, too. I mean he liked her, too. She's ten now, and not such a tiny little kid any more, but she still kills everybody – everybody with any sense, anyway. (74)

After old Sunny was gone, I sat in the chair for a while and smoked a couple of cigarettes. It was getting daylight outside. Boy, I felt miserable. I felt so depressed, you can't imagine. What I did, I started talking, sort of loud, to Allie. I do that sometimes when I get very depressed. I keep telling him to go home and get his bike and meet me in front of Bobby Fallon's house. Bobby Fallon used to live quite near us in Maine – this is, years ago. Anyway, what happened was, one day Bobby and I were going over to Lake Sedebego on our bikes. We were going to take our lunches and all, and our BB guns – we were kids and all, and we thought we could shoot something with our BB guns. Anyway, Allie heard us talking about it, an he wanted to go, and I wouldn't let him. I told him he was a child. So once in a while, now, when I get very depressed, I keep saying to him, 'Okay. Go home and get your bike and meet me in front of Bobby's house. Hurry up.' It wasn't that I didn't use to take him with me when I went somewhere. I did. But that one day, I didn't. He didn't get sore about it – he never got sore about anything – but I keep thinking about it anyway, when I get very depressed. (107)

I was way early when I got there, so I just sat down on one of those leather couches right near the clock in the lobby and watched the girls. A lot of schools were home for vacation already, and there were about a million girls sitting and standing around waiting for their dates to show up. Girls with their legs crossed, girls with their legs not crossed, girls with terrific legs, girls with lousy legs, girls that looked like swell girls, girls that looked like they'd be bitches if you knew them. It was really nice, sightseeing, if you know what I mean. In a way, it was sort of depressing, too, because you kept wondering what the hell would happen to all of them. When they got out of school and college, I mean. You figured most of them would probably marry dopey guys. Guys that always talk about how many miles they get to a gallon in their goddam cars. Guys that get sore and childish as hell if you beat them at golf, or even just some stupid game like ping-pong. Guys that are very mean. Guys that never read books. Guys that are very boring – But I have to be careful about that. I mean about calling certain guys bores. I don't understand boring guys. I really don't. When I was at Elkton Hills, I roomed for about two months with this boy, Harris Macklin. He was very intelligent and all, but he was one of the biggest bores I ever met. He had one of these very raspy voices, and he never stopped talking, pratically. He never stopped talking, and what was awful was, he never said anything you wanted to hear in the first place. But he could do one thing. The sonuvabitch could whistle better than everybody I ever heard. He'd been making his bed, or hanging up stuff in the closet – he was always hanging up stuff in the closet – it drove me crazy – and he'd be whistling while he did it, if he wasn't talking in this raspy voice. He could even whistle classical stuff, but most of the time he just whistled jazz. He could take something very jazzy, like 'Tin Roof Blues', and whistle it so nice an easy – right while he was hanging stuff up in the closet – that it could kill you. Naturally, I never told him I thought he was a terrific whistler. I mean you don't just go up to somebody and say, 'You're a terrific whistler.' But I roomed with him for about two whole months, even though he bored me till I was half crazy, just because he was such a terrific whistler, the best I ever heard. So I don't know about bores. Maybe you shouldn't feel too sorry if you see some swell girl getting married to them. They don't hurt anybody, most of them, and maybe they're secretly all terrific whistler or something. Who the hell knows? Not me. (133)

[…]Then, just to show you how crazy I am, when we were coming out of this big clinch, I told her I loved her and all. It was a lie, of course, but the thing is, I meant it when a said it. I'm crazy. I swear to God I am. (135)

'You ought to go to a boys' school sometime. Try it sometime.' I said. 'It's full of phonies, and all you do is study so that you can learn enough to be smart enough to be able to buy a goddam Cadillac some day, and you have to keep making believe you give damn if the football team loses, and all you do is talk about girls and liquor and sex all day, and everybody sticks together in these dirty little goddam cliques. The guys that are on the basketball team stick together, the Catholics stick together, the goddam intellectual stick together, the guys that play bridge stick together. Even the guys that belong to the goddam Book-of-the-Month Club stick together. If you try to have a little inteligent –'

'Now, listen,' old Sally said. 'Lots of boys get more out of school than that.'

'I agree! I agree they do, some of them! But that's all I get out of it. See? That's my point. That's exactly my goddam point,' I said. 'I don't get hardly anything out of anything. I'm in bad shape. I'm in lousy shape.' (141)

'You don't llike anything that's happening.'
It made me even more depressed when she said that.
'Yes I do. Yes I do. Sure I do. Don't say that. Why the hell do you say that?'
'Because you don't. You don't like any schools. You don't like a million things. You don't.'
'I do! That's where you're wrong – that's exactly where you are wrong! Why the hell do you have to say that?'
'Because you don't,' she said. 'Name one thing.'
'One thing? One thing I like?' I said. 'Okay.'
The trouble was, I couldn't concentrate too hot. Sometimes is hard to concentrate.
'One thing I like a lot you mean?' I asked her.
She didn't answer me, though. She was in a cockeyed position way the hell over the other side of the bed. She was about a thousand miles away. 'C'mon, answer me,' I said. 'One thing I like a lot, or one thing I just like?'
'You like a lot'
[...]
'What?' I said to old Phoebe. She said something to me, but I didn't hear her.
'You can't even think of one thing.'
'Yes, I can. Yes, I can.'
'Well, do it, then.'
'I like Allie,' I said. 'And I like doing what I'm doing right now. Sitting here with you, and talking, and thinking about stuff, and –'
'Allie's dead – You always say that! If somebody's dead and everything, and in Heaven, then it isn't really –'
'I know he's dead! Don't you think I know that? I can still like him, though, can't I? Just because somebody's dead, you don't just stop liking them, for God's sake – especially if they were about times nicer than people you know that're alive and all.'
Old Phoebe didn't say anithing. When she can't think of anything to say, she doesn't say a goddam word.
'Aniway, I like it now,' I said. 'I mean right now. Sitting here with you and just chewing the fat and horsing –'
'That isn't anything really!'
'It is so something really! Certainly it is! Why the hell isn't it? People never think anything is anything really. I'm get goddam sick of it.'
'Stop swering. All right, name something else. Name something you'd like to be. Like a scientist. Or a lawyer or something.'
'I couldn't be a scientist. I'm no good in science.'
'Well, a lawyer – like Daddy and all.'
'Lawyers are all right, I guess – but it doesn't appeal to me,' Isaid. 'I mean they're all right if they go around saving innocent guys' lives all the time, and like that, but you don't do that kind of stuff if you're a lawyer. All you do is make a lot of dough and play golf and play bridge and buy cars and drink Martinis and look like a hot-shot. And besides. Even if you did go around saving guys' lives and all, how would you know if you did it because you really wanted to save guys' lives, or because you did it because what you really wanted to do was be a terrific lawyer, with everybody slapping you on the back and congratulating you in court when the goddam trial was over, the reporters and everybody, the way it is in the dirty movies? How would you know you weren't being a phony? the trouble is, you wouldn't.'
I'm not sure old Phoebe knew what the hell I what the hell I was talking about. I mean she's only a little child and all. But she was listening, at least. If somebody at least listen, it's not too bad. (184)

'Oh, I passed English all right. It was mostly literature, though. I only wrote about two compositions the whole term,' I said. 'I flunked Oral Expression, though. They had this course you had to take, Oral Expression. That I flunked.'
'Why?'
'Oh, I don't know.' I didn't feel much like going into it. I was still feeling sort of dizzy or something, and I had a helluva headache all of a sudden. I really did. But you could tell he was interested, so I told him a little bit about it. 'It's this course where each boy in class has to get up in class and make a speech. You know. Spontaneous and all. And if the boy digresses at all, you're supposed to yell "Digression!" at him as fast as you can. It just about drove me crazy. I got a F in it.
'Why?'
'Oh, I don't know. That digression business got on my nerves. I don't know. The trouble with me is, I like when somebody digress. It's more intersting and all.'
[...]
'[...] But what I mean is, lots of time you don't know what interests you most till you start talking about something that doesn't interest you most. [...] (197)

'But you're wrong about that hating business. I mean about hating football players and all. You really are. I don't hate too many guys. What I may do, I may hate them for a little while, like this guy Stradlater I knew at Pencey, and this other boy, Robert Ackley. I hated them once in a while – I admit it – but it doesn't last too long, is what I mean. After a while, if I didn't see them, if they didn't come in the room, or if I didn't see them in the dining room for a couple of meals, I sort of missed them. I mean I sort of missed them.' (201)

I felt damn happy all of a sudden, the way old Phoebe kept going around and around. I was damn near bawling. I felt so damn happy, if you want to know the truth. I don't know why. It was just that she looked so damn nice, the way she kept going around and around, in her blue coat and all. God, I wish you could've been there.(229)

[...] I don't know what I think about it. I'm sorry I told so many people about it. About all I know is, I sort of miss everybody I told about. Even old Stradlater and Acklay, for instance. I think I even miss that goddam Maurice. It's funny. Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody. (230)