In a chronicle, as in everything else in life, everyone gives what they have. In the case of the chronicler, there is another feature: not only does he convey what is in his soul, but he has to depersonalize or detach himself, who knows, in order to capture the mysteries and banalities of everyday life. It’s like an antenna (perhaps parabolic) open to the world, catching what’s new, always filtered through a certain temperament and life story.
How compelling it is to say that chronicler Moacyr Scliar, one of Brazil’s great fiction writers, reveals at every turn in his columns, his circumstances as a doctor and a Jew, the son of immigrants, and is extremely proud of both. This condition accentuates his critical view of life and “often the ironic angle, if not the humorous one” (Jewish humor), as Luí s Augusto Fischer points out in the preface to (The best chronicles of Moacyr Scliar), collected for the first time in a book.
It’s also only natural that, as an authentic fiction writer, many of his chronicles are identified more with fiction than with pure unleavened journalism. Great. The seed of imagination superimposed on simple observation often has the gift of jolting readers, awakening them to another dimension of reality, if not throwing them into total absurdity.
Absurdity also serves, almost surreptitiously, for social criticism, the condemnation of human vanities, and a reflection on the pitfalls of modern life.
But whether he delves into the absurd or captures the everyday, the writer never loses the power to communicate with readers through clear, colloquial language, with no embellishments, the language of the people, but refined by strict discipline. As Fischer observes, “his chronicle gives readers the pleasant feeling of sharing we have when we talk with our partner. Could there be any better dialog?”
