Contributions by Bernardo Carvalho

Bernardo Carvalho is a Brazilian author and journalist. He was the editor of Folhetim, a collection of essays, and worked in Paris and New York as a correspondent for Folha de São Paulo. Before dedicating himself completely to literature, he translated Oliver Sacks and Bruce Chatwin into Brazilian Portuguese. His novel Mongólia received the 2003 prize of the Associação Paulista dos Críticos de Arte. He shared the Portugal Telecom Prize for Literature with Dalton Trevisan for his novel Nove Noites. He is the author of nine novels and two collections of stories.

A Love Story

Published on July 8th of 2014 by Bernardo Carvalho and Max Seawright in Fiction.

Bernardo Carvalho
translated by Max Seawright

1.

He haggles over fish at the wharf. He’s done it since before his tenth birthday. His mother makes him. It’s no accident he grows up not liking anything about business or commerce. Day after day he plays a part in the same scene. Mother and son walk down a dusty road next to the river, wearing jellabiyas and simple shoes. She’s dressed in black from head to toe and walks like she’s headed nowhere in particular on a sunny Sunday. He’s so small and so resistant that, despite his stained jellabiya dragging on the ground, he looks like he must be dressed for a special occasion. She rests her elbow on the railing at the top of the stairs that connect the road to the river. She waits, apathetic, for the fisherman to climb … Read More »



História de amor

Published on July 7th of 2014 by Bernardo Carvalho in Guest Languages.

Bernardo Carvalho

1.

Antes mesmo de ele completar dez anos, a mãe já o obrigava a acompanhá-la até o cais para negociar o peixe que os homens traziam de manhã. Não é por acaso que o menino acabou tomando tamanha aversão aos negócios e ao comércio. A cena é sempre a mesma. Mãe e filho vêm pela rua empoeirada que margeia o rio, ambos vestindo galabeyas muito simples e calçados de alpercatas. Ela vem coberta de preto da cabeça aos pés, caminha como se passeasse sem rumo num domingo de sol. Ele é tão pequeno e está tão pouco à vontade que, apesar da galabeya encardida, com a bainha esfiapada arrastando pelo chão de terra, mais parece vestido para uma ocasião especial. A mãe apóia o cotovelo sobre a pilastra no alto da balaustrada de um dos lados da escada … Read More »






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