[6] Estudos 2a serie, P. 283. The book was published in Portugal, in 1872, and was “read and admired here in 1872. The Miniaturas, the poems of which bear dates from 1867, to 1870, mention the poet as a Brazilian, native of Rio de Janeiro. He was, in fact, such by birth, by intention, and, what is of more importance, by intuition and sentiment, genuinely Brazilian. We ought, then, to count this, his first book, despite the fact that it was conceived and generated abroad, in the roster of our Parnassianism, and perhaps as one of its principal factors.” See, however, Afranio Peixoto’s splendid two-volume edition of the Obras Completas de Castro Alves, Rio de Janeiro, 1921, for a refutation of this opinion. (Page 15.) According to Alberto de Oliveira there are decided Parnassian leanings in Castro Alves’s Espumas Fluctuantes, 1870, in the sonnets called Os anjos da meia noite (Midnight Angels.)
[7] It exercises over me a gentle tyranny that fills me with pride and casts me down; there is in this magnetism such power, an electricity that fascinates me and draws me to the edge of an abyss. And I, inert, without will power, make no attempt to flee.
[8] Op. Cit. Page 307. The italics are mine.
[9] The first dove, awakened, flies off, then another and another. Finally they leave the cote by tens, as soon as the fresh, red, dawn appears. And at evening, when the bitter north-wind blows, fluttering their wings and shaking their feathers, they all return to the cote in a flock. So, from our hearts, where they burgeon, our dreams, one by one, depart in flight like the doves from the cote. They spread their wings in the azure of youth, and fly off.… But the doves return to the dovecote, while our dreams return nevermore.
[10] I see that everything loves. And I, I alone, love not. This soil I tread loves,—the tree against which I lean, this gentle zephyr that fans my cheek,—these wings that flutter in the air,—this foliage,—the beasts who, in rut, leave their wild lairs to gaze upon the light that magnetizes them,—the crags of the desert,—the river, the forest, the tree-trunks, the children, the bird, the leaf, the flower, the fruit, the branch.… And I alone love not! I alone love not! I alone love not!
[11] Oh, nature! O pure, piteous mother! oh, cruel, implacable assassin! Hand that proffers both poison and balm, and blends smiles with tears. The cradle, where the infant opens her tiny mouth to smile, is the miniature, the vague image of a coffin,—the living germ of a frightful end! Eternal contrast. Birds twittering upon tombs … flowers floating upon the surface of ugly, putrid waters.… Sadness walks at the side of joy.… And this your bosom, wherein night is born, is the selfsame bosom whence is born the day.…
[12] See the chapter devoted to him in Part Two of this book.
[13] See Part Two for a special chapter on Machado de Assis.
[14] See, for a good study of Emilio de Menezes, Elysio de Carvalho’s As Modernas Correntes Esthéticas na Literatura Braziléira. Rio, 1907. Pp. 62-74.
[15] See Part Two for chapters on Graça Aranha, Monteiro Lobato, Euclydes da Cunha and Coelho Netto.