FUVEST 2022

Questão 73903

(UNESP - 2022 - 2ª FASE) Para responder às questões de 09 a 11, leia a crônica “Elegia do Guandu”, de Carlos Drummond de Andrade, publicada originalmente em 2 de novembro de 1974.

E se reverenciássemos neste 2 de novembro os mortos do Guandu, que descem a correnteza, a caminho do mar — o mar que eles não alcançam, pois encalham na areia das margens, e os urubus os devoram?

Perdoai se apresento matéria tão feia, em dia de flores consagradas aos mortos queridos. Estes não são amados de ninguém, ou o são de mínima gente. Seus corpos, não há quem os reclame, de medo ou seja lá pelo que for.

Se algum deles tem sorte de derivar pela restinga da Marambaia e ali é recolhido por pescadores — ah, peixe menos desejado — ganha sepultura anônima, que a piedade dos humildes providencia. Mas não é prudente pescar mortos do Guandu: há sempre a perspectiva de interrogatórios que fazem perder o dia de trabalho, às vezes mais do que isso: a liberdade, que se confisca aos suspeitos e aos que explicam mal suas pescarias macabras.

São marginais caçados pela polícia ou por outros marginais, são suicidas, são acidentados? Difícil classificá-los, se não trazem a marca registrada dos trucidadores ou estes sinais: mãos amarradas, amarrado de vários corpos, pesos amarrados aos pés. Estes últimos são mortos fáceis de catalogar, embora só se lhes vejam as cabeças em rodopio à flor d’água, mas os que vêm boiando e fluindo, fluindo e boiando, em sonho aquático deslizante, estes desesperaram da vida, ou a vida lhes faltou de surpresa?

Os mortos vão passando, procissão falhada. Eis desce o rio um lote de seis, uns aos outros ligados pela corda fraternizante. É espetáculo para se ver da janela de moradores de Itaguaí, assistentes ribeirinhos de novela de espaçados capítulos. Ver e não contar. Ver e guardar para conversas íntimas: — Ontem, na tintura da madrugada, passaram três garrafinhas. Eu vi, chamei a Teresa pra espiar também...

Garrafinhas chamam-se eles, os trucidados com chumbo aos pés, e não mais como ficou escrito em livros de cartório. O garrafinha no 1 não é diferente do garrafinha no 2 ou 3. Foram todos nivelados pelo Guandu. Como frascos vazios, de pequeno porte e nenhuma importância, lá vão rio abaixo, Nova Iguaçu abaixo, rumo do esquecimento das garrafas e dos crimes que cometeram ou não cometeram, ou dos crimes que neles foram cometidos.

[...]

O Guandu não responde a inquéritos nem a repórteres. Não distingue, carrega. Não comenta, não julga, não reclama se lhe corrompem as águas; transporta. Em sua impessoalidade serve a desígnios vários, favorece a vida que quer se desembaraçar da morte, facilita a morte que quer se libertar da vida. Pela justiça sumária, pelo absurdo, pelo desespero.

Mas não é ao Guandu que cabe dedicar uma elegia, é aos mortos do Guandu, nos quais ninguém pensa no dia de pensar os e nos mortos. Os criminosos, os não criminosos, os que se destruíram, os que resvalaram. Mortos sem sepultura e sem lembrança. Trágicos e apagados deslizantes na correnteza. Passageiros do Guandu, apenas e afinal.

(Carlos Drummond de Andrade. Os dias lindos, 2013.)

O cronista dirige-se explicitamente a seu leitor no trecho:

Questão 73904

(UNESP - 2022 - 2ª FASE) Para responder às questões de 09 a 11, leia a crônica “Elegia do Guandu”, de Carlos Drummond de Andrade, publicada originalmente em 2 de novembro de 1974.

E se reverenciássemos neste 2 de novembro os mortos do Guandu, que descem a correnteza, a caminho do mar — o mar que eles não alcançam, pois encalham na areia das margens, e os urubus os devoram?

Perdoai se apresento matéria tão feia, em dia de flores consagradas aos mortos queridos. Estes não são amados de ninguém, ou o são de mínima gente. Seus corpos, não há quem os reclame, de medo ou seja lá pelo que for.

Se algum deles tem sorte de derivar pela restinga da Marambaia e ali é recolhido por pescadores — ah, peixe menos desejado — ganha sepultura anônima, que a piedade dos humildes providencia. Mas não é prudente pescar mortos do Guandu: há sempre a perspectiva de interrogatórios que fazem perder o dia de trabalho, às vezes mais do que isso: a liberdade, que se confisca aos suspeitos e aos que explicam mal suas pescarias macabras.

São marginais caçados pela polícia ou por outros marginais, são suicidas, são acidentados? Difícil classificá-los, se não trazem a marca registrada dos trucidadores ou estes sinais: mãos amarradas, amarrado de vários corpos, pesos amarrados aos pés. Estes últimos são mortos fáceis de catalogar, embora só se lhes vejam as cabeças em rodopio à flor d’água, mas os que vêm boiando e fluindo, fluindo e boiando, em sonho aquático deslizante, estes desesperaram da vida, ou a vida lhes faltou de surpresa?

Os mortos vão passando, procissão falhada. Eis desce o rio um lote de seis, uns aos outros ligados pela corda fraternizante. É espetáculo para se ver da janela de moradores de Itaguaí, assistentes ribeirinhos de novela de espaçados capítulos. Ver e não contar. Ver e guardar para conversas íntimas: — Ontem, na tintura da madrugada, passaram três garrafinhas. Eu vi, chamei a Teresa pra espiar também...

Garrafinhas chamam-se eles, os trucidados com chumbo aos pés, e não mais como ficou escrito em livros de cartório. O garrafinha no 1 não é diferente do garrafinha no 2 ou 3. Foram todos nivelados pelo Guandu. Como frascos vazios, de pequeno porte e nenhuma importância, lá vão rio abaixo, Nova Iguaçu abaixo, rumo do esquecimento das garrafas e dos crimes que cometeram ou não cometeram, ou dos crimes que neles foram cometidos.

[...]

O Guandu não responde a inquéritos nem a repórteres. Não distingue, carrega. Não comenta, não julga, não reclama se lhe corrompem as águas; transporta. Em sua impessoalidade serve a desígnios vários, favorece a vida que quer se desembaraçar da morte, facilita a morte que quer se libertar da vida. Pela justiça sumária, pelo absurdo, pelo desespero.

Mas não é ao Guandu que cabe dedicar uma elegia, é aos mortos do Guandu, nos quais ninguém pensa no dia de pensar os e nos mortos. Os criminosos, os não criminosos, os que se destruíram, os que resvalaram. Mortos sem sepultura e sem lembrança. Trágicos e apagados deslizantes na correnteza. Passageiros do Guandu, apenas e afinal.

(Carlos Drummond de Andrade. Os dias lindos, 2013.)

O termo sublinhado em “Estes últimos são mortos fáceis de catalogar, embora só se lhes vejam as cabeças em rodopio à flor d’água” (4o parágrafo) pertence à mesma classe gramatical do termo sublinhado em:

Questão 73905

(UNESP - 2022 - 2ª FASE) Sem dúvida, o capital não tem pátria, e é esta uma das suas vantagens universais que o fazem tão ativo e irradiante. Mas o trabalho que ele explora tem mãe, tem pai, tem mulher e filhos, tem língua e costumes, tem música e religião. Tem uma fisionomia humana que dura enquanto pode. E como pode, já que a sua situação de raiz é sempre a de falta e dependência.

Narrar a necessidade é perfazer a forma do ciclo. Entre a consciência narradora, que sustém a história, e a matéria narrável, sertaneja, opera um pensamento desencantado, que figura o cotidiano do pobre em um ritmo pendular: da chuva à seca, da folga à carência, do bem-estar à depressão, voltando sempre do último estado ao primeiro. É a narração, que se quer objetiva, da modéstia dos meios de vida registrada na modéstia da vida simbólica.

(Alfredo Bosi. Céu, inferno: ensaios de crítica literária e ideológica,
2003. Adaptado.)

O comentário aplica-se com precisão à obra

Questão 73906

(UNESP - 2022 - 2ª FASE) 

An invigorating reading

His grandparents were slaves. His father painted houses. His immigrant mother washed laundry. For a poor, mixed-race boy born in Brazil in 1839, their son had done well to become an apprentice typesetter in Rio de Janeiro. But a priest taught him Latin, and a literary agent spotted the gifted lad at the Imprensa Nacional, the government press, and soon he was contributing to newspapers, writing plays and poems and starting a literary circle.

But it was as a novelist that Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis would truly shine. Machado worked as a civil servant and co-founded the Brazilian Academy of Letters; he married happily (although his Portuguese in-laws initially objected to the colour of his skin). Beneath all this outward respectability, his prose was radically ingenious. Ever since “The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas”, Machado’s fifth novel, appeared in 1881 it has astonished readers with its lordly ironies and scorn for convention. The book’s invigorating style, as much as its backdrop of racial and social injustice, makes it ideal reading for this morbid, insurgent summer

Brás Cubas, the fictional memoirist, has just died from pneumonia. As a thwarted corpse who failed in almost everything he tried, he wants to set the record straight about his drifting life as an idle, pleasure-seeking dandy in Rio. Beneath his jaunty veneer, Cubas harbours a melancholy pessimism. He sees a freedman lash a slave he has bought — to relieve his own sufferings “by passing them on to someone else”. Yet the novel floats free of the ambient oppression on currents of mischief and urbanity.

Sprinkled with epigrams, dreams, gags and asides, the story teases, dances and delights. Across 160 short chapters (“Long chapters suit long-winded readers”), Machado mocks every rule of the 19th-century novel. A chapter of dialogue is written entirely in punctuation (“!…?…!”). In another, the narrator acknowledges (in a new translation by Margaret Jull Costa and Robin Patterson), “I have just written an utterly pointless chapter”. Dave Eggers, an American author, recently called this “one of the wittiest, most playful, and therefore most alive and ageless books ever written”

(www.economist.com, 15.08.2020. Adaptado.)

The text is mainly about

Questão 73907

(UNESP - 2022 - 2ª FASE) 

An invigorating reading

His grandparents were slaves. His father painted houses. His immigrant mother washed laundry. For a poor, mixed-race boy born in Brazil in 1839, their son had done well to become an apprentice typesetter in Rio de Janeiro. But a priest taught him Latin, and a literary agent spotted the gifted lad at the Imprensa Nacional, the government press, and soon he was contributing to newspapers, writing plays and poems and starting a literary circle.

But it was as a novelist that Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis would truly shine. Machado worked as a civil servant and co-founded the Brazilian Academy of Letters; he married happily (although his Portuguese in-laws initially objected to the colour of his skin). Beneath all this outward respectability, his prose was radically ingenious. Ever since “The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas”, Machado’s fifth novel, appeared in 1881 it has astonished readers with its lordly ironies and scorn for convention. The book’s invigorating style, as much as its backdrop of racial and social injustice, makes it ideal reading for this morbid, insurgent summer

Brás Cubas, the fictional memoirist, has just died from pneumonia. As a thwarted corpse who failed in almost everything he tried, he wants to set the record straight about his drifting life as an idle, pleasure-seeking dandy in Rio. Beneath his jaunty veneer, Cubas harbours a melancholy pessimism. He sees a freedman lash a slave he has bought — to relieve his own sufferings “by passing them on to someone else”. Yet the novel floats free of the ambient oppression on currents of mischief and urbanity.

Sprinkled with epigrams, dreams, gags and asides, the story teases, dances and delights. Across 160 short chapters (“Long chapters suit long-winded readers”), Machado mocks every rule of the 19th-century novel. A chapter of dialogue is written entirely in punctuation (“!…?…!”). In another, the narrator acknowledges (in a new translation by Margaret Jull Costa and Robin Patterson), “I have just written an utterly pointless chapter”. Dave Eggers, an American author, recently called this “one of the wittiest, most playful, and therefore most alive and ageless books ever written”

(www.economist.com, 15.08.2020. Adaptado.)

According to the first paragraph, Machado de Assis started his literary career

Questão 73908

(UNESP - 2022 - 2ª FASE) 

An invigorating reading

His grandparents were slaves. His father painted houses. His immigrant mother washed laundry. For a poor, mixed-race boy born in Brazil in 1839, their son had done well to become an apprentice typesetter in Rio de Janeiro. But a priest taught him Latin, and a literary agent spotted the gifted lad at the Imprensa Nacional, the government press, and soon he was contributing to newspapers, writing plays and poems and starting a literary circle.

But it was as a novelist that Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis would truly shine. Machado worked as a civil servant and co-founded the Brazilian Academy of Letters; he married happily (although his Portuguese in-laws initially objected to the colour of his skin). Beneath all this outward respectability, his prose was radically ingenious. Ever since “The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas”, Machado’s fifth novel, appeared in 1881 it has astonished readers with its lordly ironies and scorn for convention. The book’s invigorating style, as much as its backdrop of racial and social injustice, makes it ideal reading for this morbid, insurgent summer

Brás Cubas, the fictional memoirist, has just died from pneumonia. As a thwarted corpse who failed in almost everything he tried, he wants to set the record straight about his drifting life as an idle, pleasure-seeking dandy in Rio. Beneath his jaunty veneer, Cubas harbours a melancholy pessimism. He sees a freedman lash a slave he has bought — to relieve his own sufferings “by passing them on to someone else”. Yet the novel floats free of the ambient oppression on currents of mischief and urbanity.

Sprinkled with epigrams, dreams, gags and asides, the story teases, dances and delights. Across 160 short chapters (“Long chapters suit long-winded readers”), Machado mocks every rule of the 19th-century novel. A chapter of dialogue is written entirely in punctuation (“!…?…!”). In another, the narrator acknowledges (in a new translation by Margaret Jull Costa and Robin Patterson), “I have just written an utterly pointless chapter”. Dave Eggers, an American author, recently called this “one of the wittiest, most playful, and therefore most alive and ageless books ever written”

(www.economist.com, 15.08.2020. Adaptado.)

The second paragraph states that “The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas” is a

Questão 73909

(UNESP - 2022 - 2ª FASE) 

An invigorating reading

His grandparents were slaves. His father painted houses. His immigrant mother washed laundry. For a poor, mixed-race boy born in Brazil in 1839, their son had done well to become an apprentice typesetter in Rio de Janeiro. But a priest taught him Latin, and a literary agent spotted the gifted lad at the Imprensa Nacional, the government press, and soon he was contributing to newspapers, writing plays and poems and starting a literary circle.

But it was as a novelist that Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis would truly shine. Machado worked as a civil servant and co-founded the Brazilian Academy of Letters; he married happily (although his Portuguese in-laws initially objected to the colour of his skin). Beneath all this outward respectability, his prose was radically ingenious. Ever since “The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas”, Machado’s fifth novel, appeared in 1881 it has astonished readers with its lordly ironies and scorn for convention. The book’s invigorating style, as much as its backdrop of racial and social injustice, makes it ideal reading for this morbid, insurgent summer

Brás Cubas, the fictional memoirist, has just died from pneumonia. As a thwarted corpse who failed in almost everything he tried, he wants to set the record straight about his drifting life as an idle, pleasure-seeking dandy in Rio. Beneath his jaunty veneer, Cubas harbours a melancholy pessimism. He sees a freedman lash a slave he has bought — to relieve his own sufferings “by passing them on to someone else”. Yet the novel floats free of the ambient oppression on currents of mischief and urbanity.

Sprinkled with epigrams, dreams, gags and asides, the story teases, dances and delights. Across 160 short chapters (“Long chapters suit long-winded readers”), Machado mocks every rule of the 19th-century novel. A chapter of dialogue is written entirely in punctuation (“!…?…!”). In another, the narrator acknowledges (in a new translation by Margaret Jull Costa and Robin Patterson), “I have just written an utterly pointless chapter”. Dave Eggers, an American author, recently called this “one of the wittiest, most playful, and therefore most alive and ageless books ever written”

(www.economist.com, 15.08.2020. Adaptado.)

No trecho do terceiro parágrafo “Yet the novel floats free of the ambient oppression on currents of mischief and urbanity”, o termo sublinhado expressa

Questão 73910

(UNESP - 2022 - 2ª FASE) 

An invigorating reading

His grandparents were slaves. His father painted houses. His immigrant mother washed laundry. For a poor, mixed-race boy born in Brazil in 1839, their son had done well to become an apprentice typesetter in Rio de Janeiro. But a priest taught him Latin, and a literary agent spotted the gifted lad at the Imprensa Nacional, the government press, and soon he was contributing to newspapers, writing plays and poems and starting a literary circle.

But it was as a novelist that Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis would truly shine. Machado worked as a civil servant and co-founded the Brazilian Academy of Letters; he married happily (although his Portuguese in-laws initially objected to the colour of his skin). Beneath all this outward respectability, his prose was radically ingenious. Ever since “The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas”, Machado’s fifth novel, appeared in 1881 it has astonished readers with its lordly ironies and scorn for convention. The book’s invigorating style, as much as its backdrop of racial and social injustice, makes it ideal reading for this morbid, insurgent summer

Brás Cubas, the fictional memoirist, has just died from pneumonia. As a thwarted corpse who failed in almost everything he tried, he wants to set the record straight about his drifting life as an idle, pleasure-seeking dandy in Rio. Beneath his jaunty veneer, Cubas harbours a melancholy pessimism. He sees a freedman lash a slave he has bought — to relieve his own sufferings “by passing them on to someone else”. Yet the novel floats free of the ambient oppression on currents of mischief and urbanity.

Sprinkled with epigrams, dreams, gags and asides, the story teases, dances and delights. Across 160 short chapters (“Long chapters suit long-winded readers”), Machado mocks every rule of the 19th-century novel. A chapter of dialogue is written entirely in punctuation (“!…?…!”). In another, the narrator acknowledges (in a new translation by Margaret Jull Costa and Robin Patterson), “I have just written an utterly pointless chapter”. Dave Eggers, an American author, recently called this “one of the wittiest, most playful, and therefore most alive and ageless books ever written”

(www.economist.com, 15.08.2020. Adaptado.)

O trecho do quarto parágrafo que exemplifica a frase “Machado mocks every rule of the 19th-century novel” é

Questão 73911

(UNESP - 2022 - 2ª FASE) 

An invigorating reading

His grandparents were slaves. His father painted houses. His immigrant mother washed laundry. For a poor, mixed-race boy born in Brazil in 1839, their son had done well to become an apprentice typesetter in Rio de Janeiro. But a priest taught him Latin, and a literary agent spotted the gifted lad at the Imprensa Nacional, the government press, and soon he was contributing to newspapers, writing plays and poems and starting a literary circle.

But it was as a novelist that Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis would truly shine. Machado worked as a civil servant and co-founded the Brazilian Academy of Letters; he married happily (although his Portuguese in-laws initially objected to the colour of his skin). Beneath all this outward respectability, his prose was radically ingenious. Ever since “The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas”, Machado’s fifth novel, appeared in 1881 it has astonished readers with its lordly ironies and scorn for convention. The book’s invigorating style, as much as its backdrop of racial and social injustice, makes it ideal reading for this morbid, insurgent summer

Brás Cubas, the fictional memoirist, has just died from pneumonia. As a thwarted corpse who failed in almost everything he tried, he wants to set the record straight about his drifting life as an idle, pleasure-seeking dandy in Rio. Beneath his jaunty veneer, Cubas harbours a melancholy pessimism. He sees a freedman lash a slave he has bought — to relieve his own sufferings “by passing them on to someone else”. Yet the novel floats free of the ambient oppression on currents of mischief and urbanity.

Sprinkled with epigrams, dreams, gags and asides, the story teases, dances and delights. Across 160 short chapters (“Long chapters suit long-winded readers”), Machado mocks every rule of the 19th-century novel. A chapter of dialogue is written entirely in punctuation (“!…?…!”). In another, the narrator acknowledges (in a new translation by Margaret Jull Costa and Robin Patterson), “I have just written an utterly pointless chapter”. Dave Eggers, an American author, recently called this “one of the wittiest, most playful, and therefore most alive and ageless books ever written”

(www.economist.com, 15.08.2020. Adaptado.)

No trecho do quarto parágrafo “In another, the narrator acknowledges”, o termo sublinhado refere-se a

Questão 73912

(UNESP - 2022 - 2ª FASE) Leia a tira.

(http://calvinandhobbesagain.files.wordpress.com. Adaptado.)

O humor da tira decorre do fato de