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All Dogs Are Blue
"Rodrigo de Souza Leão is an exceptional author and has had a major impact on contemporary Brazilian literature."—Paulo Scott All Dogs are Blue is a scurrilously funny tale of life in a Rio insane asylum. Its raw style and comic inventiveness signal a major voice in Brazilian literature. Sadly the author died, aged forty-three, soon after it was published in 2008. Due to his mental fragility, Rodrigo de Souza Leão rarely left his house and yet, through social media, blogging, and e-mail, he became close to many Brazilian writers and poets and remains highly regarded today.
117 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2008
10 people are currently reading
931 people want to read
About the author
Rodrigo de Souza Leão
6 books7 followersRodrigo Antonio de Souza Leão was a Brazilian journalist, musician, poet, writer and painter.
He died in a psychiatric clinic in Rio in 2009, shortly after his extraordinary autobiographical novel (later translated as All Dogs are Blue) was published. Due to his mental fragility, Rodrigo de Souza Leão rarely left his house and yet he used social media, blogging and email a lot, becoming close friends with a large number of Brazilian writers and poets who hold him in high regard today. His death was marked by a flood of poems in homage.
During his lifetime, De Souza Leão was a prolific writer, publishing many books of poetry and co-founding and co-editing one of Brazil’s most important poetry magazines, Zunái. Since his death, further works of fiction have been published to widespread acclaim. All Dogs are Blue has been adapted for the stage and his outsider art has been presented in an individual exhibition at Rio’s Museum of Modern Art, entitled ‘Everything Will be the Colour You Want it to Be’.
He died in a psychiatric clinic in Rio in 2009, shortly after his extraordinary autobiographical novel (later translated as All Dogs are Blue) was published. Due to his mental fragility, Rodrigo de Souza Leão rarely left his house and yet he used social media, blogging and email a lot, becoming close friends with a large number of Brazilian writers and poets who hold him in high regard today. His death was marked by a flood of poems in homage.
During his lifetime, De Souza Leão was a prolific writer, publishing many books of poetry and co-founding and co-editing one of Brazil’s most important poetry magazines, Zunái. Since his death, further works of fiction have been published to widespread acclaim. All Dogs are Blue has been adapted for the stage and his outsider art has been presented in an individual exhibition at Rio’s Museum of Modern Art, entitled ‘Everything Will be the Colour You Want it to Be’.
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March 23, 2025
What is in a nuthouse denizen’s head? In his head there is another nuthouse…
Imagination of the insane differs from ours… Rodrigo Souza Leão knows it firsthand… All Dogs Are Blue is a patient’s case history… It is an autobiography… It is a comedy… It is a personal tragedy… It is a unique story… It all comes straight from the horse’s mouth… The stream of disordered consciousness…
It is better to live in our own world than in the world belonging to others.
I swallowed a chip yesterday. I forced myself to talk about the system that surrounds me. There was an electrode on my forehead. I don’t know if I swallowed the electrode with the chip. The horses were galloping. Except for the seahorse, who was swimming around in the aquarium.
Imagination of the insane differs from ours… Rodrigo Souza Leão knows it firsthand… All Dogs Are Blue is a patient’s case history… It is an autobiography… It is a comedy… It is a personal tragedy… It is a unique story… It all comes straight from the horse’s mouth… The stream of disordered consciousness…
Everything went blue. Blue kiskadees, blue roses, blue ballpoint pens, the troglodyte nurses.
Everything went yellow. That was when I saw Rimbaud trying to hang himself with Mayakovsky’s necktie, and I wouldn’t let him.
Everything went Van Gogh. The light of things changed.
It is better to live in our own world than in the world belonging to others.
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March 16, 2021
Rodrigo de Souza Leão died in a psychiatric clinic in Rio de Janeiro in 2008, soon after the publication of his autobiographical novel All Dogs are Blue.
The author's Brazilian publisher at 7Letras, Jorge Viveiros de Castro, writes of his association with Rodrigo in an essay included along with the English translation of All Dogs are Blue by And Other Stories.
Jorge recounts when he received the first version of the manuscript back in 2003, he “was blown away.” He told Rodrigo he'd publish the book as soon as he had the money to do so. Fortunately, thanks in part to a grant, 7Letras did produce an initial print run of 1,500 copies.
Jorge recounts talking to Rodrigo on the phone several times and how he was struck by "how lucidly and clearly he spoke about his condition - the schizophrenia, the medication, his paranoia, the hospitalizations - which only increased my admiration for his talent and his art."
Following the publication of All Dogs are Blue and an announcement that the novel had been nominated for one of Brazil's prestigious literary prizes, Jorge spoke with Rodrigo on the phone but the call was cut short when Rodrigo became extremely emotional, his voice cracking, and all Rodrigo could say was 'so much suffering', 'so much suffering', 'so much suffering.' Shortly thereafter, Jorge received word of Rodrigo's death at age 43.
And Other Stories also includes an Introduction by author/critic Deborah Levy, who says: "All Dogs are Blue is a comic novel about being messed up - and then being messed up even more by numbing doses of pharmaceuticals. Rodrigo de Souza Leão is very clear about what has happened to his thirty-six-year-old narrator. He has swallowed 'a chip', and the chip makes him do things he doesn't want to do. Set in a mental asylum in Rio de Janeiro, Souza Leão's autobiographical last novel is about a whole lot of other things too: the drunken street sweepers from the favelas who somehow also end up in the asylum; the narrator's teenage years growing up bookish and paranoid; his kindly parents who are pushed to the limits of their empathy and endurance; a blue toy dog which is both childhood companion and the colour of the narrator's medication."
I usually shy away from writing a review for a book of poetry since poetry by its very nature is all about the exactitude of language, the interplay of the words themselves. And when I do write such a review, I generally will include a number of the poems rather than offering commentary.
This short novel written by such a sweet, sensitive man can be read as an extended prose poem. Thus, I have a similar hesitation. But since I certainly want to share a review of this novel, a story containing undeniable power, humor, irony and sadness, I'll couple my comments with Rodrigo's actual words, mostly from the first chapter entitled It all went Van Gogh.
"I swallowed a chip yesterday. I forced myself to talk about the system that surrounds me. There was an electrode on my forehead. I don't know if I swallowed the electrode with this chip. The horses were galloping. Except for the seahorse, who was swimming around the aquarium."
Rodrigo comes from a family with a history of schizophrenia but rather than a more generalized explanation of his illness, as an artful poet, Rodrigo reports he swallowed a chip. Also poetic: the vivid images of his mind racing like galloping horses; his body as vulnerable and as confined as a seahorse in an aquarium. But the writing is definitely not heavy-handed. Quite the contrary, as per Deborah Levy: "Everything that is interesting about the novel can be found in its light, laconic tone."
"He had mental problems, you know. Will there be any after-effects? Deep inside this world of mine, in my room darkened by doses of Litrisan, a psychiatrist came and bayoneted some chemical into my left eyebrow. Another, meanwhile, grabbed a lump of flesh, stretching it more and more so that I wouldn't feel the Benzetacil injection."
Although a mental patient (institutionalized victim might be a more fitting) subjected to an unending string of harrowing, humiliating episodes, Rodrigo can maintain a degree of detachment. Quite the accomplishment recognizing doctors and staff would like nothing more than to reduce him to passivity, accepting his plight with a smile.
"I'm here without my blue dog, stripped of who I am. In reality, I'm no one. It's no use shouting for help. Here everyone's been taken some place worse. And hell isn't the worse place."
A blue dog - functioning as a kind of security blanket as Rodrigo keeps in touch with his inner child. Also a stroke of irony since many of the pills he's forced to imbibe are the color blue.
"I hate mirrors. Mirrors are just good for showing how we deteriorate with age."
How would you enjoy looking in a mirror at those times when your mouth is gagged and your feet tied? Or, when you are wallowing in your own shit or have grown so fat you're embarrassed to be seen without a shirt?
"Rimbaud took the Joker out of his pocket and told me. You have the Joker's smile. I don't know if you're my hallucination, or if I'm yours."
As we enter deeper and deeper into Rodrigo's hellish sage, we witness our poet/artist forced to deal with the likes of the Fearsome Madman (a killer in his past life) and a lunatic who continually bangs his head against the wall (Rodrigo imagines him playing for team Brazil, scoring goals with ferocious headers). On the brighter side, there's also Rimbaud and Baudelaire. "It's so sad when your friends are two hallucinations."
Thank you And Other Stories for publishing Rodrigo's novel. Also thanks to Zoë Perry and Stefan Tobler for translating the author's Portuguese into fluid, lucid English.
Following his death, Rodrigo's art was placed on display at Rio's Museum of Modern Art. Additionally, a number of his books of fiction have subsequently been been published to critical acclaim.
June 21, 2023
"My Blue Dog Didn’t Have a Name. Nothing I like Has a Name"
I agree with Rodrigo De Souza Leao. Does that make me mad, too? Imagine if I said there is no such thing as freedom, it’s simply a word used by marketers to create the illusion of choice so I hand my money over for something I don’t want. That it makes me unhappy in the end. I will draw vitriol and attacks. Such thoughts will isolate me from others. No one likes being told they are not free. I must be mad. Apology for my language. But Rodrigo says so. When it comes to freedom, this is what Rodrigo says, and I agree with him, not because he is wise (and he is) but because he has seen things others don’t see. So why do I see the same thing he sees, unless I’m also... Anyway:
”The first taste of freedom is leaving the cubicle. The second is walking around the asylum. But real freedom doesn’t exist. Heading for freedom, I run smack into someone. If there were freedom, the world would be one big madhouse with everyone in it. I could walk out and about with Rimbaud and Baudelaire. Go on holiday to Angra dos Reis.”
Rodrigo calls one of his fellow travellers “The Fearsome Madman”, so “mad” seems to be a word he uses with without reservation to explain what he sees, even a little poetically. So many words lack precision. He is in a hospital. A mental health facility they might call it today, or even a ‘service’. I think Rodrigo might hate the idea that a bunch of people go around naming everything ‘services’ or ‘facilities’ or even ‘health’. They seem too vague, inadequate. So Rodrigo spends time naming things – the people around him have names based on a tangible characteristic or attribute like “Rimbaud” (who is a ‘moody git) or “The Lady of All Screams” (because she screams after her meals and keeps screaming for a long time afterwards). Some exist, others imagined. Perhaps because everything is named for you with madness, you have to name a few things for yourself. After all he says:
”Names aren’t given to differentiate people. If they were, no two names would be alike> Names are given to make people alike or to set you apart from the others.”
I couldn’t agree more.
I really like Rodrigo. I wish I had met him before he died. He reminds me of my uncle, Angelo. My father was very fond of Angelo who was also schizophrenic. I think that taught me to think that what a schizophrenic thinks is no different to what I think. Schizophrenics are family. Angelo was paranoid mostly. Rodrigo thinks all paranoia is the same.
”Why do all crazy people have the same paranoias? They’re always being followed by a secret agent. The CIA is almost always involved. My own case (swallowing a chip) was only possible thanks to the CIA and the KGB”
Now, I’ve noticed people everywhere, not just those in a ‘service’, who have thoughts like that. The people who cover their computer cam. They must all be mad. Confession, I did that for a long time so that there's so much sticky residue on the camera eye now that my picture in meetings has the ‘Vaseline effect’. You know the way Doris Day looked in her movies with that same sentimental misty glow. That was Vaseline on the lens of the camera.
When we think ridiculous thoughts, do we defend them to death, or accept them as our personality? Here is what Rodrigo says:
”But I was getting better and I knew Rimbaud was a hallucination who came to pester me. I can’t deny that he was pretty entertaining.”
I'm getting tired of words. There are so many useless ones like ‘celebration’ and ‘amazing’ and ‘awesome’ and ‘passionate’. You know, useless words no one can tell what they mean anymore. They mean something to someone, I just don’t know anymore. I am out of touch. Rodrigo says:
”Schizophrenics with delusional disorder have no words. They harbour a great hatred for the disease. No one values what they say.”
I am often helpless with authority, too. I try to fill in forms, to find things out about our governments and corporate giants, to penetrate all their bureaucracy. But I fail. I feel childlike, unable to influence. Rodrigo has a thought on that too:
”I can’t stand taking the role of the victim. My role is the toilet roll. I’m a child and I don’t know the truth.”
I think too much. I worry too much. What is happening in the world? How will things play out? Who has power, is there corruption? Is there only money in circulation and nothing else? I am all thoughts. I feel alone, isolated from the world around me. So what happens to my body when I’m all thoughts. Rodrigo says:
”With time, I was feeling my body less and less. They gave me some other glasses and these new glasses gave me strange powers. Like concentrating solely on my destiny. After all it’s not like anyone has gone through what I have.”
I finished this book months ago, and I still miss Rodrigo. Finishing this book was like losing my uncle prematurely.
https://images.gr-assets.com/photos/1...
First edit 6 September 2021
I agree with Rodrigo De Souza Leao. Does that make me mad, too? Imagine if I said there is no such thing as freedom, it’s simply a word used by marketers to create the illusion of choice so I hand my money over for something I don’t want. That it makes me unhappy in the end. I will draw vitriol and attacks. Such thoughts will isolate me from others. No one likes being told they are not free. I must be mad. Apology for my language. But Rodrigo says so. When it comes to freedom, this is what Rodrigo says, and I agree with him, not because he is wise (and he is) but because he has seen things others don’t see. So why do I see the same thing he sees, unless I’m also... Anyway:
”The first taste of freedom is leaving the cubicle. The second is walking around the asylum. But real freedom doesn’t exist. Heading for freedom, I run smack into someone. If there were freedom, the world would be one big madhouse with everyone in it. I could walk out and about with Rimbaud and Baudelaire. Go on holiday to Angra dos Reis.”
Rodrigo calls one of his fellow travellers “The Fearsome Madman”, so “mad” seems to be a word he uses with without reservation to explain what he sees, even a little poetically. So many words lack precision. He is in a hospital. A mental health facility they might call it today, or even a ‘service’. I think Rodrigo might hate the idea that a bunch of people go around naming everything ‘services’ or ‘facilities’ or even ‘health’. They seem too vague, inadequate. So Rodrigo spends time naming things – the people around him have names based on a tangible characteristic or attribute like “Rimbaud” (who is a ‘moody git) or “The Lady of All Screams” (because she screams after her meals and keeps screaming for a long time afterwards). Some exist, others imagined. Perhaps because everything is named for you with madness, you have to name a few things for yourself. After all he says:
”Names aren’t given to differentiate people. If they were, no two names would be alike> Names are given to make people alike or to set you apart from the others.”
I couldn’t agree more.
I really like Rodrigo. I wish I had met him before he died. He reminds me of my uncle, Angelo. My father was very fond of Angelo who was also schizophrenic. I think that taught me to think that what a schizophrenic thinks is no different to what I think. Schizophrenics are family. Angelo was paranoid mostly. Rodrigo thinks all paranoia is the same.
”Why do all crazy people have the same paranoias? They’re always being followed by a secret agent. The CIA is almost always involved. My own case (swallowing a chip) was only possible thanks to the CIA and the KGB”
Now, I’ve noticed people everywhere, not just those in a ‘service’, who have thoughts like that. The people who cover their computer cam. They must all be mad. Confession, I did that for a long time so that there's so much sticky residue on the camera eye now that my picture in meetings has the ‘Vaseline effect’. You know the way Doris Day looked in her movies with that same sentimental misty glow. That was Vaseline on the lens of the camera.
When we think ridiculous thoughts, do we defend them to death, or accept them as our personality? Here is what Rodrigo says:
”But I was getting better and I knew Rimbaud was a hallucination who came to pester me. I can’t deny that he was pretty entertaining.”
I'm getting tired of words. There are so many useless ones like ‘celebration’ and ‘amazing’ and ‘awesome’ and ‘passionate’. You know, useless words no one can tell what they mean anymore. They mean something to someone, I just don’t know anymore. I am out of touch. Rodrigo says:
”Schizophrenics with delusional disorder have no words. They harbour a great hatred for the disease. No one values what they say.”
I am often helpless with authority, too. I try to fill in forms, to find things out about our governments and corporate giants, to penetrate all their bureaucracy. But I fail. I feel childlike, unable to influence. Rodrigo has a thought on that too:
”I can’t stand taking the role of the victim. My role is the toilet roll. I’m a child and I don’t know the truth.”
I think too much. I worry too much. What is happening in the world? How will things play out? Who has power, is there corruption? Is there only money in circulation and nothing else? I am all thoughts. I feel alone, isolated from the world around me. So what happens to my body when I’m all thoughts. Rodrigo says:
”With time, I was feeling my body less and less. They gave me some other glasses and these new glasses gave me strange powers. Like concentrating solely on my destiny. After all it’s not like anyone has gone through what I have.”
I finished this book months ago, and I still miss Rodrigo. Finishing this book was like losing my uncle prematurely.
https://images.gr-assets.com/photos/1...
First edit 6 September 2021
April 21, 2014
A remarkable book by a remarkable author. The publisher, And Other Stories, sells it better than I can — go find it.
July 31, 2013
But I’m fragile and delicate like anyone who feels life. Not everybody knows what they want out of life. If you do know, you live life. If you don’t, you feel life.
As I’ve mentioned with other works that have come my way from “& Other Stories”, their pursuit of “collaborative, imaginative and ‘shamelessly literary’” works fits nicely with my own philosophies of independence and pushing the boundaries. And in “All Dogs Are Blue” I’ve come across something which is shamelessly BOLD, a work that you wouldn’t ordinarily come across in your day to day reading.
Rodrigo De Souze Leao died aged 43 in a psychiatric hospital in Rio de Janeiro in 2008. A schizophrenic, his fragile mental state had him rarely leaving his home and it is through his poetry and, more importantly, this novel that he was held in high regard by a large number of Brazilian writers and poets.
Here we have a novel written in broken thoughts, fragments of sentences, visions and musings. But one that shows such complexity and a vivid understanding of narrative style that you cannot help but be dragged along with the author’s torment.
For my full review go to http://messybooker.blogspot.com
As I’ve mentioned with other works that have come my way from “& Other Stories”, their pursuit of “collaborative, imaginative and ‘shamelessly literary’” works fits nicely with my own philosophies of independence and pushing the boundaries. And in “All Dogs Are Blue” I’ve come across something which is shamelessly BOLD, a work that you wouldn’t ordinarily come across in your day to day reading.
Rodrigo De Souze Leao died aged 43 in a psychiatric hospital in Rio de Janeiro in 2008. A schizophrenic, his fragile mental state had him rarely leaving his home and it is through his poetry and, more importantly, this novel that he was held in high regard by a large number of Brazilian writers and poets.
Here we have a novel written in broken thoughts, fragments of sentences, visions and musings. But one that shows such complexity and a vivid understanding of narrative style that you cannot help but be dragged along with the author’s torment.
For my full review go to http://messybooker.blogspot.com
July 14, 2013
This is the 2nd book published by And Other Stories I read, I've been very impressed both times (the first one was Swimming Home).
I was deeply touched by this story. The talent and courage of the author was truly amazing!
This was an autobiographical story of a man who was mentally ill and treated at a mental institution in Brazil. It described life inside the institution and the horrific treatments received by patients. What's unique is that he was able to give detailed first-hand account of the internal feelings of an actual patient. Despite all the suffering, he still managed to insert quite a bit of humour into it. It was a very very sad story, but told with so much power.
I highly recommend it.
I was deeply touched by this story. The talent and courage of the author was truly amazing!
This was an autobiographical story of a man who was mentally ill and treated at a mental institution in Brazil. It described life inside the institution and the horrific treatments received by patients. What's unique is that he was able to give detailed first-hand account of the internal feelings of an actual patient. Despite all the suffering, he still managed to insert quite a bit of humour into it. It was a very very sad story, but told with so much power.
I highly recommend it.
February 20, 2017
This is an amazingly original book. The story of a schizophrenic in an asylum in Rio by an author who walked that journey. It is quirky and funny and sad but mostly it manages to be powerful and beautiful even in its dark moments. I recommend this book to any adventurous readers. A glimpse into the mind of the mad and the underbelly of Brazil.
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September 17, 2013Quizá los tocados escriban literatura diferente, no necesariamente mejor, sólo distinta. Estas historias de vida, teñidas de las vivencias de la esquizofrenia más feroz, acaso permitieron una ventana de sobrevivencia al vivir cotidiano en el manicomio. Fogonazos alucinados, fotos rápidas a algunos aconteceres, sin nunca saber de cierto que hay de verdadero en todo ello. Pero me queda claro que no hay diferencia en el tratamiento a y de los locos en los espacios de confinamiento. Siempre el castigo, siempre el sufrimiento, siempre el dolor. Lees a los actuales neurocientíficos cognitivos y aún no tienen respuestas, solo preguntas y más preguntas. Una droga tras otra y no hay solución. Sigamos castigando a los locos, culpables de sí mismos. Ya no hay más divinidad en la locura, solo rechazo, prisión y extrañeza. Castiguémoslos, son culpables, pinches antisociales. No importa que según Jaynes hayan sido el origen de todas las religiones. No importa que sigan siendo sagrados. No importa que escriban una de las literaturas más interesantes y bien escritas, no importa que estén locos. No importan las etiquetas siquiátricas, bipolares, esquizofrénicos, paranoicos y demás etiquetas socialmente idiotas. Solo importa la literatura. La literatura de la locura. Bienvenida sea.
March 20, 2015
This story is confusing and erratic, probably similar to living with psychosis. This semi-autobiographical story shares the author.s experiences of living with schizophrenia. Some sentences are so powerful and then spiral into a more confusion place. There is an underlying feeling of heartbreak. I feel that perhaps I'm not intelligent enough to fully comprehend the importance of this work. I'm glad I read it though and I might re-read it again in the future. I think one could probably discover more in the text on re-reading it.
I read this as part of my around the world challenge as my selection from Brazil.
I read this as part of my around the world challenge as my selection from Brazil.
January 11, 2021
Todog. Un librito loco, un librito de esquizofrenia y dulzura, de fracaso y poesía. Un librito chiquito lleno de poetas y manicomios, de loquito y locotes, del color del rivotil y el haldol. Un librito incómodo y salvaje. Un librito rítmico, con cameos de Rimbaud y Baudelaire. Un librito triste, con los colores del mundo, con los colores de los locos con colores del todog. Acuguele Banzai!
July 3, 2013
The world is a complicated place for those with a psychological illness. The world views the suffers with little understanding, we try, but will never truly comprehend its complexities. This book is a firsthand account of living with a mental illness and having to live with the side effects of the medical treatment. In this story the narrator tells of his life living in an asylum with his friends or is he? A touching and honest story, amusing at times!
May 18, 2024
Sometimes mental illness and art don't just coexist, they become indistinguishable.
September 1, 2013
This is a short, sharp shock of a book. It deals with serious, scary stuff but manages to be funny, exciting and superbly readable, as well as powerful and enlightening.
Aside from the occasional morose moment, the tone stays light and witty throughout the darkest and the strangest scenes. And it does get pretty dark and pretty strange.
My full review is here: http://www.noseinabook.co.uk/?p=2822
Aside from the occasional morose moment, the tone stays light and witty throughout the darkest and the strangest scenes. And it does get pretty dark and pretty strange.
My full review is here: http://www.noseinabook.co.uk/?p=2822
November 21, 2015
La telaraña que acuna y a su vez separa la esquizofrenia de la realidad y la poesía... sin la telaraña.
«Está siempre el mar batiendo en las piedras de la enfermedad. El mar verde Lexotan 6. El cielo azul Haldol 5. El Rivotril blanco de las nubes. Todo es enfermedad en la enfermedad mental, hasta la linda Garota de Ipanema. ¿Por qué no inventaron una cura para mi enfermedad?
¿Por qué construyen cohetes para ir al espacio?»
«Está siempre el mar batiendo en las piedras de la enfermedad. El mar verde Lexotan 6. El cielo azul Haldol 5. El Rivotril blanco de las nubes. Todo es enfermedad en la enfermedad mental, hasta la linda Garota de Ipanema. ¿Por qué no inventaron una cura para mi enfermedad?
¿Por qué construyen cohetes para ir al espacio?»
July 20, 2013
An amazing, original book about life in a mental institution by an author who know madness quite personally. 5 stars!
August 23, 2013
All Dogs Are Blue was the final novel written by Rodrigo de Souza Leao before his death in 2008. Set mainly in a Brazilian psychiatric hospital, the text is a flood of sense-impressions, recollections and hallucinations, a narrative full of tangents and non-sequiters. The narrator has been admitted to the hospital after smashing up his parents’ house; once inside, he describes his interactions with staff, fellow inmates including the ominously-named Fearsome Madman, and his spirit guides, Rimbaud and Baudelaire. In a surprising finale, he is released and becomes a messiah-figure for a group called ‘Todog’, with thousands of followers.
Throughout the text, Souza Leao makes subtle links between madness and poverty; the asylum is hemmed in on all sides by slums, and living conditions within are grim. At times, paranoia seems a rational response to the narrator’s living conditions. In one wry aside, he remembers a time when ‘my psychiatrist took the bus with me, just to prove that there was no problem – that idea went down with a ton of money, plus her watch. The bus was robbed'. There is a sense of frustrated potential among the inmates, an inability to harness their attributes for positive uses. Fearsome Madman, for example, inspires respect but ‘wasn’t our leader, because crazy people are wrapped up in their own paranoia’. Another patient bangs his head endlessly against a wall. The narrator comments ‘imagine if that freak was a footballer. His headers would be unstoppable… maybe he’d get called up to play for Brazil’.
As in many books, from One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest to Will Self’s Umbrella, Souza Leao’s asylum acts as a microcosm of the society which built it. The relationship between the inmates and the forces of authority within the hospital is tense, marked by violence: ‘a psychiatrist came and bayoneted some chemical into my left eyebrow. Another, meanwhile, grabbed a lump of flesh, stretching it more and more so I wouldn’t feel the Benzetacil injection’. The influence and watchful eye of the church is ever present (‘from my cell you could see the Christ statue’) although redemption seems an unlikely prospect: ‘Some Christian, one Sunday, appeared right near my cell and left a little leaflet. My God! Fundamentalists are taking over the world. They’re even coming here to recruit the utterly fucked.’ There is a sense that the hospital regime deliberately fosters a feeling of alienation from normal society in its inmates: ‘I look at the newspaper and I can’t read any of it. They must have put me on a high dosage’.
The narrator’s feelings of paranoia increase after the unexplained death of Fearsome Madman. He imagines that the hospital is filled with undercover officers, and believes that he is under suspicion of murder. These paranoid delusions are similar to those discussed in Ned Beauman’s recent New Statesman article The Ruins of People’s Lives. In the essay, Beauman describes the phenomenon of ‘gang stalking’, defined as ‘a covert operation that is opened on an individual. The individual is then placed under overt and covert forms of surveillance… The secondary goals seem to be to make the target homeless, jobless, give them a breakdown, and the primary goal seems to be to drive the target to forced suicide’. The essay goes on to highlight online communities where individuals who see themselves as victims of gang stalking can discuss the experiences and offer mutual support to one another. Souza Leao’s narrator certainly fits in with this belief system. He is convinced he is under surveillance (‘I swallowed a chip yesterday’) and is able to identify similar feelings in his fellow inmates: ‘Why do all crazy people have the same paranoias? They’re always being followed by a secret agent.’
Where Souza Leao differs from Beauman is in his level of empathy with the victims of gang stalking. For Beauman, the online communities he frequents offer up the equivalent to ‘ruin porn’, which he ‘will launder in my work like dirty money’. Perhaps due to his own experiences of mental illness, Souza Leao’s book contains more heart. After his release, the narrator forms a group called ‘Todog’ similar to the communities mentioned by Beauman, although existing in the physical world. The group’s membership may look the same, but the aims are different. At first, he says, ‘the meetings were delightful, each of us talking about our lives with extraterrestrials. Some had had chips implanted’, but under the narrator’s guidance they move away from this cycle of reinforcement towards finding a universal language of empathy and inclusion. The words are gibberish, but crowds are attracted by the sentiment of Todog. Frightened by the group’s popularity, the authorities move in an arrest the narrator, but in his absence the movement takes on a momentum of its own, beyond his control or that of the police.
All Dogs Are Blue is an intriguing novel, filled with energy and poetic imagery. There is an air of naivety, or childishness, in Souza Leao’s imaginative words, reinforced by the title, which could be an allusion to the paintings of Franz Marc, and his own links with outsider art – but the book itself is extremely disciplined, each sentence containing layers of meaning. There is no extraneous detail within the 100 or so pages. Most of all, his determination to show the humanity of his narrator, to show him as more than the sum of his delusions, shines through from the text, and marks this out as an impressive addition to the And Other Stories catalogue.
Throughout the text, Souza Leao makes subtle links between madness and poverty; the asylum is hemmed in on all sides by slums, and living conditions within are grim. At times, paranoia seems a rational response to the narrator’s living conditions. In one wry aside, he remembers a time when ‘my psychiatrist took the bus with me, just to prove that there was no problem – that idea went down with a ton of money, plus her watch. The bus was robbed'. There is a sense of frustrated potential among the inmates, an inability to harness their attributes for positive uses. Fearsome Madman, for example, inspires respect but ‘wasn’t our leader, because crazy people are wrapped up in their own paranoia’. Another patient bangs his head endlessly against a wall. The narrator comments ‘imagine if that freak was a footballer. His headers would be unstoppable… maybe he’d get called up to play for Brazil’.
As in many books, from One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest to Will Self’s Umbrella, Souza Leao’s asylum acts as a microcosm of the society which built it. The relationship between the inmates and the forces of authority within the hospital is tense, marked by violence: ‘a psychiatrist came and bayoneted some chemical into my left eyebrow. Another, meanwhile, grabbed a lump of flesh, stretching it more and more so I wouldn’t feel the Benzetacil injection’. The influence and watchful eye of the church is ever present (‘from my cell you could see the Christ statue’) although redemption seems an unlikely prospect: ‘Some Christian, one Sunday, appeared right near my cell and left a little leaflet. My God! Fundamentalists are taking over the world. They’re even coming here to recruit the utterly fucked.’ There is a sense that the hospital regime deliberately fosters a feeling of alienation from normal society in its inmates: ‘I look at the newspaper and I can’t read any of it. They must have put me on a high dosage’.
The narrator’s feelings of paranoia increase after the unexplained death of Fearsome Madman. He imagines that the hospital is filled with undercover officers, and believes that he is under suspicion of murder. These paranoid delusions are similar to those discussed in Ned Beauman’s recent New Statesman article The Ruins of People’s Lives. In the essay, Beauman describes the phenomenon of ‘gang stalking’, defined as ‘a covert operation that is opened on an individual. The individual is then placed under overt and covert forms of surveillance… The secondary goals seem to be to make the target homeless, jobless, give them a breakdown, and the primary goal seems to be to drive the target to forced suicide’. The essay goes on to highlight online communities where individuals who see themselves as victims of gang stalking can discuss the experiences and offer mutual support to one another. Souza Leao’s narrator certainly fits in with this belief system. He is convinced he is under surveillance (‘I swallowed a chip yesterday’) and is able to identify similar feelings in his fellow inmates: ‘Why do all crazy people have the same paranoias? They’re always being followed by a secret agent.’
Where Souza Leao differs from Beauman is in his level of empathy with the victims of gang stalking. For Beauman, the online communities he frequents offer up the equivalent to ‘ruin porn’, which he ‘will launder in my work like dirty money’. Perhaps due to his own experiences of mental illness, Souza Leao’s book contains more heart. After his release, the narrator forms a group called ‘Todog’ similar to the communities mentioned by Beauman, although existing in the physical world. The group’s membership may look the same, but the aims are different. At first, he says, ‘the meetings were delightful, each of us talking about our lives with extraterrestrials. Some had had chips implanted’, but under the narrator’s guidance they move away from this cycle of reinforcement towards finding a universal language of empathy and inclusion. The words are gibberish, but crowds are attracted by the sentiment of Todog. Frightened by the group’s popularity, the authorities move in an arrest the narrator, but in his absence the movement takes on a momentum of its own, beyond his control or that of the police.
All Dogs Are Blue is an intriguing novel, filled with energy and poetic imagery. There is an air of naivety, or childishness, in Souza Leao’s imaginative words, reinforced by the title, which could be an allusion to the paintings of Franz Marc, and his own links with outsider art – but the book itself is extremely disciplined, each sentence containing layers of meaning. There is no extraneous detail within the 100 or so pages. Most of all, his determination to show the humanity of his narrator, to show him as more than the sum of his delusions, shines through from the text, and marks this out as an impressive addition to the And Other Stories catalogue.
March 13, 2022
Difficult to come up with just one primary feel of this novella. The author digs deep into the reality of someone who is locked away in a psychiatric facility. How accurate is the work, you ask? The author spent a chunk of his life locked away dealing with his condition and sadly died there in 2009. Brilliant, biting, chaotic, and always engaging, this semi-autobiographical novella is a reminder that there are many who fight to make sense of their lives in dire conditions.
December 29, 2023
A book I thought I would not enjoy, but I absolutely did. The plot is confusing, the paragraphs do not make sense, the hallucinations are bizzare, but it still makes so much sense.
The book is about a schizophrenic man who thinks he has swallowed a computer chip and it is making him do all the mad stuff. It is semi-autobiographical in nature and details his life in an asylum. You get to read a schizophrenic’s stream of consciousness (or maybe unconsciousness?) which is gross and lyrical at the same time. Surprisingly, the book is not so famous. A deserving 5/5!
The book is about a schizophrenic man who thinks he has swallowed a computer chip and it is making him do all the mad stuff. It is semi-autobiographical in nature and details his life in an asylum. You get to read a schizophrenic’s stream of consciousness (or maybe unconsciousness?) which is gross and lyrical at the same time. Surprisingly, the book is not so famous. A deserving 5/5!
April 12, 2021
Uma das obras-primas da literatura brasileira contemporânea, não tenho dúvidas, é Todos Os Cachorros São Azuis, único romance (ou seria novela?) que o carioca Rodrigo de Souza Leão publicou ainda em vida. Li em julho de 2013, por indicação de uma ex-namorada, quando fazia companhia a meu pai num hospital; na ocasião ele havia tido um infarto. No fim de 2019 o pai de Rodrigo, Antônio, que havia gostado de um texto que eu havia escrito sobre outra obra do filho (o caudaloso Me Roubaram Uns Dias Contados), enviou-me de presente a reedição do Todos Os Cachorros São Azuis em capa dura, um vistoso trabalho do Selo Demônio Negro, editora de São Paulo. O livro chegou às vésperas de uma internação do meu pai no mesmo hospital, mas dessa vez não tive coragem de relê-lo no mesmo ambiente; o caso era mais grave desta vez e meu pai não resistiu. São muitas coincidências: Antônio é médico, já havia sido convidado para trabalhar, nos anos setenta, no hospital em que meu pai estava internado, o Santa Lúcia de Poços de Caldas. Assim como sou zeloso com a memória do meu pai, Antônio, também personagem dos livros de Rodrigo, é zeloso com a memória do filho que se foi cedo, em 2009, com apenas 44 anos. Só me enchi de coragem para reler o livro agora; espero que esse texto faça jus a ele, pois inclusive resta-me pouco para dizer: quase tudo o que já havia percebido e que gostaria de escrever a respeito está dito no ótimo posfácio de Ronaldo Bressane que consta nesta reedição, só que com mais erudição e de forma muito mais clara e profunda do que eu poderia fazer. Todos os Cachorros São Azuis é um livro anárquico e a releitura foi ainda mais prazerosa do que a primeira leitura que fiz. Meu olhar talvez seja mais colonizado e pop do que o de Bressane, então não relacionei o narrador nada confiável, que ambos percebemos em Rodrigo, a autores brasileiros como Machado de Assis ou Maura Lopes Cançado, mas sim ao Chefe Vassoura, que narra o genial Um Estranho No Ninho, do escritor beat Ken Kesey. É impossível saber o que é real ou não; um dos momentos mais fortes do livro de Kesey é quando Vassoura, um índio internado há décadas num manicômio, narra uma alucinação de madrugada. De manhã, no entanto, quem morreu no pesadelo/devaneio realmente amanheceu morto. O livro é tão forte que nunca me dei ao trabalho de assistir à adaptação cinematográfica com Jack Nicholson e dirigida por Milos Forman. Rodrigo tinha esquizofrenia e foi internado várias vezes; a diferença dele para Kesey é que o narrador é ele mesmo: seu sofrimento foi transfigurado em literatura. Neste ponto, a abordagem é a mesma do autor de ficção científica proto-cyberpunk Phillip K. Dick, que no embasbacante Valis, escrito nos anos 1970, funde-se ao narrador, tornando-se impossível saber quem é quem. A diferença é que Dick cria um pseudônimo, o qual posteriormente desmascara a si mesmo; Rodrigo é sempre Rodrigo em Todos os Cachorros São Azuis, mas autor, personagem e narrador borram-se na trama; uma narrativa que flui livre e na qual, basicamente, Rodrigo está internado, conta o porquê da internação em flashbacks e volta para casa. Daí em diante Bressane enxerga uma narrativa policial; eu vejo um flerte com a ficção científica quando Rodrigo cria o Todog, uma espécie de esperanto esotérico pelo qual ele se torna um Jim Jones às avessas. Parece delirante, mas revela um domínio espantoso da arte de narrar. O mais fascinante ao se reler um livro é notar o que se reteve e o que se perdeu nos escaninhos mnemônicos; a parte final é a que havia me impactado mais. Do período da internação, a desenvergonhada sexualidade é o que mais se incrustou na memória. Havia me esquecido completamente de Rimbaud, alucinação do poeta francês que reaparece no romance póstumo Me Roubaram Uns Dias Contados. Rodrigo com certeza não fazia ficção especulativa, mas Bressane nota como ele, especialmente com os gozofones da obra póstuma, antecipa a sexualização da vida virtual da era dos relacionamentos líquidos, algo já esboçado em Todos Os Cachorros São Azuis. Isto inclusive intensificou-se na pandemia. Rodrigo merece ser mais lido e provavelmente será: no posfácio há a informação que a obra dele será filmada a partir de 2023. Ao menos presumo isso, porque lá está grafado “2013”. Infelizmente, a revisão deixou passar muitos erros que não me lembro de ter visto na edição original do livro, pela editora 7Letras: duplos espaçamentos, o nome do personagem Temível Louco grafado errado num trecho e por aí vai. Espero que outros livros de Rodrigo, cujas reedições foram anunciadas pela Demônio Negro para o ano passado (reedições estas que suponho ter sido embaçadas pela pandemia), tenham o texto tratado com tanto esmero quanto o acabamento estético desta impressão.
Resenha que escrevi para o Jornal da Cidade (Poços de Caldas/MG), publicada em 20 de fevereiro de 2021.
Resenha que escrevi para o Jornal da Cidade (Poços de Caldas/MG), publicada em 20 de fevereiro de 2021.
May 6, 2018
Nos encontramos con una obra conciza, algo redundante, en la que el autor nos cuenta sus peripecias en un hospicio psiquiátrico. Souza Leão divide el texto en cuatro partes:
Todo se volvió Van Gogh
Dios no: dioses
Humphrey Bogart contra Charles Laughton
[Del gr. epílogos]
En Todo se volvió Van Gogh, Souza Leão, se presenta a sí mismo. En un vaivén continuo, los ''presentes'' y ''pretéritos'' del autor danzan de lo que lo condujo hacia el hospicio hasta lo que él creé que lo lanzo allí. Lo primero es un ataque psicótico destrozando la casa de su madre en u arrebato de locura donde las alusinaciones están a flor de piel. En la segunda, según su perspectiva, todo comenzo por trágarse un ''chip'' dado por la CIA o KGB, y con ello el ''comerse un grillo'' -hay que aclarar que tal expresión es una coloquial en Brasil para referirse a una mala acción-
Danzará así sus pensamientos, su hechos y cuestionamientos sobre la vida, su vida, y el hospicio.
Está primera parte se nos dará a conocer que, Souza Leão, erá atacado por ser ''gordo'' y no hacer cosas de ''macho'', dejando la secuela de lo que aparenta un complejo en su peso que redundará mientras va avanzando la lectura. También hablará sobre su ''único amigo'', al menos físico, su peluche, un perro azul. Otros amigos serán alucinasiones en las que se encarnará como Rimbaud, Baudelaire, nos hablará de las narcóticos que le dan y como es la vida en un centro psiquiátrico. Ascinamiento, abandonamiento de persona or parte del personal del lugar. Su familia que lo recluyo allí en visitas, que cree, son por golpes de culpabilidad. El desvario conttinuará con ciertas reflexiones sobre la vida en sí y sobre su mente volatizando imagenes en las que él se encarna en animales y situaciones variopintas.
Siguiendo con Dios no: dioses sigue hablado de su estancia en el hospicio.
Algo que no mencione y que es continuo, también se menciona acá, es el sentimiento de reclusión y ytratamientos de electroshock a los que son sometidos los ''locos'' para curarlos y el bagaje de drogas que les meten para mantenerlos quietos.
Está sección se adentrará en una paranoia a causa de la muerte de otro paciente: ''Temible Loco''. Pero será como un paréntesis reiterativo en donde Souza Leão irá construyendo la narración en conjunto con la precedente, con referencias a la cultura pop, seguirán emergiendo pensamientos de él. Seguirá la descripción de sus actos, su persona y los acontencimientos en el hospicio. Nos hablará de sus masturbaciones, sus anhelos, disgutos y demás bijuterí.
Seguirán introspecciones, dirá nuevamente -ya lo ha dicho- la analogia de los cementerios con los manicomios,, quizá en más de un sentido figurativo.
Avanzando en la obra llegamos a ''Humphrey Bogart contra Charles Laughton'' sigue el delirio de Souza Leão. Nos relata un pacto de sangre con Rimbaud, que tiene la enfermedad del SIDA, al que se les une también Baudelaire. Más fármacos hacen que sus alucinasiones decaígan. Pero siguen allí.
Más elementos de la cultura pop, nombra a Bergman, en alusión a su forma de ver la vida, en blanco y negro.
Ahora nos narra que sus fármacos no son intravenosos, tiene cierta libertadad, especula sobre ella, le dan pastillas que puede cambiar en cuantía.
Anteriormente Souza Leão hace alarde de sus viajes por distintos países, EE.UU., Japón, China, Corea, por el continente de África donde Rimbaud ''perdió su pierna''. Aquí nos comenta que los viajes los realizo por la ''tevé''.
Hay ciertas reflexiones que son curiosas. En los apartados decidí no citar porque el libro merece ser leído. Como rareza, como un experimento literario, tal cual los escritos de Artaud.
Souza Leão termina con lo que titulo ''[Del gr. epílogos]'' dice ser liberado del hospicio. Con sueños que cree exytraterrenales ''funda'' una nueva religión, el Todog, en base a un supuesto lenguaje universal. Escribe que es arrestado, cuatro años de cárcel. Igualmente parece que sigue en su delirio en el nosocomio.
Obra corta e interesante, de un ser que fue deborado por su propia realidad.
Todo se volvió Van Gogh
Dios no: dioses
Humphrey Bogart contra Charles Laughton
[Del gr. epílogos]
En Todo se volvió Van Gogh, Souza Leão, se presenta a sí mismo. En un vaivén continuo, los ''presentes'' y ''pretéritos'' del autor danzan de lo que lo condujo hacia el hospicio hasta lo que él creé que lo lanzo allí. Lo primero es un ataque psicótico destrozando la casa de su madre en u arrebato de locura donde las alusinaciones están a flor de piel. En la segunda, según su perspectiva, todo comenzo por trágarse un ''chip'' dado por la CIA o KGB, y con ello el ''comerse un grillo'' -hay que aclarar que tal expresión es una coloquial en Brasil para referirse a una mala acción-
Danzará así sus pensamientos, su hechos y cuestionamientos sobre la vida, su vida, y el hospicio.
Está primera parte se nos dará a conocer que, Souza Leão, erá atacado por ser ''gordo'' y no hacer cosas de ''macho'', dejando la secuela de lo que aparenta un complejo en su peso que redundará mientras va avanzando la lectura. También hablará sobre su ''único amigo'', al menos físico, su peluche, un perro azul. Otros amigos serán alucinasiones en las que se encarnará como Rimbaud, Baudelaire, nos hablará de las narcóticos que le dan y como es la vida en un centro psiquiátrico. Ascinamiento, abandonamiento de persona or parte del personal del lugar. Su familia que lo recluyo allí en visitas, que cree, son por golpes de culpabilidad. El desvario conttinuará con ciertas reflexiones sobre la vida en sí y sobre su mente volatizando imagenes en las que él se encarna en animales y situaciones variopintas.
Siguiendo con Dios no: dioses sigue hablado de su estancia en el hospicio.
Algo que no mencione y que es continuo, también se menciona acá, es el sentimiento de reclusión y ytratamientos de electroshock a los que son sometidos los ''locos'' para curarlos y el bagaje de drogas que les meten para mantenerlos quietos.
Está sección se adentrará en una paranoia a causa de la muerte de otro paciente: ''Temible Loco''. Pero será como un paréntesis reiterativo en donde Souza Leão irá construyendo la narración en conjunto con la precedente, con referencias a la cultura pop, seguirán emergiendo pensamientos de él. Seguirá la descripción de sus actos, su persona y los acontencimientos en el hospicio. Nos hablará de sus masturbaciones, sus anhelos, disgutos y demás bijuterí.
Seguirán introspecciones, dirá nuevamente -ya lo ha dicho- la analogia de los cementerios con los manicomios,, quizá en más de un sentido figurativo.
Avanzando en la obra llegamos a ''Humphrey Bogart contra Charles Laughton'' sigue el delirio de Souza Leão. Nos relata un pacto de sangre con Rimbaud, que tiene la enfermedad del SIDA, al que se les une también Baudelaire. Más fármacos hacen que sus alucinasiones decaígan. Pero siguen allí.
Más elementos de la cultura pop, nombra a Bergman, en alusión a su forma de ver la vida, en blanco y negro.
Ahora nos narra que sus fármacos no son intravenosos, tiene cierta libertadad, especula sobre ella, le dan pastillas que puede cambiar en cuantía.
Anteriormente Souza Leão hace alarde de sus viajes por distintos países, EE.UU., Japón, China, Corea, por el continente de África donde Rimbaud ''perdió su pierna''. Aquí nos comenta que los viajes los realizo por la ''tevé''.
Hay ciertas reflexiones que son curiosas. En los apartados decidí no citar porque el libro merece ser leído. Como rareza, como un experimento literario, tal cual los escritos de Artaud.
Souza Leão termina con lo que titulo ''[Del gr. epílogos]'' dice ser liberado del hospicio. Con sueños que cree exytraterrenales ''funda'' una nueva religión, el Todog, en base a un supuesto lenguaje universal. Escribe que es arrestado, cuatro años de cárcel. Igualmente parece que sigue en su delirio en el nosocomio.
Obra corta e interesante, de un ser que fue deborado por su propia realidad.
January 5, 2015
An incredibly good short novel - based on the author's own experiences as an in-patient in a psychiatric institution. The narrator is schizophrenic, and writes about his day-to-day life in the asylum. The narrative voice is a mix of lucidity and clarity that cuts through any crap and gets straight to the point, and the bizarreness, fragmentation, paranoia and hallucination of the schizophrenic mind. There is quite a bit of self-insight - he is aware of his paranoias and hallucinations, to some extent, and can explain them to the reader. There is also a poetry in the way he expresses some of the oddities of his mind. Sometimes it's humorous and sometimes bleak. No romanticisation though - this guy tells us about his bogeys and his masturbation and his fatness with the same matter-of-factness as he tells us about the Fearsome Madman who 'bit off the tip of another lunatic's finger'.
I think one reason I liked it is because I've worked in psychiatric homes and the narrative voice really rang true as I thought of various schizophrenic patients I've worked with. The thought patterns, the obsession with the colour of his tablets, the conviction that a chip had been inserted into him, the attachment of meaning to some random thing that had happened in the past - he's swallowed a cricket when he was 15, which he saw as causing his descent into madness. All these little details were very believable. I liked that the voice had its own dignity - a voice for people who are normally simply dismissed as talking nonsense and not being worth listening to, showing that there is insight and intelligence and feeling and humanity in the madness. I enjoyed his conversations with Baudelaire and Rimbaud, and his growing awareness that they were hallucinations. And his imaginary blue dog, the same colour as his tablets.
I really enjoyed the random observations, many really quite random, based on a loose association with a previous thought. Such as:
"I couldn't stand being in the cubicle any more. My joints were killing me. No lunatic deserves this treatment. I know that in my case, it was punishment for wrecking the whole house. It worked like a child's punishment.
Once I had to write out 'I like the maths teacher' 200 times, hating the maths teacher. Now copy and paste on the computer has done away with that punishment."
This observation of the 'Fearsome Madman' struck me as insightful and true: 'The only reason he wasn't our leader is because crazy people are wrapped up in their own paranoia. Lunatics aren't community-minded.' I could relate to that in an odd sort of way, because I've made the same sort of observation about people on the autism spectrum (minus the bit about paranoia - we're wrapped up in other things!).
And when he sayd 'I want to be promoted to someone's hallucination, please!' it makes sense. So many things he says seem bizarre, but have their own sense.
I think one reason I liked it is because I've worked in psychiatric homes and the narrative voice really rang true as I thought of various schizophrenic patients I've worked with. The thought patterns, the obsession with the colour of his tablets, the conviction that a chip had been inserted into him, the attachment of meaning to some random thing that had happened in the past - he's swallowed a cricket when he was 15, which he saw as causing his descent into madness. All these little details were very believable. I liked that the voice had its own dignity - a voice for people who are normally simply dismissed as talking nonsense and not being worth listening to, showing that there is insight and intelligence and feeling and humanity in the madness. I enjoyed his conversations with Baudelaire and Rimbaud, and his growing awareness that they were hallucinations. And his imaginary blue dog, the same colour as his tablets.
I really enjoyed the random observations, many really quite random, based on a loose association with a previous thought. Such as:
"I couldn't stand being in the cubicle any more. My joints were killing me. No lunatic deserves this treatment. I know that in my case, it was punishment for wrecking the whole house. It worked like a child's punishment.
Once I had to write out 'I like the maths teacher' 200 times, hating the maths teacher. Now copy and paste on the computer has done away with that punishment."
This observation of the 'Fearsome Madman' struck me as insightful and true: 'The only reason he wasn't our leader is because crazy people are wrapped up in their own paranoia. Lunatics aren't community-minded.' I could relate to that in an odd sort of way, because I've made the same sort of observation about people on the autism spectrum (minus the bit about paranoia - we're wrapped up in other things!).
And when he sayd 'I want to be promoted to someone's hallucination, please!' it makes sense. So many things he says seem bizarre, but have their own sense.
September 9, 2021
(Acabei de reler, tem muita coisa boa. É um livro essencial pra se pensar a relação entre arte e loucura, mais especificamente entre literatura e loucura. O ato de escrever autoriza os taxados de loucos, possibilita que certas coisas sejam ditas sem serem patologizadas, porque aquilo que é patológico dentro de um consultório pode ser visto enquanto liberdade poética dentro do universo da arte.)
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É um livro sobre loucura, uma autobiografia do enlouquecimento. Rodrigo Souza Leão conta em "Todos os cachorros são azuis" (puta título lindo do caralho) sobre sua esquizofrenia, as internações que passou, e seus melhores amigos: Rimbaud e Maiakovski. Descobri esse livro porque um dia, em 2016, a minha primeira namorada postou um trecho desse livro no Facebook que me desestabilizou por inteira, e é até hoje uma das coisas mais bonitas que já li. Quando terminei o livro senti que ele não fez juz à magnitude dessa parte, mas quero reler pra pensar melhor o que acho dele como um todo. Vou transcrever esse trecho aqui embaixo:
"Tudo ficou dourado. O céu dourado. O Cristo dourado. A ambulância dourada. As enfermeiras douradas tocavam-me com suas mãos douradas.
Tudo ficou azul: o bem-te-vi azul, a rosa azul, a caneta bic azul, os trogloditas dos enfermeiros.
Tudo ficou amarelo. Foi quando vi Rimbaud tentando se enforcar com a gravata de Maiakovski e não deixei. Pra que isso Rimbaud? Deixa que detestem a gente. Deixa que joguem a gente num pulgueiro. Deixa que a vida entre agora pelos poros. Não se mate irmão. Se você morrer não sei o que será de mim. Penso em você pensando em mim.
Rimbaud tudo vai ficar da cor que quiser. Aqui não dá pra ver o mar. Mas você vai sair daqui.
Tudo ficou verde da cor dos olhos de meu irmão e da cor do mar. Do mar. Rimbaud ficou feliz e resolveu não se matar.
Tudo ficou Van Gogh. A luz das coisas foi modificada. Enfim me deram uns óculos. Mas com os óculos eu só via as pessoas por dentro."
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É um livro sobre loucura, uma autobiografia do enlouquecimento. Rodrigo Souza Leão conta em "Todos os cachorros são azuis" (puta título lindo do caralho) sobre sua esquizofrenia, as internações que passou, e seus melhores amigos: Rimbaud e Maiakovski. Descobri esse livro porque um dia, em 2016, a minha primeira namorada postou um trecho desse livro no Facebook que me desestabilizou por inteira, e é até hoje uma das coisas mais bonitas que já li. Quando terminei o livro senti que ele não fez juz à magnitude dessa parte, mas quero reler pra pensar melhor o que acho dele como um todo. Vou transcrever esse trecho aqui embaixo:
"Tudo ficou dourado. O céu dourado. O Cristo dourado. A ambulância dourada. As enfermeiras douradas tocavam-me com suas mãos douradas.
Tudo ficou azul: o bem-te-vi azul, a rosa azul, a caneta bic azul, os trogloditas dos enfermeiros.
Tudo ficou amarelo. Foi quando vi Rimbaud tentando se enforcar com a gravata de Maiakovski e não deixei. Pra que isso Rimbaud? Deixa que detestem a gente. Deixa que joguem a gente num pulgueiro. Deixa que a vida entre agora pelos poros. Não se mate irmão. Se você morrer não sei o que será de mim. Penso em você pensando em mim.
Rimbaud tudo vai ficar da cor que quiser. Aqui não dá pra ver o mar. Mas você vai sair daqui.
Tudo ficou verde da cor dos olhos de meu irmão e da cor do mar. Do mar. Rimbaud ficou feliz e resolveu não se matar.
Tudo ficou Van Gogh. A luz das coisas foi modificada. Enfim me deram uns óculos. Mas com os óculos eu só via as pessoas por dentro."
January 9, 2014
If Rodrigo de Souza Leão’s (1965-2008) autobiographical novel All Dogs are Blue teaches us anything, it’s that there’s a thin fucking line between that which defines a person as being sane and that which earns them the persistent label of bat-shit crazy.
This slim piece, which takes place primarily in a Brazilian mental asylum, finds the nameless narrator lost in a stream of consciousness that includes key moments from his past, wild hallucinations in the present, and a dreamed up a pair of classic literary best friends to help guide him through the foggy haze of each state mandated drug induced mind-alteration that comes his way. Mixed in with the madness that surrounds him on all sides and at times envelops him so completely however are crystal clear fragments of poetically beautiful yet tragically comic insightfulness.
READ MORE:
http://www.typographicalera.com/dogs-...
This slim piece, which takes place primarily in a Brazilian mental asylum, finds the nameless narrator lost in a stream of consciousness that includes key moments from his past, wild hallucinations in the present, and a dreamed up a pair of classic literary best friends to help guide him through the foggy haze of each state mandated drug induced mind-alteration that comes his way. Mixed in with the madness that surrounds him on all sides and at times envelops him so completely however are crystal clear fragments of poetically beautiful yet tragically comic insightfulness.
READ MORE:
http://www.typographicalera.com/dogs-...
February 21, 2016
Rodrigo de Souza Leão presents an amazing journey into the mind of a schizophrenic in a Brazilian mental institution. There are descriptions of the strange behaviors of his fellow patients and the staff, the hash medical procedures, the effects of a large of medications, the (mostly) comforting visits of his family, and the “friends” who inhabit his imagination.
Through it all there are passages of poetic lucidity.
It took me a long time to read this short novel because I kept going back and re-reading passages like this:
“I was possessed by a fertile spirit of modern madness, one that had helped twentieth-century poetry many times and had put contemporary literature in its rightful place.”
Or this:
“I hope that when the Big Bang happens, a spaceship full of earthlings will be shot into outer space, taking at least one Van Gogh painting with it.”
Amazing writing.
Through it all there are passages of poetic lucidity.
It took me a long time to read this short novel because I kept going back and re-reading passages like this:
“I was possessed by a fertile spirit of modern madness, one that had helped twentieth-century poetry many times and had put contemporary literature in its rightful place.”
Or this:
“I hope that when the Big Bang happens, a spaceship full of earthlings will be shot into outer space, taking at least one Van Gogh painting with it.”
Amazing writing.
February 10, 2021
'I'm not nothing, Rimbaud. Want a cigarette?
I'll never be nothing. I can't want to be nothing.
Besides, I've got all the pills in the world inside me.
Rimbaud, I'll always be the one 'who wasn't born for this', I'll always be the one who waited for a door to open up for him in a wall without a door.'
I'll always be the one who waited for a door to open up for him in a wall without a door.
I'll never be nothing. I can't want to be nothing.
Besides, I've got all the pills in the world inside me.
Rimbaud, I'll always be the one 'who wasn't born for this', I'll always be the one who waited for a door to open up for him in a wall without a door.'
I'll always be the one who waited for a door to open up for him in a wall without a door.
April 18, 2014
"What is loneliness? It's living without obsessions. But sometimes in life we have to choose between pounding the tip of a knife or letting ourselves get burned in the fire."
Brilliant, tragic journey into the mind of madness.
Brilliant, tragic journey into the mind of madness.
July 22, 2013
Review to come.
May 24, 2020
Fuerte, poético, íntimo. Un retrato sin concesiones sobre la esquizofrenia, la salud mental y la diaria, difícil, tarea de dibujar la realidad.
February 15, 2020
Hubo una vez una serie de dibujos animados llamada Foofur en la que se contaban las experiencias diarias de un perro de color azul. De color azul también es el perro que da título a este libro tan triste.
El autor brasileño del libro murió joven en una clínica psiquiátrica tras publicar este libro. El narrador del libro también está en un centro psiquiátrico, y sobre ello versan estas páginas llenas de tristeza, de recuerdos, de nostalgia.
El narrador en primera persona nos relatará sus experiencias en el centro y sus problemas. En cierto modo se considera un prisionero de su propia mente desde que era pequeño. Él cree que está allí porque una vez, cuando era pequeño, se tragó un grillo y cree que lleva un chip en su interior desde entonces. Sin embargo, la causa parece ser otra, y es que el narrador y protagonista ha sido el causante de un gran destrozo en casa de sus padres, ha roto muebles y vajilla, y estos se han visto obligados a ingresarlo.
El hospital psiquiátrico está en Rio de Janeiro, y desde allí el narrador también hace alguna referencia a la realidad brasileña del momento. La gente de Brasil, dice, es “pobre, superpobre”. “Todo se volvió Van Gogh”, se titula el primer capítulo, y en él encontramos reminiscencias que nos trasladan hasta la vida del autor. “Estoy podrido. Puerco. Inmundo. Soy salvaje”, se dice a sí mismo. Estas palabras y otros calificativos se echa a la espalda en la que es una gran autocrítica contra su propia persona y contra su obesidad.
De niño, el narrador tenía un perro azul. Ahora, según dice, eso es lo único que le queda, como su madre, cuya figura idolatra. Aunque en cierto modo el lector la ve lejana, el narrador la dibuja con adoración.
Quien lo internó allí fue su padre, pero dice que no le guarda rencor. No acepta las medicinas que allí le imponen, y critica el mal trato que recibe por parte de los médicos. La clínica, además no es ninguna maravilla. Sin embargo, “la mayoría de los médicos son buena onda”, asegura. Esas medicinas le hacen delirar, y por momentos sueña despierto con Rimbaud y Baudelaire, a los que considera como sus únicos amigos. Rimbaud y el narrador pasan horas hablando.
Además de estos dos personajes imaginarios que se construye, el narrador nos hace un retrato de las personas que encuentra allí dentro, apodándolos a veces. Al final de la obra, el narrador dejará la medicación y saldrá de allí para volver a su casa, con su madre y con su perro azul. Dejará de ver a Rimbaud y Baudelaire. El último capítulo, por su parte, es un delirio del protagonista en el que él mismo se erige como mártir y salvador de los que piensan como él, y se convierte en una historia rocambolesca —como si lo anterior no lo hubiera sido— de la que el propio lector quiere salir para respirar aire fresco.
El protagonista no tiene nombre, aunque casi al final de la obra se le nombre Rodrigo, casualmente como el autor. No hay en este libro diálogos al uso, puesto que están incrustados en la narración. Lo que sí hay en alguna ocasión es un leve toque de humor que da luz entre tantas oscuridad. Este es un libro riquísimo en matices. Sin embargo, el traductor tomó la decisión de no introducir notas a pie de página, sino todas juntas al principio de la obra, para no romper la magia de la lectura y el ritmo. No es una historia rápida ni trepidante, pero conviene leerla de seguido.
Es un libro sin mucho orden, con saltos constantes que, sin embargo, dan coherencia al relato de un internado en un centro psiquiátrico. Toca muchos temas como el amor, la religión —es ateo— y la locura. Aquí, un elemento de gran importancia también es la vida y la realidad que hay detrás del propio autor.
El registro que se usa mayormente es entre formal y coloquial, aunque en ciertos momentos el narrador emplea vocablos o expresiones vulgares. Su título original, Todos os cachorros sao azuis, se ha traducido literalmente al español al ser considerado un elemento esencial para entender la quintaesencia del narrador y protagonista. Por otra parte, el diseño de cubierta —Self portrait, de Francis Bacon— es un reflejo de lo azul que se sentía por dentro el narrador. El azul significa frío, tristeza, y así es como él se siente.
Esta obra recuerda inevitablemente a otras de igual temática como La otra verdad, de Alda Merini, o Notas desde un manicomio, de Christine Lavant, con algunas diferencias. La obra de Souza Leão no es un muestrario más de una vida anónima, sino el complejo entramado mental de una persona que podríamos ser cualquiera de nosotros. Ahora veo su fotografía, tan joven, y me entristezco, me pongo azul.
El autor brasileño del libro murió joven en una clínica psiquiátrica tras publicar este libro. El narrador del libro también está en un centro psiquiátrico, y sobre ello versan estas páginas llenas de tristeza, de recuerdos, de nostalgia.
El narrador en primera persona nos relatará sus experiencias en el centro y sus problemas. En cierto modo se considera un prisionero de su propia mente desde que era pequeño. Él cree que está allí porque una vez, cuando era pequeño, se tragó un grillo y cree que lleva un chip en su interior desde entonces. Sin embargo, la causa parece ser otra, y es que el narrador y protagonista ha sido el causante de un gran destrozo en casa de sus padres, ha roto muebles y vajilla, y estos se han visto obligados a ingresarlo.
El hospital psiquiátrico está en Rio de Janeiro, y desde allí el narrador también hace alguna referencia a la realidad brasileña del momento. La gente de Brasil, dice, es “pobre, superpobre”. “Todo se volvió Van Gogh”, se titula el primer capítulo, y en él encontramos reminiscencias que nos trasladan hasta la vida del autor. “Estoy podrido. Puerco. Inmundo. Soy salvaje”, se dice a sí mismo. Estas palabras y otros calificativos se echa a la espalda en la que es una gran autocrítica contra su propia persona y contra su obesidad.
De niño, el narrador tenía un perro azul. Ahora, según dice, eso es lo único que le queda, como su madre, cuya figura idolatra. Aunque en cierto modo el lector la ve lejana, el narrador la dibuja con adoración.
Quien lo internó allí fue su padre, pero dice que no le guarda rencor. No acepta las medicinas que allí le imponen, y critica el mal trato que recibe por parte de los médicos. La clínica, además no es ninguna maravilla. Sin embargo, “la mayoría de los médicos son buena onda”, asegura. Esas medicinas le hacen delirar, y por momentos sueña despierto con Rimbaud y Baudelaire, a los que considera como sus únicos amigos. Rimbaud y el narrador pasan horas hablando.
Además de estos dos personajes imaginarios que se construye, el narrador nos hace un retrato de las personas que encuentra allí dentro, apodándolos a veces. Al final de la obra, el narrador dejará la medicación y saldrá de allí para volver a su casa, con su madre y con su perro azul. Dejará de ver a Rimbaud y Baudelaire. El último capítulo, por su parte, es un delirio del protagonista en el que él mismo se erige como mártir y salvador de los que piensan como él, y se convierte en una historia rocambolesca —como si lo anterior no lo hubiera sido— de la que el propio lector quiere salir para respirar aire fresco.
El protagonista no tiene nombre, aunque casi al final de la obra se le nombre Rodrigo, casualmente como el autor. No hay en este libro diálogos al uso, puesto que están incrustados en la narración. Lo que sí hay en alguna ocasión es un leve toque de humor que da luz entre tantas oscuridad. Este es un libro riquísimo en matices. Sin embargo, el traductor tomó la decisión de no introducir notas a pie de página, sino todas juntas al principio de la obra, para no romper la magia de la lectura y el ritmo. No es una historia rápida ni trepidante, pero conviene leerla de seguido.
Es un libro sin mucho orden, con saltos constantes que, sin embargo, dan coherencia al relato de un internado en un centro psiquiátrico. Toca muchos temas como el amor, la religión —es ateo— y la locura. Aquí, un elemento de gran importancia también es la vida y la realidad que hay detrás del propio autor.
El registro que se usa mayormente es entre formal y coloquial, aunque en ciertos momentos el narrador emplea vocablos o expresiones vulgares. Su título original, Todos os cachorros sao azuis, se ha traducido literalmente al español al ser considerado un elemento esencial para entender la quintaesencia del narrador y protagonista. Por otra parte, el diseño de cubierta —Self portrait, de Francis Bacon— es un reflejo de lo azul que se sentía por dentro el narrador. El azul significa frío, tristeza, y así es como él se siente.
Esta obra recuerda inevitablemente a otras de igual temática como La otra verdad, de Alda Merini, o Notas desde un manicomio, de Christine Lavant, con algunas diferencias. La obra de Souza Leão no es un muestrario más de una vida anónima, sino el complejo entramado mental de una persona que podríamos ser cualquiera de nosotros. Ahora veo su fotografía, tan joven, y me entristezco, me pongo azul.
June 4, 2020
La breve novela de Souza es un relato autobiográfico de la vida del escritor dentro de una institución para enfermos mentales escrito poco antes de su muerte. El protagonista, Rodrigo, es un hombre de 37 años que narra episodios de su vida de una manera desordenada que hace experimentar al lector muchas emociones propias de la esquizofrenia y otros síntomas de trastornos mentales. El ritmo de la novela es asombroso pues pasa rápidamente de los diálogos de distintos personajes a la introspección o las descripciones sobre su alrededor, en el que la familia y otros enfermos mentales tienen una gran importancia. Por dichos saltos, la complejidad de la novela aumenta, además de que tiene muchas referencias a la cultura de Brasil (aunque la traducción al español de Juan Pablo Villalobos es muy buena). Es un experimento que, sin duda, deja al lector inquieto, confundido e incluso perplejo antes las distintas experiencias del protagonista que nunca se pueden identificar por completo como algo real o como producto de su mente.
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