A CINEBIOGRAPHY OF
SÉRGIO BUARQUE DE HOLANDA
RAÍZES DO BRASIL SQUARE
Everybody's here already.
Some of my children some of my grandchildren,
some of my great-grandchildren...
People say that I grew a little, but that 's not true.
The whole tribe is here.
Sweetheart!
Sérgio is up there feeling very envious of me.
We first met by the Jockey Club one night during Carnaval.
Then we went to Lido,
cheerful place during Carnaval.
People dancing, having fun...
What about the courtship, the engagement?
There's not much to tell. It just happened.
That 's all.
Dad loved telling incidents. I also like telling incidents.
Daddy would start telling an incident, then he'd abruptly
change to another, would start telling something else...
Some people would catch on, but some would get completely lost.
Some of his pupils loved the way he told them,
but some were dazed with his total lack of objectiveness.
He would teach his classes like that, totally absentminded.
The first time I set foot in a nightclub was when mom
went to Rio for a couple of days and left us at home with Nanny, daddy...
Vinícius de Moraes called daddy and said, "We're here at The Cave",
which was a very fashionable place in São Paulo at the time.
So he said, "Why don't you drop by? Everybody's here".
Daddy couldn't resist.
He took me there, and Vinícius thought I was very cute.
In no time I was at the microphone
singing to a playback with the songs of Black Orpheus,
which I knew quite well. Then people started taking my singing seriously.
The lights were dimmed, a spotlight was shone on me,
and I thought, "This is what singing is all about".
That 's when it dawned on me
how pleasant it was to sing, to perform.
We hadn't settled on a key, on anything,
but everything worked out fine.
And daddy was so proud. He was marveled.
Paulinho, you could do that in an easier key to sing.
Let 's try it anyway. I'll learn the song. Let 's do it again.
Daddy said that the first time I ever showed any response
was when he sang that old song by Braguinha, "Touradas em Madri".
I met a Spanlsh lady who grabbed bulls with her hands
Daddy would do something very scary.
I guess I got very frightened, and he'd be very amused
by the way I responded.
I also remember an argument over the samba"Pelo Telefone",
if it actually had been the first samba ever composed.
And daddy would say, "No, I met Donga. I knew all those guys".
And uncle Jaime would sing "Pé de Anjo".
Angel feet, angel feet you are a slnner, a slnner
Your feet are so blg you mlght crush Our Lord
Stuff like that, and lots of Carnaval music.
And mom would sing those songs about women being beaten, rascal's wives.
There's no love Ilke a rascal's, my Lord
I've never seen such passlon
If he beats you it's because he Ilkes you
forto beat someone you dlsllke I've never heard of
A lot of partying went on at our house.
Mom knew that daddy was an incorrigible bohemian.
Before I was born, they had a short period
when they could party, but that was abroad,
and since mom is a very devout catholic,
she started having many children. We are 7 brothers and sisters.
So the partying was transferred to our house.
The sound daddy's typewriter made was an unrivaled lullaby...
the old typewriter. It sounded like...
I'd fall asleep listening to that.
Sometimes when he was writing, when he was working on an idea,
it was like a musician trying out chords, and he would type...
and when he'd find the right idea...
Very well done.
You drink scotch very well.
When Sérgio wrote, you could say he became possessed.
It was like a fever.
He would write sitting on his easy chair.
When he'd written a few pages,
he'd type them.
When he didn't like the result, he'd crumple sheets of paper
and threw them on the floor.
After a while there floor was covered
with crumpled sheets of paper.
And when he had written a certain amount of pages,
he'd type them.
Then he proofread them and typed them again.
He was very thorough in his work.
It took a long time for him to consider his job done.
Only after a lot of pages had been handwritten and torn,
a lot of pages had been typed and torn,
he would consider the job done and then sent it to his publisher.
Irene!
Let 's get out of here. I'm sick of teaching classes!
Daddy's study, on the contrary, was a big mess,
and the books weren't stored only in his study.
They started taking up space in the corridors.
This was at the last house we lived in on Buri Street.
Daddy didn't want anybody messing with his books.
Daddy spent part of his day, probably after he retired,
he spent part of his day in his study.
I recall that he read much more than he wrote, you see.
But he also wrote a lot.
It was the same before he retired.
At night he was usually alone in his study,
to which our access was restricted.
Except for Baía, who was his favorite daughter.
She could go in anytime.
I recall that once a friend dropped by on the night
of December 24th, Christmas Eve, he saw Dad in his study and said,
"Sergito, even on Christmas Eve he reads books in his study"!
That 's right. He really enjoyed reading, he enjoyed his work.
Wonderful, isn't it? That 's a rare thing.
Very few people manage it.
When I was admitted to the Economics course,
gradually, after I graduated,
Daddy gave me some of his books on Economics.
This one for instance, this is a book
that I researched a lot for a recent study,
"History of Economic Analysis", by Schumpeter.
And this one too, by D. Dillard, which covers the works of J. M. Keynes.
We never knew if daddy was talking seriously or if he was joking.
So sometimes he was serious, scolding us,
and we thought he was just joking. So then he'd explode, you see.
Then he'd really lay it down on us.
Irene! João!
"To João 'balalão, bread head', from your loving grandfather.
Sérgio, September 9th, 1978."
This is the book my grandfather gifted me.
It 's been a long time since I last read it.
I was only a month old, September 9th, 1978.
I was born August 19th, 1978.
"For Teresa, my 13th edition, this book which is also on its
13th edition, Sérgio, 'Pappyotto"', with two 'p's and a 'y'.
This is "Raízes do Brasil" that Pappyotto gifted me,
and it 's not... it doesn't have a date on it,
but it must have been in 198O, the year I was born.
I remember this incident. Pappyotto and daddy
were in the living room, at Buri Street,
and he was probably sitting in his big leather easy chair.
I got back from school and kissed him on his lips.
So he got up and started shouting around the house,
"She kissed me on the lips!"
This here is "Raízes do Brasil", which Sérgio dedicated to me.
He wrote a dedication to each grandchild and, when he wrote mine,
my mother was pregnant, so he wrote,
"To my 14th grandson or granddaughter".
They say it was the last thing he wrote before he died.
This was four days before he died. His handwriting is shaky.
I mentioned the ambiguity of my father angry or joking.
When I mention daddy angry, it wasn't always because of
noble work-related reasons, because we were disturbing him.
Sometimes he'd get upset for childish reasons.
I remember that, shortly after we returned, we came live in São Paulo,
there used to be a soccer championship between state teams,
and the São Paulo team had beaten the Rio de Janeiro team,
the neighborhood kids came over and were hassling us,
because we were from Rio.
So we were cussing them from a window, and they cussed us back,
"Your mother is a whatever..."
So Dad came to the living room and started yelling at us,
he was very angry at us because we were
cussing the 'Paulistas' and we were defending the 'Cariocas'.
And Dad, who knew nothing about soccer,
was defending the 'Paulista' kids.
This jesting was characteristic of him throughout his whole life.
This combination of seriousness and jesting.
Once, Miúcha and some friends were playing music downstairs,
and he, not knowing how to introduce himself,
picked up this horn used for herding cattle
and entered the living room blowing on the instrument.
That 's how he introduced himself to Miúcha's friends.
I remember once Dad started telling this incident,
and mom said, "Sérgio, you're exaggerating too much.
It wasn't quite like that, it happened like this..."
Then he said, "Maria Amélia, if I don't exaggerate a little bit,
the story will seem dull".
In his last days, his last weeks,
he lost some of his lucidity, but not all of it, you see.
He seldom went downstairs by himself.
But a couple of days before he died, I was told,
he went downstairs by himself
and, when he got there, he shouted, "Victory"!
Two days later he died. He was very sick, you see.
The last thing he wrote I think was...
Irene showed the book, was the dedication to her.
Dad died the 24th. The 2Oth was my birthday.
We knew...
her mommy was pregnant, and...
One day mom called me on the phone,
daddy had come back from the doctor
who'd said that there wasn't much hope.
So she gave us the bad news, and I said,
"So give him some good news, you see, so he will..."
After teaching classes and hassling the students...
Zeca... I need to have a"caipirinha".
Zeca is my nephew.
Zeca can sit elsewhere.
Today I gave them a test and I flunked everybody,
so I need to drink a...
Baía, Zeca said that at the library at UNICAMP
the students say that at night Dad's ghost turns on a light
and sits there reading books...
- Has he been filmed yet? - The ghost?
"To The Last Tango..."
Sentimental itinerary...
This was our first home after we got married.
On the first floor, it had a living room
and a bed room with a window.
There was a balcony there, where we put Miúcha's cradle.
Vinícius de Moraes would visit us and would stare at the child
and say how beautiful she was.
Sérgio was eager to chat with Vinícius.
Living here was very pleasant.
Many friends came to visit, the apartment brand new,
nice and all... We lived here for a year.
The street looked different. You didn't have so many buildings.
There used to be low houses and from the window
you had a view of the sea.
It was great. I thank God for it.
Did you like my narrative?
Gosh, this building! I loved it here.
I was a young lady then.
Three children, and Sérgio working nonstop here.
It was a fine period in our lives.
...his study... his world. I'd go in there sometimes,
the books covering the walls
and closing windows forever.
All those books were a mystery to me.
What actually caught my attention the most
was a big dark-covered set
"The Sermons of Father Antonio Vieira".
I don't know why Dad read them, since he wasn't a religious person.
But he read sermons and more sermons,
about twenty volumes of Father Vieira's sermons.
I can see my father getting home, walking down Buri Street,
walking down the street,
and it surprised me to see him walk down the street at all,
and even more to see him walk swiftly down the hill.
At supper, everyone was seated at the table
and mom would shout, "Sérgio! Sérgio!", always, "Sérgio!",
because he'd take a long while to come downstairs to have dinner,
because he was always busy at work reading or writing.
I never heard Dad mention the books he wrote
or the things he was writing.
He talked a lot about the literature he read,
all kinds of literature, from Tolstoi to Little Lulu.
Everything he was reading at the time or that he had read
would inspire him, and he'd say a verse by Apollinaire
he'd quote authors out of nowhere.
He talked a lot about other author's literature.
He never mentioned his writings.
Even in his book's dedications to his sons, to his daughters,
to his granddaughters, he would write things such as,
"Don't read this book, it 's too boring", things like that.
When I was about thirty years old, I read "Raízes do Brasil".
It took a while and I said to him, "Daddy, I'm reading 'Raízes do Brasil"'.
And he said, "Don't. Read 'Visão do Paraíso'. It 's much better".
The recollections I have of Hadock Lobo Street,
the early recollections of São Paulo are mixed
with certain amount of fear I had of my father.
I feared him because... that 's exactly why I recall most
the street, the soccer we played at Hadock Lobo Street
and at a small unpaved road called Taiarana Street.
Sometimes I'd come home hyped up,
shouting like if I were still playing, and suddenly Dad,
who seldom scolded us, sometimes he'd explode, you see.
He'd come down from his study, he'd walk down the stairs
and we'd know that hell would brake loose.
Daddy didn't like children all that much.
He liked the girls, their beauty,
and his son's intelligence.
Little children didn't
amuse him very much.
Of course, when he detected any sign of intelligence
in a son or daughter, he then allowed us in his study.
I was allowed in his study after the age of twenty.
Before that, I didn't go near his study.
I'd walk by and see that person with his glasses on his forehead
and just kept on going.
I remember all the expectation regarding leaving for Italy.
Because he'd sent... he went to Italy ahead of us.
He'd send us news
about the house where we were going to live.
It was a wonderful house with an elevator.
It was a house, not a building, but a house with an elevator,
a domestic, private elevator.
We thought that was awesome, a house with a yard,
an elevator...
When we arrived there, it was already dark outside,
it was cold, it was weird, it was dark,
and there was no heating. For some reason, the heating wasn't on.
So we arrived, and mom was upset, I'm not sure what happened next.
She looked around and she didn't like what she saw.
The elevator was actually a small lift for food
since the kitchen was on the ground floor
and the dining room was upstairs, so there was this food lift
which sometimes would fall, and we had this Italian maid...
it would all fall on the ground, and the maid would cry...
and lunch or supper would go to waste.
In Italy, most of the apartment buildings are called palaces.
So we thought we were going to live in a palace
with a private elevator.
Daddy had an Italian teacher that I thought was beautiful,
and I think mom was a little jealous of her.
In Europe, I started to see Dad outdoors
like I never saw him in São Paulo.
The image of my father outdoors reminds me of Europe.
It brings up a more relaxed, healthier image of my father...
the two years spent in Europe.
To start writing was the cue allowing me in his study.
So I started writing some things,
and I'd hand them to him and I'd leave and be frightened
as he read it with a serious look on his face, his glasses on his forehead...
He'd read, and then he'd call me and say,
"You need to read more," and so on. "But there's quality here".
He would make some observations not to discourage me,
"You could read this or you could read that..."
He'd suggest some books.
That environment itself suggested a lot,
all those books of his...
Dad and I had a nearly professional relationship,
and one day he gave me a book,
which I understood as a passing down of a scepter.
I have this book till today. It 's an analogical dictionary,
of related ideas, and it 's delicious to read.
Your mind travels far with the words, and he used it all his life.
When he gave it to me, it was quite withered, and today,
if I don't hold it carefully, it will come apart in my hands.
Here in Rio, what I liked was socializing with friends.
I've talked a lot about them, haven't I?
Very dear friends we had throughout our whole lives.
Vinícius de Moraes visited us often at Buri Street,
and he'd bring his friends over.
I remember Vinícius when Bossa Nova was just beginning.
Him with Baden Powell, Alaíde Costa...
And people would show up. It became a...
And it went on. You came to Rio, and he kept on showing up
with his friends at our house.
I think he became closer to daddy during that period
at Buri Street, you see. I have the impression he went there often.
Even after he died, Vinícius still dropped by.
Vinícius? Sure.
There's this famous tale that they had agreed...
I'm not sure which one of them was more afraid of dying,
so they agreed that whoever died first had to appear
before the other and tell how things were after death.
- Remember that? - And Vinícius appeared to him.
They even switched hats behind the glass door.
Daddy was very sad.
When Vinícius appeared, daddy asked,
"Hurry, Vinícius, tell me what it 's like".
And Vinícius did like this... and vanished.
He liked gossiping, you see. Daddy would instigate Vinícius
to tell incidents involving his former wives.
Daddy loved listening to Vinícius gossip.
Vinícius had many incidents to tell
and daddy loved gossiping.
Regarding historical facts, he liked most the gossip.
What he didn't write in books, he told us.
Dom Pedro's pubic hair he sent in a letter to...
No. That was the Duque of Caxias, who sent a pubic hair...
Oh, it was the Duque of Caxia's pubic hair?
I guess there's another pubic hair incident...
He loved the incident about the pubic hair.
Sending pubic hairs in letters was a fad at the time...
Pubic hairs in letters... that was great.
The friendship between Dad and Vinícius generated offsprings.
Their children became friends. He would mention the family thing...
That they formed a new family, the Buarque de Moraes.
Their friendship exceeded their generation.
Vinícius is my daughter Silvia's godfather.
The Buarque de Holanda family... they envy each other so much!
Who is the favorite uncle, the favorite cousin...
Who likes who best. Who Pappyotto liked best.
Who Memélia liked best.
One day, Bebel, the granddaughter who saw Pappyotto most often,
the eldest granddaughter who lived with him for a while...
Once Bebel said, "I went to Pappyotto's study
and asked him which granddaughter he liked best,
and he said it was me".
So I, very impudently, waited a while
and, that same day, maybe ten minutes later,
I went to his study and he was reading or writing, I'm not sure.
"Papyotto, which granddaughter do you like best?"
He said, "You".
Papyotto autographed a copy of "Raízes do Brasil"
for each grandchild, and here's mine.
"Silvia, who learned to write at the age of four..."
He's exaggerating, "...and I, at the age of five,
do not ever read this book, which is more than
four-hundred years old. Regards from Sérgio, Papyotto".
We seldom saw each other. I think the three of us
are the granddaughters who were less in contact with Pappyotto.
That 's why we have so few recollections of him.
Some years ago, I started getting interested in academic subjects
because I majored in Philosophy, and through a friend,
a colleague who had read it, recommended it to me.
Incredible, isn't it?
I liked it a lot. I read "Raízes do Brasil"
and was highly impressed.
I wonder why I took so long to read it.
It seemed very keen, and very well written.
It was beautiful, and I loved the ideas... the content.
I remember the house on Buri Street
when all the grandchildren were brought together.
Usually there were many children there.
He enjoyed showing us his study,
all those books, a big mess, all stacked up,
but he knew where each book was placed.
He liked very much to show us his microfilm machine.
Several of his books were microfilmed.
He liked very much to turn on the machine on
and show it to the kids.
The roll was very small, he put it in the machine
and that green light came on...
PC's weren't popular back then and we were very impressed.
He would show us the microfilms. I couldn't read, but it seemed
so beautiful to me, all that writing,
the book projected.
He would always create an atmosphere of mystery
and enchantment, so the kids would be very impressed.
I studied History at the university for two years
and of course I studied "Raízes do Brasil".
I liked "Visão do Paraíso" a lot.
That 's when I really got to know Sérgio Buarque de Holanda,
because before that he was Pappyotto, my grandfather.
Cinema at home...
Everything OK?
How wonderful...
How are you, gentlemen? Everything OK?
We were talking about you on our way from the airport.
That you would be here.
Bruno... the whole family is here.
- Talked about Pappyotto yet? - Sit down and say something too.
You want me to say something about Pappyotto?
- Sure. What should I say? - That 's up to you.
Her father and her grandfather I know through books.
I have to say something. He thought my grandfather
was Aurélio, the author of the dictionary.
But my grandfather is Sérgio, he didn't write the dictionary.
He had quite a vocabulary... I actually thought he'd written it.
I was very frustrated. "Mister Aurélio wasn't your grandfather,
such an illustrious character." "My grandfather was a historian..."
- Am I free to go now? - I don't think so.
No doubt that Rio was more important,
much more important than São Paulo.
But today you can't state that.
But he was a wholehearted 'paulista'...
Who? Sérgio? No doubt about it.
He was very stubborn about it.
His mother wanted to move to Rio,
but he resisted the idea out of sheer stubbornness.
He never changed his mind.
When he retired, I felt like moving to Rio,
but he said, "Frankly, no". He loved São Paulo.
Sérgio was the curator of the Paulista Museum,
which is next door to us, and I had a lot of sympathy for him
and I visited him often.
I learned a lot from him.
I learned a lot about modern art, for instance.
One day I mentioned dadaism. Sérgio then pulled a book
from a shelf and gave me a two hour lecture
on dadaism making any further inquiries on the subject
unnecessary for me.
What fascinated me most about Sérgio were his
immense talent and culture and, essentially,
the way he dealt with them.
Sérgio's house was a very pleasant place to be.
We didn't go there for any specific reason.
We just went there, so we could be there.
Sérgio loved music.
In my opinion, he knew nothing about it.
Maria Amélia is quite a connoisseur.
She was familiar with all the ancient 'carioca' composers.
She knew all their songs, and sang them,
and her daughters are also all very talented.
Singing, Maria Amélia was a disaster.
She sang in a high-pitched voice. She sang samba in a soprano key...
It was terrible, but we enjoyed it.
It 's very difficult to comment on Maria Amélia.
You have to know her... It 's something difficult to convey,
because she's so intense, she's so determined...
She is also highly principled over the right issues,
such as true friendship, straightforwardness.
So she is a born leader.
Moreover, aside the leadership, the harshness,
she is remarkably sweet, you see.
You talk to her on the telephone, and it makes you feel good.
So Sérgio... the smartest thing he ever did was to marry Maria Amélia.
Sérgio was content at work. He'd be upset if he had
an appointment that forced him to leave the house at night.
I, for instance, like to go to the movies, so I went.
When I got back home he'd say, I bet the film was lousy.
Actually the film had been good, but he wished it hadn't been.
But the days he wanted to chat with his friends
he really enjoyed it.
Our home was quite a happy home.
We had wonderful friends and a great time.
In my opinion.
In the early fifties, we lived in São Paulo,
on Hadock Lobo Street,
in a house that today would be unimaginable.
There was a vacant lot in the back of the house
facing Augusta Street.
Sometimes a circus or an amusement park
would be set up there, and one day an elephant
escaped and came into our yard.
So there was this big commotion,
and daddy was at home working.
I ran to his study and said,
"There's an elephant in our house"!
He was at work, concentrated...
"Just crumple it and get rid of it",
and just went on typing.
A seminar was going to be held, and mom couldn't go,
because she'd be in Rio, so she recommended us to go
since we'd be in São Paulo.
So Sergito, Baía and I went.
After it finished, "What about a drink? Something to eat? A nice chat?"
The post-graduate students wanted to know
what their professor was like at home, what he liked to read.
Regarding newspapers, he'd do the crosswords
and he'd read the horoscope.
"What else he read?" "He read Little Lulu."
The students were astounded. "The professor reads Little Lulu!"
He read Little Lulu. He liked reading Little Lulu...
"Tell us more about him..."
At a certain point in the conversation,
we mentioned that he smoked grass.
Suddenly there was this ominous silence.
"The professor smokes grass?!"
He'd always ask me, when I arrived from Pernambuco,
if I'd brought some of that reefer that I usually roll up.
And when he died, mom found in one of his desk drawers...
"I found this among your fathers belongings,
and by the way it was rolled it can only be yours."
One thing that amused me about Sérgio
was that at times he'd get a little tired,
so he'd decide to take a little break.
But his break consisted of reading
a Russian novel to nibble at,
an Italian play, English poetry to refresh his mind,
to refresh his mind rather than to rest.
What pleased me most about Sérgio was the...
was his capacity, his enthusiasm for his work.
I remember that he used to say that when I was born
I was delivered in a small wicker basket
garnished with silk, satin sheets, ribbons,
that little birds were carrying as he sang a tune.
Maybe I was a little spoiled.
Daddy's study was sacred grounds, the place he worked,
and it was a preposterous mess,
books and documents only he could find.
So I can understand his concern, because he had seven children.
A siege of kids grabbing, taking his things,
scribbling on his documents, so it was forbidden to enter his study.
Maybe because I was the quietest, the most fragile,
I could go in the study.
But this wasn't a personal privilege, you see.
I remember something amusing happened in Rio
when daddy took me someplace in downtown Rio.
I could tell he was enjoying pampering me.
He took me places and asked me what I wanted.
If I wanted ice-cream, if I wanted some sweets,
if this or that, so I felt that I could abuse him a little.
So I told him my secret, my most intimate desire.
I was what, ten years old at most.
So I told him what I really wanted was a bra.
Daddy was quite amused.
Because I saw the ladies with those marks on their shoulders,
the straps, and it seemed it was so nice...
So he took me to a store
and talked seriously to a saleswoman and he was actually having fun.
So the lady came back with several bras, I tried them on...
We spent half an hour fooling around, trying on bras,
until we decided that none would fit me.
So then, he promised me that as soon as my breasts
would grow a little, he'd buy me a bra.
I was twelve years old, but I looked like I was eight.
Daddy would hold a cigarette pack out to me,
and I'd take one and I'd smoke, but I didn't inhale.
Because we were putting on an act.
So people would be... the ladies would be perplexed,
but they couldn't oppose Mister Sérgio,
and had no idea how things worked at our house.
I remember I was saying good-bye to a boyfriend at the gate,
and suddenly I turned around and I saw daddy sort of hidden spying on me.
So I said, "Daddy, what are you doing?
Are you spying on me?". He was so embarrassed,
he said, "No. It 's not what you're thinking.
I just wanted to see how people date nowadays".
He was also interested in the things I was reading...
So I remember when I started reading "Grande Sertão Veredas",
He loved "Grande Sertão", you see.
He was happy to know that I was reading...
that really thick book. I read slowly.
So he'd barge in the room every two hours,
took the book out of my hands, saw what page I was at,
flipped some pages, then flipped some pages back, lifted his glasses
and then he'd give it back.
He'd do this all the time.
"Daddy, the story's still unfolding, it 's very slow..."
At a certain point, he couldn't wait any longer, he said,
"Did you get to the part where you find out that Diadorim
is actually Diadorinha?"
I almost literally threw the book at him.
A week before he died, he was very weak
and pretty much confused. He couldn't recognize people
or simply forgot... He'd say, "Zaninha"...
but he couldn't concentrate, didn't talk much any more.
At a certain moment, mom walked by.
He said, "Zanoquinha, I wouldn't have accomplished the things I did,
everything I accomplished, that I wrote, that I accomplished
was with your mother's support, was thanks to your mother.
She has always assisted me, since 'Raízes do Brasil'.
I owe her everything".
Mom wasn't aware of this, but I think he needed
to say what we all knew. Everyone said that it was mom
who made things possible, that is, was mom who took care of everything,
so he could work.
But he wanted to say it, to put it in words.
He wanted to make this statement,
to put it on record
that it was thanks to mom, that he owed her everything.
Even in his last days, Sérgio wanted to work.
My God, I remember that the night before he died
Maria do Carmo helped me carry him from his study
to his bed, stumbling, part of the way on a wheel chair.
Maria do Carmo needed to assist him to get him into bed.
But always working, insisting on it.
Once, near the end, he was at his study among his books...
He was very tired already, he'd take a book, left it aside,
took another... that 's when he said how nice it would be
if Brazil's history could be written not according to its leaders,
the people in office, but according to its people,
to the poor, the destitute, you see.
Brazil seen, photographed, if we can use the word that is,
from bottom to top, from inside out.
Of course a research team would be required
and plenty of time, which he didn't have.
But that would be wonderful. I think so too. Don't you?
At least there's the outline of a project in case anyone is interested.
I remember the bonfire of books...
This here is my son Theo, the youngest great-grandson.
There was this bonfire of books, useless books.
She'd argue with Pappyotto... then there was the bonfire.
When I went to his study, he'd open the door
and it was funny. I'd say, "Hi, Pappyotto. Hi".
And he'd say, "Helena has arrived. Lelê is here"!
And I'd say, "No, Pappyotto, it 's not Lelê. It 's me, Rutinha.
Don't you remember me?"
"No, I'm sure you're Lelê. Look at that hair",
and he'd caress my hair. I'd say, "No, no..."
This went on for hours until I was just about to cry.
Memélia would step in and say, "Sérgio, cut that out.
Stop hassling the girl..."
I remember that he was quite a joker.
He didn't have a problem with modern things.
I remember he was one of the first people I knew
who had purchased one of those modern electrical typewriters.
As soon as they were marketed, he purchased one.
Today he'd probably own a state-of-the-art computer.
"For Rute to read, if she will, after she's forty,
the same age this old book is right now,
Sérgio Buarque de Holanda. July 11th, 1978."
Sérgio was never an activist. He didn't get involved in
street bombings and such, but he fought the dictatorship.
First he opposed Getúlio Vargas, and then things turned for worse.
He'd always take a
liberal, advanced stance.
He was quite enthusiastic when the Worker's Party was founded...
"Things are getting better", he'd say.
He filed for retirement when his colleagues were retired.
We are at a place I'd say is very adequate
to talk about Sérgio Buarque de Holanda,
because we are at what was once the conference room of the
University of São Paulo's Philosophy, Science and Literature college.
Later it was renamed the Literature and Human Sciences college.
This is the conference room, and here, therefore,
Sérgio carried out his duties as a member of the congregation,
as a professor.
This is where he took the famous exam to become
professor of History of Brazilian Civilization in 1958.
Sérgio was a kind of a highly complex
entity with contrasting personalities.
He was, for instance, an erudite scholar
with a disposition for playing pranks.
He was a fellow of an uncommon intellectual sternness
and a devout joker.
At a faculty meeting, for instance,
he'd come up with some astounding remarks.
He was very conscious, let 's put it,
of an intellectual's duties in terms of sternness,
but at the same time he preserved the qualities
divulged by the 1922 modernist movement.
He was a man shaped in the atmosphere
of the modern art movement in such a way that he preserved
the prankishness, the joking...
What the modernists taught Brazilian literature was
that for a person to be stern doesn't mean that person has to be sullen.
Sternness is related to happiness.
He was familiar with English, Italian, German and French literature,
so you must keep in mind how refined this man was.
He was the combination of a magnific erudite
and a happy, unsettled, nonconventional creature.
Sérgio practically knew everything there is to know.
He had an enormous collection of books
and once in a while he renewed them and gave many away.
Once he gave me 4OO books, 4OO volumes.
I kept 8O or 1OO of them and gave the university 3OO.
If Sérgio had kept all the books he bought,
his collection would contain approximately 4O thousand books.
His final collection contained ten thousand books.
He possessed that kind of passion for books
that makes you do insane things.
What I admire in a book lover is his ability to do insane things.
Because without the ability to do insane things,
there is no passion, as we all know.
Some possess amorous passion, other have a passion for gambling,
others have a passion for alcohol, and some for books.
I know this because, when I was young,
I would default on my rent, so I could buy books.
Sérgio did the same thing.
I'm not sure if I'm about to commit an indiscretion,
but it 's been so long that I think I can tell it.
Maria Amélia would become a bit desperate,
because they had so many children and were making little money
and Sérgio was buying books in English, in German...
So what he did was... He lived on Hadock Lobo Street
and he had this famous maid, Nanny, at the house.
So what Sérgio did, he had this scheme with Nanny,
when he'd arrive at home, he'd walk down the driveway to the kitchen door
and handed Nanny the books. Nanny hid the books,
then Sérgio would walk to the front door and rang the doorbell.
Maria Amélia opened the door, he'd walk in,
she saw that he hadn't bought any books, so she was relieved.
I think that in terms of a profile of Sérgio Buarque,
we've covered a lot. Now,
there's a final statement I must make, not less important,
which is to mention the importance of Maria Amélia in his life.
Maria Amélia was... I think that without Maria Amélia
Sérgio Buarque would not have been quite the man he was.
Maria Amélia took care not only of Sérgio's household,
but she was also his collaborator.
Maria Amélia did most of the research with him.
She is a very bright woman, very cultured
and very knowledgeable of these matters.
For instance, once she went with him to Cuiabá to do research in Cuiabá.
Once they got in a VW they owned, and she drove it
all the way to Assunción, in Paraguay.
At the time that was an adventure.
You didn't have highways like you have today.
She went all the way to Assunción to do research.
So she collaborated with Sérgio, researched documents, took notes...
Therefore, I think that Maria Amélia,
as a wife and as an intellectual collaborator,
she made things possible for Sérgio to accomplish his achievements.
I cannot conceive Sérgio Buarque de Holanda without Maria Amélia.
Everyone in my family was nonconventional.
No one ever lied at our home.
Sometimes there were arguments, but no lies.
Each one had their friends, their way of life.
At our home, I think you were all quite independent.
No one tried to convince the other to root for this or that soccer team.
Certain things we actually despised,
like being snobbish, you see.
This is the cemetery in Paquetá
and, beyond this wall, is the "Passarinho" cemetery.
It 's inadequate to shoot this here,
because daddy dreaded dying.
Once this fellow came by our house
to sell us a grave.
The cemetery was very nice, very peaceful, with many trees...
And daddy dreaded dying, he dreaded it,
so he kicked the guy out of the house really fast.
"I'm not gonna die!"
Daddy had this obsession, he would never wear brown clothes.
I guess he felt like he was wearing a coffin.
There was no way he'd put on brown clothes.
It was one of his obsessions. He said it was bad luck.
Another thing he thought was bad luck
was the number of cigarettes in the pack.
When it got down to 13, he'd take one out,
so that there would never be 13 in the pack.
I remember that he enjoyed music.
He liked Ismael Silva,
whom he met personally.
He enjoyed music, but he didn't listen to it a lot.
He enjoyed it most when we were playing and singing,
he'd ask us to sing some songs.
One song he liked especially was "Acalanto", by Caymmi.
Sometimes he'd ask us to sing a song to lull him to sleep.
He called it chant. Music, in general, he called chant.
Did he enjoy the fact that his son was a composer
and that his daughters were singers?
Yes, he did. He enjoyed music and he approved it.
He was proud of us.
This was one of my grandfather's great passions,
a collection of books he purchased
throughout his entire life, in his trips, in book stores,
secondhand book stores, mainly in São Paulo.
This collection of books is housed at UNICAMP,
at the central library building.
These are the things that were in his study.
He wrote "Raízes do Brasil" on that typewriter.
From what I remember, he wasn't as organized as the way things are here.
I have another recollection of us watching a soccer game
in a room with a round table, the dining room.
The whole family was there. Pappyotto, quite aged,
sitting in a wheel chair...
Brazil was playing a team in red jerseys,
probably Poland or Chile, and he was taunting us,
since he was dressed in red, that he was rooting against Brazil.
I thought that was strange. I thought he was weird.
He frightened me because he rooted against Brazil.
I feared him because of these attitudes of his.
I remember that one day I said to Dad that I wanted to know more
about this book, "Raízes do Brasil", that we had at home.
Then he said, "That 's a book for grown-ups.
When you grow up, when you're mature enough, you'll read it".
But I wanted to prove myself, so I read it anyway.
So I remember that I read a little bit
and left it aside.
The truth is you end up maturing so at a certain point
in your youth and you gain interest, which occurred to me
when I studied Human Sciences and was introduced to the book.
Not only to "Raízes do Brasil", but also
to other works focusing on Brazil.
We played table soccer, the players in different colors...
We pretended it was the soccer field at the stadium.
We played table soccer there until Pappyotto walked down the stairs
and started barking at us. I'd run away scared to death.
The dedication on my copy of "Raízes do Brasil" says
I should read it when I overcome my fear of the dog.
I remember him walking down the stairs
and hitting us on the head with his cane.
I remember there was this shelf that was forbidden to us.
It was the highest shelf, where all of Pappyotto's books were stored.
- At Buri Street? - Not at Buri Street, at our house.
Each one of us had a copy.
So there was that person, almost inaccessible,
Professor Sérgio Buarque de Holanda, a very stern man...
And daddy talked about the books he wrote, "Because your grandpa..."
I thought they were highly complex, inaccessible, that I could never grasp.
That and the physical image I made of him
based on a picture of him we had at home of Pappyotto
wearing this funny wig and smoking a cigar...
A hilarious picture. The combination of that reckless image of him
and that completely somber figure.
It was funny because then I gradually built
an image of him that conveyed both sides.
We are always remembering incidents with Pappyotto.
There are many funny incidents,
so I'm not sure if it 's a recollection or if I'm fantasizing
from hearing those incidents.
We could care less for social rules.
But I have always cherished
family bonds.
I don't know if you will keep them tied... we'll see.
I have the impression that you will.
I think Sérgio wasn't aware, he didn't talk to his kids very much,
but he posed a lot of influence in his family life.
I notice this even now, and I hope he will influence
his great-grandchildren as well.
The early years are shady, I lived there until I was four.
I came to São Paulo in March of 1946
and I was born in January, 1942.
He'd tell me this thing that I really loved, that his job was fixing buses.
I thought it was one of the most important professions there could be.
My room was at the end of this apartment,
where the balcony is, it was large.
It was modified, so you can't evaluate very well,
I'd wait to see him take the bus, then I'd run real fast to the other end
to see if I could see him, but most of the times I didn't make it.
So there was all this admiration. I didn't know where he was about,
but I had this image of him fixing buses.
It was awesome.
Probably during that period I may have had closer contact
with my father, when I was four, five years old,
than my older brother and sisters.
I can't state that for a fact, but it 's probable.
It was a period of three, four years...
and later I was burdened because of that.
We spent two years in Italy...
and my father didn't care too much for cinema,
perhaps because he smoked, even though I think
you were allowed to smoke inside the theaters in Rome.
Once he insisted we saw a film,
"This film you have to watch"...
It was a film called "II Magnifico Scherzzo".
But we wanted to watch adventure,
war, and cowboy movies,
and Dad insisted we watched "II Magnifico Scherzzo",
which was one of Marilin Monroe's first appearances in films.
It isn't a great film and I think it was directed by Howard Hawks.
In Brazil it was called "O Inventor da Mocidade".
Cinema was just a kind of a topic.
Literature came later, he didn't worry about it too much in Rome.
But when we came back to Brazil, he'd ask us to read things like
"Grande Sertão Veredas". He didn't ask us to read
"Sagarana" or easier books. He gave us the hard stuff.
One peculiar thing about Dad was that although he spent
his days in his study at work, he never closed the door.
He always wanted to know what was going on in the house.
He wanted to know what was going on,
but he didn't like noise disturbing his work.
It was a problem because sometimes we wanted
to hear some music, to chat... and that would disturb him.
He seldom discussed any serious matters with us.
He was mostly joking. Only once in a while
we discussed serious matters, but not often.
He only started taking us seriously after we were 2O or so.
Sometimes I didn't know how he did it.
He had this Caldas Aulete and other dictionaries.
The Caldas Aulete was five volumes.
Sometimes, I'd ask him about a specific word and he'd say,
"Look it up in the Caldas Aulete, after this word and before that word".
I looked it up and sometimes he was right.
He wasn't right all the time, but sometimes he was,
and I asked myself how could he know
the exact location of a word in a 5 volume dictionary
like the Caldas Aulete.
But sometimes he just guessed and sometimes he was right.
He was kind of absent-minded. I remember I went to Manaus once.
The trip took about a month.
I said goodbye to him as usual and left.
What I heard, and this may not be accurate,
what I heard is that two weeks or so after I was gone,
at lunch or at dinner he says, "ÁIvaro hasn't showed up lately".
I'd said my good-byes, and he didn't seem too...
he didn't pay too much attention to that kind of thing.
Every time he drank a little too much,
he'd loosen up and he'd start speaking in German.
I think before he went to Germany, he was quieter
and he started leading a more bohemian life in that period,
when he was about 28 years old.
Whenever he was a little happier, he'd start singing in German.
He sang totally off key.
Let 's get a cold beer.
Come here. Look, I'm singing for you.
Cacá, Cacá, stop... stop crying.
Want to sit here by Aunt Bel?
So we can talk about Pappyotto? OK. So let 's get on with it.
He became... I don't know, a combination of a father
and an older brother. I'm not sure what he was to me.
Mainly because he had this obsession of saying
that I was his grandmother, to begin with,
which made me furious.
And I'd say, "Don't say that in front of strangers"!
I was worried about conveying a straight image.
Memélia would always take me to school.
Sometimes Pappyotto came along.
And when we stopped in traffic in São Paulo...
He'd stop at a red light and ask the guy in the car
next to us, "Did you know that the girl in the back seat
is my grandmother?". So I tried to hide myself.
"How can you do this to me, Pappyotto?" And he got even funnier.
Sometimes we argued, and Memélia would get upset.
It happened several times.
Until one time Memélia stopped the car and said,
"If you don't stop this argument, I'll kick you both out of the car,
because this is intolerable".
"Pappyotto," I'm not sure when I gave him that nickname,
if it was in New York or in Mexico, but I think it was in Mexico.
I called dad "Papi", and he was the "other Papi",
the other daddy, "Pappyotto".
He signed P-A-P-P-Y-O-T-T-O.
We played different games, one of which was
Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf, which we played here
out front in the square when I managed to take him outside.
There was this tree that I... it 's not there anymore.
I played the wolf and he was Little Red Riding Hood.
He loved it. He didn't have a problem with that.
He was wonderful. I chased him around...
Pappyotto was a superb grandfather
and I think I was very lucky to have him.
I practically didn't know my grandparents on my father's side,
but I was very close
to my grandparents on my mother's side...
I'm not gonna cry because this isn't the time or place...
This is a daughter thing...
Memélia, when she talked to me, she would refer to him as my father.
She never referred to him as "Pappyotto, your grandfather".
It was, "Your Dad..." So I was like a daughter to him.