The Vineyards

This would be a melancholic day of its own, even without the most absurd, unexpected, unexplainable fact. But it did happen, to make this day even more melancholic - and probably extend the melancholy to the next few months.

This morning, my very favorite teacher from USP had a heart attack, and died.

I doubt he was older than 60. Smoked a lot, drank quite a lot of coffee, but it surely was not expected, there were no signs of it at all. He just woke up, felt sharp pains, and died.

. . .

I hold it that he was the best teacher in the course, in the department, and probably in the whole Arts and Communications School. He knew the history of books, their making and publishing, from the very first papyrus to the latest Palm compatible e-book. He could talk for three hours (witnessed by myself) about the intricate capital letters that open some story books - where they started to be made, who made them, their value, things no one would ever imagine. He talked of the role of monks in the keeping of knowledge during the Middle Ages as if he had been there. And yet he was the most joyful of all teachers I have had, always making jokes, always laughing - when the time was proper, of course.

My first day of class, Sociology, was a disaster, and I seriously thought of quitting right then. My second day in school was two classes with him. That is what I expected from the structural classes of a Publishing course. The history of written communication starting from cave paintings and going through each step carefully, with details I had never imagined existed. That class (and ruby's eyes and warm welcome) kept me there.

His knowledge is not easy to express - it involved everything that remotely related to written communication. Ancient Greek history, which he punctuated with lots of Greek words; Sumerian legends; Middle Ages, which he refused to call Dark Ages and always mentioned multiple schools of thought from the period to base the affirmation; the origins of the postal system and newspapers (they were related, who would imagine?); Gutenberg and his revolution; the history of paper and press in China and Japan (they had their own, and he knew it top to bottom too). Impossible to remember it all. And yet it was not all.

The first two classes I had with him were mandatory; the other two were not, but I took them mainly because it was him. "History of Public Opinion" was the last, on Tuesday nights last year. Very troublesome to get to, but worth every minute. At the end, I urged him to take "History of Political Doctrines" because he was a lot more fitting than the teacher who hosted it. He apologized, said he was already lining up material to start a class this year or the next, about the history of publishing in Brazil. And thanked me when I said I would take it, too, if it was him teaching it.

He always complained about everything. Not one teacher escaped his thorns, and he surely did not have a glass roof - he could throw stones, and did, lots of it. He also complained about how most students of the Publishing course were falling into the design area, doing their final, mandatory research on it. He used to say his greatest desire was for a student to ask him to be their thesis advisor in a research about pornography in the 14th to 18th century. I doubt I could be so bold as to make a thesis about pornography, but I was very sure I wanted him to be my advisor when my thesis needed to be written.

I always regretted not being there for one of the funniest moments recorded of him. A student got up and walked out in the middle of his class, making a lot of noise and interrupting him. He just stopped to talk and observed. As the student closed the door, he looked back to the classroom, shrugged, and said, "Must be a socialist". And continued the class.

And he died this morning, of a heart attack.

. . .

Damnit.

Posted by Etienne at May 7, 2004 10:36 PM