A morte da imaginação

Quando chega o Natal e as hordas de pais pouco imaginativos invadem os hipermercados com seus rebentos exigentes, na busca da magia perdida da infância num qualquer brinquedo da moda, não consigo deixar de pensar nas consequências futuras de educar uma geração com base num facilitismo de consumo desenfreado e amorfo, como se a vida fosse toda ela um usar e deitar fora cíclico a que temos de resignar-nos quanto antes. Por isso, defendem esses progenitores pouco empenhados, de que serve cultivar a figura do Pai Natal se as crianças mais tarde ou mais cedo descobrem a "verdade"? Basta serem confrontados com os coleguinhas de infantário, cujos pais muito racionais e bem intencionados (embora comodamente apoiados no que julgam ser a solução mais prática e menos trabalhosa para os próprios) já trataram de desmistificar a magia da noite de Natal, no intuito de "proteger"a sensibilidade infantil de eventuais mágoas.

A minha experiência pessoal foi toda ela contrária a esta tendência e a magia que ainda guardo relativamente à época natalícia tem, sem dúvida alguma, uma forte ligação com esses anos. Anos de expectativa nocturna, alimentada horas a fio debaixo do pinheiro de Natal, no embevecimento deslumbrado das luzinhas coloridas intermitentes ou na fantasia das surpresas reservadas pela manhã de Natal que tardava em chegar, por muito que tentasse manter-me acordada para ouvir os passos do ancião generoso e barrigudo.

Por isso, melindro-me ao visitar casas (onde habitam crianças) em que as prendas vão sendo acrescentadas debaixo da árvore de Natal (quando existe) ao ritmo das suas aquisições, sem qualquer intuito que não seja o de esvaziar os bolsos e encher os olhos (neste caso não de fantasia mas de ganância, vaidade balofa e inveja muito ao jeito de : "a minha prenda é maior que a tua!"). Revolta-me que certos adultos não percebam que a fantasia e a imaginação são uma parte basilar da centelha vital do ser humano, e que talvez por isso, nestes tempos de playstations, dvds, mp3s e muito consumismo desmesurado, uma personagem como Harry Potter tenha ganho uma tão fundamental relevância no universo infanto-juvenil. As crianças precisam de magia, de perder-se no mundo da imaginação, nem que seja para poderem suportar melhor as agruras da vida real que lhes entra pelo quotidiano adentro, demasiadas vezes pela televisão.

Television
Roald Dahl

The most important thing we've learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set –
Or better still, just don't install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we've been,
We've watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
(Last week in someone's place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit
Until they're hypnotised by it,
Until they're absolutely drunk
With all that shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don't climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink –
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND
HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND
A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!
HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!
HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!
HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES!
'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,
'But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!'
We'll answer this by asking you,
'What used the darling ones to do?
'How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?'
Have you forgotten? Don't you know?
We'll say it very loud and slow:
THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching 'round the pot,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it's Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-
Just How The Camel Got His Hump,
And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,
And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,
There's Mr. Rate and Mr. Mole-
Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the dirty looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks-
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They'll now begin to feel the need
Of having something to read.
And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen
They'll wonder what they'd ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did.