A humble homage

"We need to be contemporary, not only survivors, of our own selves" -- Murilo Mendes.


A sometimes obscure, sometimes humble, at all times admired J. G. Merquior, perhaps one of the greatest intellectuals of the XX century. Born in Brazil, under the sign of Taurus, in April 22 of 1941, he was robust in his intellect, powerful in his criticism, and humane as a person. As a diplomat, he served in Paris (1966), Bonn (1973), London(1975/79), and Montevideu (1980/82). Academically, he possessed a degree in Law, two doctorates from the London School of Economics, and Sorbonne, in letters, and post-studies from the Rio Branco Institute.
Acclaimed wherever he went, he made connections with some of the most respected intellectuals of his time. Octavio Paz, the notable poet, and also a good friend, gave a few lectures together with Merquior entitled "The XX Century: The Experience of Liberty". Powerful and touchy lectures, I must say, that would leave his audience asking for more, however recognizing that all that was said, was all that had to be said. A paradox, with a sense of completeness and nakedness.

J. G. Merquior is mostly known for his treatise on Focault, and a prodigious thesis on Rosseau and Weber, which would render him that which he had never asked for: Fame. Always obscure, he more than often wrote articles for newspapers in pieaces of napkins at airports in the midst of his travels. His intinerary which was very much open, starting with his efforts to understand the literary phenomena which starts with its internal reason. In Frankfurt, he wrote on the Marcuse society, Adorno and Benjamin. In Paris, he found the structuralism of its days, and wrote a not-so-structuralist thesis on the aesthetics of Levi-Strauss. In England, he established a diologue, and problably a pact with their popperian rationalism. And so went he, in his journey, progressively advancing in his wide comprehension of books, and lines, and life.

After receiving the news about the desease that would take him, he went,as if nothing had happened, to his favorite place, his publishing company. There he verified articles for publication, gave suggestions for the cover of the book that had given him so much hapiness, knowing that he's never live to see it published. He said farewell without anyone knowing that he would, soon, go to the other sphere of time.