João Tordo

    João Tordo was born in Lisbon in 1975. He read Philosophy and studied Journalism and Creative Writing in London and New York. In 2001 he was the recipient of the New Authors Prize. He has published six novels: O Livro dos Homens Sem Luz(2004); Hotel Memória (2007); As Três Vidas (2008), winner of the José Saramago Literary Prize and shortlisted for the Portugal Telecom Prize in Brazil; O Bom Inverno (2010), shortlisted for the best Fiction Novel of the Portuguese Author's Society and the Fernando Namora Literary Prize; the french translation, published by Actes Sud, was nominated for the European Literary Award; Anatomia dos Mártires (2011), again shortlisted for the Fernando Namora Literary Prize. His novels are translated in seven countries, including France, Italy and Brasil. He also works as a columnist, translator, screenwriter and regularly teaches workshops of Fiction.

Breath

    You can’t hold your breath for too long. Even long distance swimmers – whose lungs are trained to withhold greater masses of air – can only remain alive for a couple of minutes without oxygen. To breathe is to live, and to live is to keep on breathing regardless of the fact that we are mostly unaware of the fact that we are doing it. In fact, the opposite is mostly true: the more you think about breathing, the worst you will fulfil this absurd task that requires you to inhale and exhale thousands of times a day (and night).

       The conclusion is simple: breathing is a double agent, like 007. He remains unnoticed until he is called into action; suddenly he shows up, guns blazing, determined to take out toxins, cigarette smoking, pipe exhaust and the occasional pneumonia. But then he retreats to the shadows, patiently waiting until the next time he is summoned, making us realise that life – that our lives – depend mostly on things we have no control of. Have a man control his breathing twenty four hours a day and I will show you a madman: the same thing would happen to a musician who has to name every single note he plays, or to a dancer who even thinks about his steps while performing a well-trained routine. For the latter, they would turn out absolutely disastrous performances (and the dancer would step on his partner); for everyman, life would be impossible to endure.

       In a sense, breathing is very much like writing. There are times, of course, when we are in full control of our words – we select them carefully, we think them over twice or thrice, we overcompensate by stretching language as far as we think the reader can handle it. Those are called exceptional times and can be comparable to a pneumonia, smoking cigarettes or putting your mouth near the exhaust pipe of a car – those are times that come rarely. Because, for the most part, we don’t think of the words we write. In fact, I believe the words think us – they have their own life and are breathing organisms that don’t require our consent to show up on the page or to pop in our heads. Some people will look at a dog and the word ‘furry’ will come along – whilst others will think of ‘friend’, ‘rabies’ or ‘food’. There are no words to accurately describe a dog; in fact, the word itself – dog – will never be put in question because it describes every dog in the world. So, when we write that word – dog -, be it in English, Portuguese, Swedish or Chinese, we presuppose that every human being in the world (we’re talking seven billion people here) will know of what we are talking about. But we don’t think of that awareness: it exists alone, by itself; it has its own life, and every living thing has to breathe, unaware that it is breathing.

       Unless, of course, the dog has contracted pneumonia.

       Then he will be holding its breath for far too long; we will be able to hear the rasp in its throat, the heavy panting, the weakness of the legs as it climbs up and down those stairs to go out in the street. His eyes will be begging and lonesome; he will be gaunt, threadbare, and we will be aware of the fact that breathing is now an exercise in survival.

       Same thing goes for humans. Sometimes that double agent will save us and sometimes it will be too late. 007 is very efficient but, unlike the movies, he can’t save everyone.

       That is why people depart.

       That is why books fail to be written.

       That is why my mother’s dog has died this year.

       That is why a musician draws a long note out of tune.

       That is why dancing is so difficult.

       That is why the world keeps turning.

       Because you can’t hold your breath for too long.