After all, say some lorsignori, with their lights and their experience, where is the truth, the whole truth? What is the moral that it must be inferred from this story, at times ribald and vulgar? It is the truth in what happens every day, in the small daily events in the pettiness and boredom of life of the vast majority of men, or rather it lies in the dreams that we are given dream to escape our plight? How is high, man, in his walk to the world through the daily misery and gossip, or by means of the dream free, without borders or limitations? What force has led Vasco de Gama and Columbus on the deck of their caravels? Who directs the hand of the scientists who move the levers to start the sputnik, creating new stars and a new moon in the sky of this suburb of the universe? Where is the truth, I respond, please: In the reality of each small or immense human dream? Who leads the wide world, to illuminate man's journey? The most excellent Judge, or the poor poet? Chico Pacheco with his integrity, or the Captain Vasco Moscoso de Aragão, Captain of the long course? (Rio, January 1961)
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