Four Dirty and Ugly Fingers – Folha de S. Paulo, November 16, 1983

by Plinio Corrêa de Oliveira

Perplexity pairs well with soft leather chairs, into which a man sinks with pleasure. There is a certain analogy between being mired in perplexing questions and sitting in soft springy armchairs. Sunk into leather, a perplexed man is bogged down in both body and soul, which gives his situation that unity our nature persistently demands.

True, such unity does not come without some contradiction. Perplexities create a painful quagmire for the mind—purgatory, sometimes even hell. Conversely, the leather and springs offer the weary body a delightful, restorative quagmire. However, this contradiction does not weaken the unity; it alleviates the person’s torment rather than increasing it.

To illustrate this, it would suffice for the reader to imagine how much worse the situation of a perplexed man would be, sitting on a hard wooden bench…

All this came to mind as I remembered that, one evening after dinner, I decided to reflect on the national situation—a quagmire in the most precise and sinister sense of the word. To do this, I instinctively sank into a deep, soft leather armchair and began to think…

A dark, chaotic swirl of national, ideological, social, and economic issues began spinning through my mind. To see clearly, I tried to halt that ugly dance and examine each issue individually. But each seemed to avoid precise scrutiny, performing before my increasingly exhausted eyes a spasmodic motion similar to delirium tremens. I persisted. Yet, no matter how much I tried, they only increased their trembling and suddenly resumed their wild dance.

Fever? A nightmare? The truth is, I suddenly faced a real person, of flesh and blood.

And I—who had planned to share my conclusions with readers—found myself instead just recounting what this character said to me.

This timeless man spoke to me with formal courtesy, yet carried an air of superiority tinged with irony and condescension. He raised his short, somewhat grimy index finger of his right hand—as if to introduce the first lesson of a long catechism—and declared:

Know that I, Communism, have failed in this peaceful Brazil. The Communist Party here is a pitiful dwarf; that is why I avoid presenting it alone in public. Trade unionism has done me no good. I control many of its leaders, yes, but my grip on its good-natured rank-and-file—‘pacifists,’ you might say—slips through my fingers. I entered through the chanceries, the parish houses, the seminaries, the convents. What beautiful conquests I made. Yet even there, I prospered only at the top, while most of the pious rabble kept slipping through my fingers.

“I notice, Plinio, the cheerful expression with which you greet my embarrassed confession. You think me defeated. Simpleton. I will show you that I have other ways to advance.”

“Do you doubt it?”

“Yes,” I nodded.

He then raised his slightly longer and equally objectionable middle finger, holding it theatrically next to his index finger, and started his second lesson.

“I’ll start with a paradox. I will do something you would never expect: I will defend crime. Yes—through countless lips, pens, videos, and microphones—I will declare that the surge of crime that so horrifies the detested bourgeoisie rarely comes from human wickedness. Among indigenous tribes, crimes are less frequent than among civilized societies. This, I will argue, shows that crime among us stems from social upheavals caused by hunger. Eliminate hunger, and crime disappears. Prostitution too.

“The person you label as a criminal is actually a victim. Do you know who the real criminal is? It’s a property owner, especially one with great wealth. They’re the ones who steal from the poor. While a thief in prison steals from one person, owners steal from an entire population. Their social crime is beyond words in wickedness.”

Delirium causes many effects. I thought about kicking out the arrogant fool, but complacency held me in my chair. Furious and unable to move, I let him go on.

He raised his ring finger, an ugly sibling of the two already lifted, and kept going.

“There’s one more thing, ‘Mr.’ Plinio. In light of everything I’ve said, a government aware of its responsibilities has the duty to dismantle repression and let crime run free. For what you call crime is nothing but the social revolution in progress. Every murderer, thief, and rapist is merely a herald of the people’s fury. That is why I will proclaim to the world that the criminal explosion in Brazil is being slandered by dishonorable reactionaries. Crime is the expression of the rightful and vindictive anger of the masses—anger that the unions and the Catholic left failed to mobilize.”

The man laughed, lowering his pinky—faithful little replica of the three fingers already raised.

“I will bring weapons into Brazil. When the terrified bourgeoisie finally realizes that there is no way out, I will pick one or a few leaders from among those you call ‘criminals’ and disguise them as charismatic. Then, I will have a bishop declare that, to prevent a greater evil, the bourgeoisie must accept dealing with those who are less criminal.

“I see your grimace. You think the bourgeoisie are ready to make this mistake again. You are right. So, a Kerensky-style government will be formed—quite left-wing. And the next day will belong to the Lenin of my choosing.”

I stood up to confront the man. When I rose, I suddenly woke up. Or maybe the fever had eased…

I immediately jotted down what I had “seen” and “heard,” because such impressions can only be kept alive within the few minutes after fever or sleep.

I hope they don’t give you a fever, my reader. That is, unless they make you sleepy before you finish reading.

In any case, it won’t be a peaceful springtime sleep. It will match the chaotic weather of the rainy and gloomy days that mark the start of November.

P.S. — The São Paulo police appear to be in chaos today. What would that little man with the four dirty fingers say about this? What new direction will the storm of subversion take in São Paulo and across Brazil? It won’t stop…