What is chronic?
THE chronic is a short textual genre written in prose, usually produced for the media, eg newspapers, magazines, etc.
In addition to being a short text, it has a "short life", that is, the chronicles deal with everyday events.
From Latin, the word “chronic” (chronic) refers to a record of time-stamped (chronological) events; and from the greek (khronos) means “time”.
Therefore, they are extremely connected to the context in which they are produced, so, over time, it loses its “validity”, that is, it stays out of context.
The characteristics of the chronicles
- short narrative;
- use of simple and colloquial language;
- presence of few characters, if any;
- reduced space;
- themes related to everyday events.
Types of Chronicles
Although it is a text that is part of the narrative genre (with plot, narrative focus, characters, time and space), there are several types of chronicles that explore other textual genres.
We can highlight the descriptive chronicle and the essay chronicle. In addition to them, we have:
- Journalistic Chronicle: The most common of today's chronicles are the so-called “journalistic chronicles” produced for the media, where they use current themes to make reflections. It approaches the essay chronicle.
- Historical Chronicle: marked by reporting historical facts or events, with defined characters, time and space. It approaches the narrative chronicle.
- Humorous Chronicle: This type of chronicle appeals to humor as a way to entertain the audience, while using irony and of humor as an essential tool to criticize some aspects of society, politics, culture, economy, etc.
It is important to highlight that many chronicles can be formed by two or more types, for example: a journalistic and humorous chronicle.
Also read about:
- narrative chronicle
- Narrative text
- Argumentative Chronicle
- How to make a chronicle
Examples of chronicles
1. Chronicle of Machado de Assis (Gazeta de Notícias, 1889)
Those who never envied don't know what it is to suffer. I'm a shame. I can't see a better outfit on someone else, who doesn't feel the tooth of envy biting into my insides. It's such a bad commotion, so sad, so deep, it makes you want to kill. There is no remedy for this disease. I try to distract myself on occasions; as I can't speak, I start counting the raindrops, if it rains, or the bastards that walk down the street, if it's sunny; but I'm only a few dozen. The thought won't let me go. The best outfit makes me frosted, the owner's face makes me grimace...
That's what happened to me after the last time I was here. A few days ago, picking up a morning sheet, I read a list of candidacies for deputies for Minas, with their comments and prognoses. I arrive at one of the districts, I can't remember which one, or the person's name, and what should I read? That the candidate was presented by the three parties, Liberal, Conservative and Republican.
The first thing I felt was dizziness. Then I saw yellow. Afterwards, I didn't see anything else. My insides ached, as if a machete had ripped them open, my mouth tasted like gall, and I could never face the lines of the news again. I finally tore the sheet, and lost the two pennies; but I was ready to lose two million, as long as it went with me.
Oops! what a unique case. All the parties armed against each other in the rest of the Empire, at that point, united and laid their principles upon a man's head. There will be no lack of those who find the responsibility of the elect tremendous, — because the election, in such circumstances, is certain; here for me it is exactly the opposite. Give me these responsibilities, and you will see if I get out of them without delay, right in the discussion of the vote of thanks.
— Brought to this Chamber (I would say) in the paveses of Greeks and Trojans, and not only of the Greeks who love the wrathful Achilles, son of Peleus, as of those who are with Agamemnon, chief of chiefs, I can exult more than anyone else, because no one else is, like me, the unity national. You represent the various members of the body; I am the whole body, complete. Formless, no; not Horace's monster, why? I will say it.
And I would say then that to be conservative was to be essentially liberal, and that in the use of freedom, in its development, in its broadest reforms, there was the best conservation. See a forest! (she would exclaim, raising her arms). What potent freedom! and what a safe order! Nature, liberal and prodigal in production, is conservative par excellence in the harmony in which that vertigo of trunks, leaves and vines, in which that strident path, unite to form the Forest. What an example to societies! What a lesson to the parties!
The most difficult thing, it seems, was the union of monarchic and republican principles; pure mistake. I would say: 1°, that I would never allow either of the two forms of government to sacrifice itself for me; I was for both; 2°, who considered one as the other as necessary, everything depending on the terms; so we could have the crowned republic in the monarchy, while the republic could be liberty on the throne, etc., etc.
Not everyone would agree with me; I even believe that no one, or all would agree, but each one with a part. Yes, the full agreement of opinions took place only once under the sun, many years ago, and it was in the provincial assembly of Rio de Janeiro. A deputy was praying, whose name I absolutely forgot, like that of two, one liberal, the other conservative, who laced the speech with asides—the same asides.
The question was simple. The orator, who was new, expounded his political ideas. He said he was of opinion for this or that. One of the apartists came to the rescue: he is liberal. Redress the other: he is conservative. The speaker had this and that purpose. He is conservative, said the second; he is liberal, the first insisted. In such conditions, continued the novice, it is my intention to follow this path. He rebukes the liberal: he is liberal; and the conservative: he is conservative. This fun lasted three quarters of the columns of Jornal do Comércio. I kept a copy of the sheet to help my melancholy, but I lost it in one of the moving houses.
Oh! do not move house! Change your clothes, change your fortune, your friends, your opinion, your servants, change everything, but don't change your house!
2. The sensitive (Clarice Lispector)
It was then that she went through a crisis that seemed to have nothing to do with her life: a crisis of deep pity. Her head so limited, so well coiffed, she could hardly bear to forgive so much. She couldn't look into a tenor's face as he sang happily – she turned her hurt, unbearable face to one side out of pity, not enduring the singer's glory. In the street, she was suddenly clutching her chest with her gloved hands – assaulted with forgiveness. She suffered without reward, without even sympathy for herself.
This same lady, who suffered from both sensitivity and illness, chose a Sunday when her husband was traveling to look for an embroiderer. It was more of a walk than a necessity. This she had always known: taking a walk. As if she were still the girl walking on the sidewalk. She especially walked a lot when she “felt” that her husband was cheating on her. So he went to look for the embroiderer on Sunday morning. She walked down a street full of mud, chickens and naked children – where had she gone? The embroiderer, in the house full of hungry-looking children, the tubercular husband – the embroiderer refused to embroider the towel because she didn't like to cross-stitch! She came out affronted and bewildered. She "felt" so dirty from the heat of the morning, and one of her pleasures was to think that ever since she was little, she had been very clean. At home she ate lunch alone, lay down in the half-darkened room, full of mature feelings and without bitterness. Oh for once she didn't “feel” anything. If not perhaps the perplexity at the freedom of the poor embroiderer. If not perhaps a feeling of waiting. The Liberty.
Until, days later, the sensitivity healed like a dry wound. In fact, a month later, she had her first lover, the first in a happy series.
3. Love and death (Carlos Heitor Cony)
It was in December, ten years ago. Mila had nine puppies, impossible to keep the entire litter, I stayed with the one that seemed closest to the mother.
She was born in my house, was generated in my house, she lived there for ten years, participating in everything, receiving my friends in the room, sniffing them and standing next to them - knowing that somehow I should honor them for me and for her.
Unlike her mother, who had some existential autonomy, what I called “noble smokes”, like Dom Casmurro, Títi it was an extension, day and night, the sun and all the stars, her universe was focused on following, it was all about being close.
When Mila left two years ago, she understood that she had become more important - and, if that were possible, more loved. Wisely drained the pain and tears, the absence and sadness, and if she was already attentive to the movements more insignificant parts of the house, over time it became a significant part of life in general and my world. particular.
Life and the world that must, now, go on without her - if I can call what I have ahead of me a continuation. I lost some friends recently, but it was collective losses that hurt, but, in a way, they are compensated by the sharing of the damage.
Losing Títi is a “remnant of earth ripped away” from myself - and I'm quoting for the second time Machado de Assis, who bred a dog named after the owner (Quincas Borba) and knew better than anyone that owner and dog are one thing only.
This “only thing” gets more lonely, but it doesn't get any stronger, as Ibsen wanted. It's just more alone, without having that look that goes deep into us and guesses even the joy and sadness we feel without understanding. Without Titi, it's easier to accept that death is so powerful, since it's far less powerful than love.
The Chronicle in Brazil
The chronicle was initially developed with a historical character (the historical chronicles). Since the 15th century, they reported historical facts (real or fictitious) or everyday events (chronological succession), some with a touch of humor.
Later, this unpretentious textual genre was approaching the public and conquering readers around the world. Today, this fact is confirmed by the enormous diffusion of the chronicles, especially in the media.
In Brazil, the chronicle has become a widespread textual style since the publication of the "Newsletters" in the mid-19th century. Some Brazilian writers who stood out as chroniclers were:
- Machado de Assis
- Carlos Drummond de Andrade
- Rubem Braga
- Luis Fernando Verissimo
- Fernando Sabino
- Carlos Hector Cony
- Caio Fernando Abreu
According to professor and literary critic Antônio Cândido, in his article “Life on the ground floor” (1980):
“The chronicle is not a “greater genre”. One cannot imagine a literature made up of great chroniclers, who would give it the universal shine of great novelists, dramatists and poets. No one would even think of awarding the Nobel Prize to a chronicler, no matter how good it was. So it really seems like the chronicle is a minor genre. “Thank God”, it would be the case to say, because that way she gets closer to us. And for many it can serve as a path not only for life, which it serves closely, but for literature (...).
(...) Now, the chronicle is always helping to establish or reestablish the dimension of things and people. Instead of offering an excellent setting, in a flurry of adjectives and burning periods, it takes the kid and shows him an unsuspected grandeur, beauty or singularity. She is a friend of truth and poetry in its most direct forms and also in its most fantastic forms, above all because she almost always uses humor. This is because it has no pretensions to last, as it is the daughter of the newspaper and the machine age, where everything ends so quickly. It wasn't originally made for the book, but for this ephemeral publication that you buy one day and use the next day to wrap a pair of shoes or cover the kitchen floor..”
In this very enlightening excerpt, we can highlight the fundamental characteristics of the chronicle, as, by example, the approach to the public, as it contains a more direct language and unpretentious.
In addition, the author highlights one of its main aspects, that is, the short duration of this textual production.
