Fonseca stories function as reflections, as apologies for rejection and malevolent human acts. His stories and novels are hybrids of musings, of inventions, of reflections of the days in which he worked as a criminal lawyer, in which he was part of the Rio de Janeiro Police Force and at that time in which each crime stealthily predicted a destiny crossed by writing.
By the possibility of transferring, transforming and reinventing a transgressing ethic by a staunch evil that was established in everyday life, which ceased to be a metaphysical subject and became an element that is not only inherent but also it becomes a pattern of behavior in any relaunch platform, bar, park, house, office, classroom or parliament.
A maxim that the same writer has defended with his acts, with his testimony far from the front pages of the press and from large television segments, with his ability to become immune to recognitions that awards such as Camoes Juan Rulfo obtained relaunch in 2003 or any other contest carried out by the circles of the establishment constitute to make literature a new merchandise.
Rubem Fonseca had Mandrake, Gustavo Flavio: two alter ego that related the memories that were blurred as memories and were illustrated as fiction, as stories of the marginals with whom he lived and as news events that reflected and reaffirmed the decline of a society obsessed with opulence and indolent with an overwhelming system that conditions ethics to a supreme ideal of success at the cost of competition and the law of the most alive.
The strongest and the luckiest. Underworlds and heinous crimes emerge as new narrative universes in which his words were the voice of those who walk side by side with the normative, the routine, the correct. His characters, all belonging to texts like “