Este debate ofende-me; este livro não tem elevação; Isto não se devia dizer

Não tencionava retornar ao tema da eutanásia — e não o vou fazer —, contudo, vou retornar a um dos argumentos usados pelos defensores da causa, o de que o debate não foi elevado e, como tal, não foi elucidativo, permitindo a que os deputados votassem mal. Ora, o nome que se dá ao interveniente que afirma que é um debate não teve a elevação suficiente é, muito naturalmente, “o derrotado”. Mas, sobre elevação e debate no espaço público, redes sociais e jornais, tenho a acrescentar apenas a lembrança deste pequeno trecho (em Inglês, peço desde já desculpa):

There is more than one way to burn a book. And the world is full of people running about with lit matches. Every minority, be it Baptist/Unitarian, Irish/Italian/Octogenarian/Zen Buddhist, Zionist/Seventh-Day Adventist, Woman’s Lib/Republican, Mattachine/FourSquareGospel feels it has the will, the right, the duty to douse the kerosene, light the fuse. Every dimwit editor who sees himself as the source of all dreary blanc-mange plain porridge unleavened literature, licks his guillotine and eyes the neck of any author who dares to speak above a whisper or write above a nursery rhyme.

Fire-Captain Beatty, in my novel Fahrenheit 451, described how the books were burned first by minorities, each ripping a page or a paragraph from this book, then that, until the day came when the books were empty and the minds shut and the libraries closed forever.

[…]

For it is a mad world and it will get madder if we allow the minorities, be they dwarf of giant, orang-utan or dolphin, nuclear-head or water-conversationalist, pro-computerologist or Neo-Luddite, simpleton or sage, to interfere with aesthetics. The real world is the playing ground for each and every group, to make or unmake laws. But the tip of the nose of my book or stories or poems is where their rights end and my territorial imperatives begin, run and rule. If Mormons like not my plays, let them write their own. If the Irish hate my Dublin stories, let them rent typewriters. If teachers and grammar school editors find my jawbreaker sentences shatter their mushmilk teeth, let them eat stale cake dunked in weak tea of their own ungodly manufacture.

– Ray Bradbury (1979)