Clarice Lispector Quotes
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Love is now, is always. All that is missing is the coup de grâce- which is called passion.
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I just know that I don't want cheating. I refuse. I deepened myself but I don't believe in myself because my thought is invented.
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I ask myself: is every story that has ever been written in this world, a story of suffering and affliction?
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Things were somehow so good that they were in danger of becoming very bad because what is fully mature is very close to rotting
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Ignorance of the law of irreducibility was no excuse. I could no longer excuse myself with the claim that I didn't know the law -- for knowledge of self and of the world is the law that, even though unattainable, cannot be broken, and no one can excuse himself by saying that he doesn't know it. . . . The renewed originality of the sin is this: I have to carry out my unknowing, I shall be sinning originally against life.
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I write and that way rid myself of me and then at last I can rest.
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Ela acreditava em anjo e, porque acreditava, eles existiam" | "She believed in angels, and, because she believed, they existed
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And now -- now it only remains for me to light a cigarette and go home. Dear God, only now am I remembering that people die. Does that include me? Don't forget, in the meantime, that this is the season for strawberries. Yes.
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All the world began with a yes. One molecule said yes to another molecule and life was born. But before prehistory there was the prehistory of the prehistory and there was the never and there was the yes. It was ever so. I don’t know why, but I do know that the universe never began. Make no mistake, I only achieve simplicity with enormous effort.
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A horse is freedom so indominable that it becomes useless to imprison it to serve man: it lets itself be domesticated, but with a simple, rebellious toss of the head-shaking its mane like an abundance of free-flowing hair-it shows that its inner nature is always wild, translucent and free.
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I have grown weary of literature: silence alone comforts me. If I continue to write, it’s because I have nothing more to accomplish in this world except to wait for death. Searching for the word in darkness. Any little success invades me and puts me in full view of everyone. I long to wallow in the mud. I can scarcely control my need for self-abasement, my craving for licentiousness and debauchery. Sin tempts me, forbidden pleasures lure me. I want to be both pig and hen, then kill them and drink their blood.
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So long as I have questions to which there are no answers, I shall go on writing.
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At first she dreamed of sheep, of going to school, of cats drinking milk. Little by little she dreamed of blue sheep, of going to school in the middle of the woods, of cats drinking milk from golden saucers. And her dreams became increasingly dense and acquired colours that were difficult to dilute into words.
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The world's continual breathing is what we hear and call silence.
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What I want is to live of that initial and primordial something that was what made some things reach the point of aspiring to be human.
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Facts and particulars annoy me.
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Her curiosity instructed her more than the answers she was given.
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But don't forget, in the meantime, that this is the season for strawberries. Yes.
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My life, the most truthful one, is unrecognizable, extremely interior, and there is no single word that gives it meaning.
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You don't understand music: you hear it. So hear me with your whole body.
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For only when I err do I get away from what I know and what I understand. If "truth" were what I can understand, it would end up being but a small truth, my-sized. Truth must reside precisely in what I shall never understand.
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Everything in the world began with a yes. One molecule said yes to another molecule and life was born.
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But I welcome the darkness where the two eyes of that soft panther glow. The darkness is my cultural broth. The enchanted darkness. I go on speaking to you, risking disconnection: I’m subterraneously unattainable because of what I know.
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I work only with lost and founds.
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How was she to tie herself to a man without permitting him to imprison her? And was there some means of acquiring things without those things possessing her?
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I, who called love my hope for love.
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Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?
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Brazil is where I have to be, where I have my roots.
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Reality prior to my language exists as an unthinkable thought. . . . life precedes love, bodily matter precedes the body, and one day in its turn language shall have preceded possession of silence.
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I write to save someone's life, probably my own
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