99+ Clarice Lispector Quotes on The Stream of Life, A Hora Da Estrela and Silence - Quotes.pub

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Eu antes era uma mulher que sabia distinguir as coisas quando as via. Mas agora cometi o erro grave de pensar.

If she was no longer herself that meant a loss that counted as a gain.

And even so, I had discovered, I was afraid to free myself. “That” had grown too much inside me, leaving me full. I’d be helpless if I were ever cured. After all, what was I now, I felt, but a reflection? Were I to eradicate Daniel, I’d be a blank mirror.

Here I am ready for life! Dear sirs, no one’s looking at me, no one realises I exist! Yet, dear sirs, I exist, I swear that I exist! Very much, even. Look, all of you, with that triumphant attitude, look: I can vibrate, vibrate like the taunt of a harp. I can suffer with more intensity than any of you, gentleman. I am superior. And do you know why? Because I know I exist!

Dear God, only now am I remembering that people die. Does that include me?

My old life was necessary to me because it was precisely its error that made me take up imagining a hope that, without the life that I led, I wouldn’t have known.

My life had been as continuous as death. Life is so continuous that we divide it into stages and call one of them death. I had always been in life, it mattered little that it was not I properly speaking, not that thing that I customarily call “I.” I had always been in life.

Inside her it was as if death didn’t exist, as if love could weld her, as if eternity were renewal.

Life, my love, is a great seduction in which all that exists seduces. That room that was deserted and for that reason primally alive. I had reached the nothing, and the nothing was living and moist.

One way of getting is not looking, one way of having is not asking...

This book is like any other book. But I would be happy if it were only read by people whose souls are already formed. Those who know that the approach, of whatever it may be, happens gradually and painstakingly – even passing through the opposite of what it approaches. They who, only they, will slowly come to understand that this book takes nothing from no one. To me, for example, the character G. H. gave bit by bit a difficult joy; but it is called joy. C.

Hers is an art that makes us want to know the woman; she is a woman who makes us want to know her art.

I feel as though I’ve already achieved what I wanted and I still don’t know what I achieved. Could that be the somewhat dubious and elusive thing vaguely called ‘experience’?

I was born a few instants ago and I am dimmed.

I, just from having felt affection, thought that loving is easy.

The courage to be something other than what one is, to give birth to oneself, and to leave one’s former body on the ground. And without having answered to anyone about whether it was worthwhile.

I am so lost. But that is exactly how we live; lost in time and space.

Never again shall I understand anything I say. Since how could I speak without the word lying for me? How could I speak except timidly like this: life just is for me. Life just is for me, and I don’t understand what I’m saying. And so I adore it.

Reality is the raw material, language is the way I go in search of it – and the way I do not find it. But it is from searching and not finding that what I did not know was born, and which I instantly recognise. Language is my human effort. My destiny is to search and my destiny is to return empty-handed. But – I return with the unsayable. The unsayable can only be given to me through the failure of my language. Only when the construction fails, can I obtain what I could not achieve.

Do not be frightened. Death is instantaneous and passes in a flash. I know, for I have just died with the girl. Forgive my dying. It was unavoidable.

Understand me: I write you an onomatopoeia, convulsion of language.

She felt the phrase “demand her rights” had lain inside her forever, waiting.

That night I’d already had quite a bit to drink. I wandered from bar to bar, until, excessively happy, I was afraid I’d outdo myself: I’d grown too comfortable in my own skin. I was looking for a way to pour some of myself out, before I completely overflowed.

It is instead just the grace of a common person turning suddenly real because he is common and human and recoignizable.

I feel happier with animals than with people. When I watch my horse cantering freely across the fields – I am tempted to put my head against his soft, vigorous neck and narrate the story of my life. When I stroke my dog on the head – I know that he doesn’t expect me to make sense or explain myself.

It’s not a story that leads the reader to philosophical thoughts. And it’s not a philosophical treatise that needs a story to convey them. Instead, it is a vivifying experience that leads a person to the most ambitious philosophical discoveries. An experience transformed into literary art, in which harmony and disorder are the price of the revelation. A.

But I’ve never known what to do with people and the things I like, sometimes they weigh me down, ever since I was a girl.

When I surprise myself at the mirror I am not frightened because I think I am ugly or beautiful. It is because I discover I am of a different nature. After not having seen myself for a while I almost forget I am human, I forget my past and I am as free from end and awareness as something merely alive. I am also surprised, eyes open pale at the mirror, that there are so many things in me besides what I know, so many things always silent.

Beyond thought I reach a state. I refuse to divide it up into words – and what I cannot and do not want to express ends up being the most secret of my secrets. I know that I’m scared of the moments in which I don’t use thought and that’s a momentary state that is difficult to reach, and which, entirely secret, no longer uses words with which thoughts are produce. Is not using words to lose your identity? is it getting lost in the harmful essential shadows?

To write you I first cover myself with perfume.

I had reached nothingness, and the nothingness was live and moist.

Nothing happened if she kept waiting for what was going to happen .

I realize now that it was a certain apathy, rather than peace, that turned my acts and my desires to ash.

Is woede mijn diepste verzet tegen het mens-zijn? Mens-zijn mat me af. En ik ben woedend om het voelen van zoveel liefde. Soms leef ik van de woede tegen het leven. Want de woede wekt me tot leven: ik heb me nooit zo waakzaam gevoeld. Ik weet best dat dit overgaat en dat het noodzakelijke ontberen terugkeert.

Dying is something else. Dying is different to good and bad.

I write because I have nothing better to do in this world: I am superfluous and last in the world of men. I write because I am desperate and weary. I can no longer bear the routine of my existence and, were it not for the constant novelty of writing, I should die symbolically each day.

I knew that cockroaches could go more than a month without food or water. And they could even survive on wood for food. And even after you step on them they come apart slowly and keep on walking all the while. Even when they freeze, after they thaw out they keep on going. For three hundred and fifty million years, they have reproduced with no change. When the world was practically naked, they walked slowly across it.

She clutched him tightly, in alarm. She protected herself trembling. Because life was in peril. She loved the world, loved what had been created – she loved with nausea.

It isn’t for us that cows’ milk comes forth, but we drink it. Flowers weren’t made for us to look at or for us to smell, and we look at them and smell them. The Milky Way doesn’t exist for us to know if its existence, but we know.

But now I want to say things that comfort me and that are a little free. For example: Thursdat is a day transparent as an insect’s wing in the light. Just as Monday is a compact day. Ultimately, far beyond thought, I live from these ideas, if ideas is what they are. They are sensations that transform into ideas because I must use words. Even just using them mentally. The primary thought thinks with words.

The world rolls and somewhere out there are things I don’t know. Let us sleep on God and mystery, a quiet, fragile ship floating on the sea, behold sleep.

Twelve years weigh on a person like pounds of lead. The days melt into one another, merge to form one whole block, a big anchor. And the person is lost.

Now I understand what a trial is. Trial: it means that life is trying me. But trial: means that I too am trying. And trying can become an ever more insatiable thirst.

Not knowing yourself is inevitable, and not knowing yourself demands courage.

I’m going to start my exercise in courage, living isn’t courage, knowing that you’re living, that’s courage.

Every idea that occurred to him, because he became familiar with it in seconds, came with the fear of having stolen it.

The night of today looks at me with torpor, verdigris and lime. I want inside this night that is longer than life, I want, inside this night, life raw and bloody and full of saliva.

My maturing of a theme would already be a cantabile aria – so let somebody else make another song – the song of the maturing of my quartet. This is before the maturing. The melody would be the fact.

I know that what I am feeling is serious and has the power to destroy me.

It was darker, all she could see of him was a shadow. He was fading more and more, slipping through her hands, dead at the bottom of sleep.

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