Clarice Lispector - Selected Cronicas

Perhaps this is one of the most important experiences known to man and beast. The need to seek someone’s help and receive it, out of sheer generosity and understanding. Perhaps it is worth being born in order to make a silent plea and be heard. I have pleaded for help. And received it.

I then felt like a dangerous tiger with an arrow stuck in its flesh, a tiger circling the terrified onlookers to discover who had inflicted this terrible pain. Until someone sensed that a wounded beast is no more dangerous than a child. Bravely approaching the tiger, the stranger carefully removed the arrow.

And the tiger? Certain things defy words of gratitude from humans and animals. So I, the tiger, slowly circled several times in front of my Good Samaritan, paused, and licked my paws, before withdrawing in silence, since words are unimportant.

What I wish to narrate is as delicate as life itself. And I should like to draw on the delicate side of my nature as well as that peasant streak which is my salvation.

In my childhood and subsequent adolescence I was precocious in many things. In absorbing atmosphere, for example, or in sensing someone’s intimate aura. Yet in other important matters I was far from being precocious and incredibly backward. And I am still ignorant about so many things. What am I to do? There appears to be something childish in my nature which refuses to grow up.

Even beyond the age of thirteen, for example, I was still unaware of what Americans call the facts of life. The expression refers to that deep sexual relationship between a man and a woman which produces children. Or could it be that I had some vague perception of these facts which I deliberately suppressed in order to hide my embarrassment and go on being innocent and attractive to little boys? Being attractive at the age of eleven meant scrubbing my face until it shone. Then I felt prepared. Could my ignorance have been some foolish and senseless attempt to remain ingenuous in order to go on thinking about little boys without feeling guilty? Most likely. For I have always known about things without even being aware that I know them.

My friends at school knew about everything and even exchanged anecdotes about the things they knew. Completely bewildered, I would pretend that I understood rather than have them despising me for being so ignorant.

Yet for all my ignorance of the facts, I instinctively went on flirting with any boy who took my fancy. Instinct had outstripped my intelligence.

Until I became thirteen and felt sufficiently grown-up to discover facts which might shock me. I told a close friend about my guilty secret: I knew nothing about the things the other girls discussed, and had only pretended to understand. She was flabbergasted. My pretence had been so convincing. But I finally persuaded her I was telling the truth and she decided without further ado to unravel life’s mysteries. Unfortunately she was also in her early teens and incapable of explaining things without causing me acute embarrassment. I stood there, paralysed, staring at her, my innocence mortally wounded, my emotions in turmoil, and overcome with bewilderment, fright and indignation. Mentally, I babbled to myself: But why? For what reason? The shock was so great — and traumatic for several weeks — that there and then on the street-corner I swore I would never marry.

Although some months later, I had forgotten my oath and resumed my little flirtations.

And as time passed, I was no longer shocked at the way men and women make love. I even came to find it quite perfect. And extremely delicate. By then I had already become a tall girl, pensive by nature and rebellious. Yet for all my wildness, I was still very shy.

Before coming to terms with the ritual of life, I experienced much suffering which I might have been spared if some responsible adult had taken the trouble to tell me about love. That person would have known how to cope with my ingenuous nature without offending my sensibilities, without obliging me to be born anew in order to accept life and its mysteries.

For the greatest surprise of all was to find that, after discovering everything, the mystery remained intact. I know flowers grow from a plant yet I go on being surprised by nature’s secret paths. And if I feel somewhat embarrassed to this day by the facts of life, it is not because I find them shameful, but simply out of feminine discretion.

For I am convinced that life is beautiful.

Beyond lies the sea, the most mysterious of non-human existences. While the woman stands here on the shore, the most mysterious of living creatures. The day mankind questioned its own nature, it became the most enigmatic of living creatures. The woman and the sea.

Their mysteries could only come together if the one were to surrender to the other: the surrender of two incomprehensible worlds enacted with the confidence of two understandings surrendering to each other.

She is capable of looking at the sea. Her vision is only restricted by the line on the horizon, that is to say, by her human incapacity to see beyond the Earth’s curve.

It is six o’clock in the morning. There is nothing to be seen on the shore except a stray dog, a black dog which stops in its tracks. Why is a dog so free? Because the dog is that living mystery which does not question itself. The woman hesitates before entering the sea.

Her body consoles itself with its own smallness in relation to the sea’s vastness, because the body’s smallness helps to keep it warm. This same smallness also turns the human body into something poor but free with its share of that freedom enjoyed by the dog on the sands. This body will enter the infinite chill that roars without ire in the evening silence. Unwittingly, the woman is testing her courage. The shore is deserted at this early hour so there are no other bathers to show her how entering the sea can be transformed into a frivolous game of life. She is alone. The salt-water is not alone because it is salt and fathomless, and that is an achievement. At this moment she is less familiar with herself than with the sea. Her courage is that of someone who, without knowing herself, nevertheless proceeds. It is fatal not to know oneself, and not to know oneself requires courage.

She starts to enter the sea. The salt-water is so cold it chills her legs as if part of the ritual. But a fatal happiness — happiness is fatal — has already possessed her although it never occurs to her to smile. On the contrary, she looks quite solemn. The powerful smell from those tossing waves rouses her from the slumbering depths of millennial dreams. She now becomes watchful, just as the hunter is unconsciously watchful. The woman has become impenetrable, light, and sharp, as she forces her way into the cold sea, liquid yet resistant, before allowing her to enter, just as in loving where resistance is often an act of pleading.

This slow passage increases her inner courage. And suddenly she allows herself to be immersed by the first wave. The salt and iodine, completely liquid, momentarily blind her, the water drenching her — as she stands there in terror and already fertile.

The cold becomes intense. Advancing, she penetrates the sea. She has found her courage. The familiar ritual is under way. She lowers her head into the gleaming waters and re-emerges, her hair dripping salt-water which causes her eyes to smart. Slowly she splashes the water with one hand. Her hair soon dries in the sun, the salt making it brittle. Cupping her hands to form a shell, she drinks the water in great, refreshing gulps, a time-honoured ritual which she performs with the arrogance of those who never offer explanations, not even to themselves.