Clarice Lispector - Selected Cronicas

Happy New Year.

No, miracles never happen to me. I sometimes hear people discuss them and that gives me hope. But it also makes me rebel: why do they never happen to me? Why do I only hear about them? For I have heard conversations about miracles such as the following: ‘He told me that if such and such a word were to be spoken, some valuable object would smash into pieces.’ The objects in my house are broken in much more humdrum fashion, usually by one of the maids. I have even come to the conclusion that I am one of those people who roll stones throughout the centuries. I mean rough stones, not the smoothly polished kind. Although I do have fleeting visions before falling asleep — could those be miraculous? But it has already been patiently explained to me that this phenomenon even has a name: cidetismo, which means being able to project unconscious images into the sphere of hallucination.

Not exactly a miracle. But what about certain coincidences? I experience them all the time, lines which keep coinciding and crossing one another, and as they cross they form a faint, fleeting point, so faint and fleeting, so subtle and elusive that simply to speak of it is like speaking of nothing.

But yes, I have experienced a miracle. Miraculous leaves. Walking along the street the wind deposits a leaf on my hair. The incidence of millions of leaves transformed into a single leaf, the incidence of millions of people reduced to one person — me. This has happened so frequently that I have modestly come to consider myself as someone chosen by the leaves. Furtively, I remove the leaf from my hair and slip it into my handbag, as if it were the tiniest of diamonds. Until one day, on opening my handbag, I find a withered leaf among the objects, shrivelled up and dead. I throw it away. I have no wish to keep a dead talisman as a souvenir. Besides, I know that new leaves will coincide with me.

One day a leaf grazed my eyelashes, and I thought to myself: God is being extremely delicate.

My taxi was approaching the tunnel which goes to Leme and Copacabana when I saw the Church of St Teresa of Lisieux. My heart beat faster: I recognized in the depths of my suffering soul that I might be able to find refuge in that church.

I asked the taxi-driver to stop, paid him and got out. With humility I penetrated the cool shadows inside the church. I sat down on a pew and there I remained. The church was completely deserted. The overpowering perfume of flowers filled the air and almost suffocated me. Little by little my inner turmoil began to subside into sad resignation: I was offering my soul in exchange for nothing. For it was not peace I felt. I was conscious that my world had crumbled only to leave me standing there, a bewildered, anonymous witness.

I gradually forgot my sorrow and started looking at the statues of saints. They had all been martyred, for that is the path both human and divine. They had all renounced a greater life in favour of a deeper, more bruised existence. None of them had taken advantage of the only life we possess. All of them had been foolish in the purest sense of the word. All had become immortal in order to answer our pleas for mercy. And why, dear God, was it so necessary to sacrifice our most legitimate desires? Why this mortification in life?

I looked round the empty church in search of an answer and saw a great coffin in the centre of the main nave. I got to my feet and drew near. Lying there was the effigy of St Teresa of Lisieux, her feet covered with flowers… I stood there staring.

Yet something puzzled me. Any statue I had ever seen of St Teresa depicted her as a young nun carrying flowers in her arms. But this St Teresa was so old that her skin looked like crinkled parchment. Her eyes were closed, her white hands crossed on her breast, the bright, red flowers burgeoning at her feet like a cry of life.

I realized at once that the effigy was not made of porcelain. What could it be then? It looked like wax. But wax would melt in summer or from the heat of the candles, so it could not be wax. I had never seen this material before. I knew that if I touched the effigy I would recognize the texture at once. When I was a little girl, Rosa our maid would get annoyed at my habit of touching everything and she used to say: ‘This girl’s eyes must be in her paws, she can only see things by touching them.’

Only by touching would I find out what that effigy was made of, but if the parish priest were suddenly to appear and catch me he would not be pleased. I looked around me. The church was still empty, so I furtively stretched out my hand to touch St Teresa’s face.

But before I could do so, two girls entered the church. Heading in my direction, they came and joined me beside the coffin. Both girls had a worried expression. We stood there in silence. Until one of the girls said to the other:

– ‘I wonder when that lot are going to turn up for gran’s funeral. We can’t keep her lying here in church forever!’

No sooner had she spoken than I understood. Feeling quite sick, I realized this was not St Teresa after all but the corpse of an old woman. I had been about to touch a corpse. Almost. Saved just in time, when the old woman’s granddaughters unexpectedly arrived.

The very idea that I had almost touched a corpse made me go weak at the knees. I struggled to the nearest pew where I slumped down, feeling faint, and barely conscious. My heart was beating in all the wrong places: in my wrists, head and knees, as well as in my breast.

I could sense the pallor of my lips beneath my lipstick. Nor could I understand all this panic simply because I had almost touched a corpse — since death is part of life. Without death, life is incomprehensible, yet I had almost fainted upon touching what was also mine. I felt I had to get out of that church but could not stand. At last, after forcing myself, I struggled to my feet and staring straight ahead of me, I made for the door.

How can I explain what I saw outside? Already feeling dazed, I felt even more dazed as I walked out into the bright sunshine and bustling atmosphere with cars rushing past and everyone alive, so alive — only the old woman was dead although I myself had almost died after inhaling the perfume of those red flowers covering the feet of death.

Out on the street, I stood for ages inhaling the smell of life. It is a combination of flesh, of body odour and petrol, sea-breezes and perspiration under armpits: the smell of what still has to die.

I then hailed a taxi to take me home. I climbed in, pale and shaken, but as much alive as a fresh rose-bud.

My father was a great believer in sea-bathing during the summer months. And how I loved those outings to the seaside at Olinda near Recife.

My father also believed that the best time for sea-bathing was before sunrise. Difficult to describe my sense of wonder as we boarded an empty tram in the dark in order to reach Olinda before the sun came up.

Even although I had been to bed, my heart would stay awake with sheer anticipation. Feeling terribly excited, I would jump out of bed just after four and awaken my sisters. We would dress quickly and leave without breakfast. Father believed one should always bathe on an empty stomach.

We would walk through the dark streets shivering in the early morning breeze. Then wait for the tram to arrive. Until at long last we could hear it rumbling towards us from a distance. I would sit right on the edge of my seat and begin to feel happy. Crossing the city in darkness brought feelings I would never again experience. Inside the tram itself there was more light as dawn began casting its first rays upon us and upon the world.