Clarice Lispector - Selected Cronicas

An egg needs careful handling. That is why the chicken is the egg’s disguise. The chicken exists so that the egg may traverse the ages. This is what a mother is for. The egg lives like a fugitive because it is always ahead of its time: it is more than contemporary: it belongs to the future. Meanwhile the egg will always be revolutionary. It lives inside the chicken so that no one may call it white. The egg is really white but must not be called white. Not because this would harm the egg which is immune from danger, but those people who state the obvious by describing the egg as white renege on life. To call something white which is white can destroy humanity. Truth is always in danger of destroying humanity. A man was once accused of being what he was and referred to as That Man. They were not lying: he was man. But we have not recovered since. This is the universal law so that we may go on living. One may say ‘a pretty face’ but anyone who says ‘face’ will die for having exhausted the subject.

In time the egg became the egg of a chicken. It is not. But once adopted, the surname is used. One should say ‘the egg of the chicken’. If people simply say ‘egg’, the topic is exhausted and the world goes back to being naked. An egg is the most naked thing in existence. Regarding the egg, there is always the danger that we may discover what could be termed beauty, in other words, its utter veracity. The egg’s veracity has no semblance of truth. If its beauty were to be discovered, people might try to make it rectangular. The egg is in no danger, it would not become rectangular. (Our guarantee is that it cannot: and that is the egg’s great strength: its supremacy stems from the greatness of being incapable, which spreads like reluctance.) But as I was saying, the egg would not become rectangular and anyone struggling to make it rectangular would be in danger of losing his own life. And so the egg puts us at risk. Our advantage is that the egg is invisible to the vast majority of people. And as for the initiated, the initiated conceal the egg as in a freemasonry.

As for the chicken’s body, the chicken’s body is the clearest attempt to prove that the egg does not exist. Because one look at the chicken is enough to see that the egg could not possibly exist.

And what about the chicken?

The egg is the chicken’s great sacrifice. The egg is the cross the chicken bears in life. The egg is the chicken’s unattainable dream. The chicken loves the egg. She does not know that the egg truly exists. Were she to know she has an egg inside her, would she be saved? Were she to know she has an egg inside her, would she lose her function as a chicken? To be a chicken is the chicken’s only chance of surviving mentally. Survival means salvation. For it would appear that the act of living does not exist. Living ends in death. While the chicken goes on surviving. And to survive is to keep up the struggle against mortal existence. This is what it means to be a chicken. The chicken always looks ill at ease.

The chicken must not know she is carrying an egg. Otherwise she might be saved as a chicken — although there is no guarantee — but at the same time she would lose her egg in a premature birth to rid herself of that exalted ideal. Therefore she does not know. The chicken only exists on behalf of the egg. She had a mission to fulfil which she enjoyed. And this was the chicken’s undoing. Enjoyment has nothing to do with birth. To enjoy being alive is painful.

As for what came first, it was the egg that discovered the chicken would make the perfect disguise. The chicken was not even summoned. The chicken is directly chosen. She exists as in dreams. She has no sense of reality. She gets nervous because people are always interrupting her daydreams. The chicken is one great slumber. She suffers from some strange malaise. Her strange malaise is the egg. She cannot explain: ‘I know the fault lies with me’. She calls her life a mistake. ‘I no longer know what I feel’, etc.

What clucks all day long inside the chicken is etc. etc. etc. The chicken has considerable resources of inner life. If truth be told, inner life is all she possesses. Our vision of her inner life is what we refer to as chicken. The chicken’s inner life consists of behaving as if she understood. The slightest threat of danger and she screeches her head off. All this simply to ensure that the egg does not break inside her. The egg which breaks inside the chicken has the appearance of blood.

The chicken watches the horizon.

The chicken watches the horizon. As if she were watching an egg slowly advance from the distant horizon. Apart from being a means of transport for the egg, the chicken is stupid, idle and short-sighted. How can the chicken understand herself when she is everything the egg is not? The egg is still that same egg which originated in Macedonia. But the chicken is always a recent tragedy. She is continuously being designed anew. Yet no more apt form has been found for the chicken. As my neighbour answers the telephone, he absentmindedly sketches a chicken with his pencil. But nothing can be done for the chicken: it is in her nature to be of no use to herself. And since her destiny is more important than the chicken herself and her destiny is the egg, her private life is of no interest to us.

The chicken neither recognizes the egg when it is still inside her nor when it has been laid. When the chicken sees the egg, she thinks she is confronting the impossible. And suddenly I see the egg in the kitchen and all I see there is food. I do not recognize it. My heart is beating fast. Something is changing inside me. I can no longer see the egg clearly. Apart from each individual egg, apart from the egg one eats, the egg no longer exists for me. I can no longer bring myself to believe in an egg. I find it more and more difficult to believe, I am weak and dying. Farewell. I have been looking at an egg for so long that it has hypnotized me and sent me to sleep.

The chicken had no desire to sacrifice her life. She who had chosen to be ‘happy’. She who had failed to perceive that if she were to spend her life designing the egg inside herself like an illuminated manuscript, she would be doing all that could be expected of her. She remained true to herself. She who thought her feathers were to cover her precious skin, unaware that those feathers were only intended to lighten her burden while she carried the egg, because the chicken’s deep suffering might put the egg at risk. She who thought satisfaction was a gift rather than a ploy to keep her totally distracted until the egg had been formed. She who did not know that ‘I ’ is only one of the words people jot down on paper when answering the telephone, a mere attempt to find some more convenient form. She who thought that I means to possess a selfness. The chickens in greatest danger of harming the egg are those who pursue a relentless I . Their I is so persistent that they cannot pronounce the word egg. But who knows, perhaps this is precisely what the egg needs. Because if they were not so distracted and were to pay closer attention to the great life forming inside them, they might disturb the egg.

I began discussing the chicken, yet for some time now I have said nothing about the chicken. I am still talking about the egg. Only to realize that I do not understand the egg. All I understand is a broken egg: broken in the frying pan. And this is how I indirectly pledge myself to the egg’s existence. My sacrifice is to reduce myself to my inner self. I have concealed my destiny with my joys and sorrows. Like those in the convent who sweep floors and wash linen, serving without the glory of any higher office, my task is to live my joys and sorrows. It is essential that I should possess the modesty of living. In the kitchen I take one more egg and break its shell and form. And from this very moment the egg no longer exists. It is most important that I should be kept occupied and distracted. I am essentially one of those who renege. I belong to the freemasonry of those who, once having seen the egg, reject it as a form of protection. Anxious to avoid destruction, we destroy ourselves. Agents in disguise and assigned to discreet enquiries, we occasionally recognize each other. A certain manner of looking, a certain way of shaking hands, help us to recognize each other, and we call this love. Then there is no further need for disguise. Though one does not speak, one does not hear either; though one may be telling the truth, there is no further need for pretence. Love prospers, especially between a man and woman, when one is allowed to share a little more. Few people desire true love because love shakes our confidence in everything else. And few can bear to lose all their other illusions. There are some who opt for love in the belief that love will enrich their personal lives. On the contrary: love is poverty, in the end. Love is to possess nothing. Love is also the deception of what one believed to be love. And it is not a prize likely to make one conceited. Love is not a prize. It is a state conceded only to those who would otherwise contaminate the egg with their private sorrow. This does not make an honourable exception of love. It is conceded precisely to those unworthy agents who would spoil everything unless they were allowed some vague intuition.