Clarice Lispector - Selected Cronicas

Sometimes when I see someone whom I have never seen before, and I observe that person at length, I begin to identify with her and take steps to get to know that person. And this intrusion into another person’s life, no matter who she may be, never ends in self-accusation. Once I have identified with the other woman, I understand her motives and forgive her. Needless to say, I have to be careful not to be drawn into some dangerous or glamorous existence which might dissuade me from reverting to being myself.

One day on a plane… Oh, dear God, I implored, I beg of You, anything but that; I have no desire to be a missionary!

But it was hopeless. I knew that after having to spend three hours in her presence, I would become a missionary myself for several days. The missionary’s austerity and polite gestures had already taken possession of me. And it is always with a certain curiosity, a sense of wonder and weariness that I finally succumb to the life I am about to experience for several days. There is also some apprehension from a practical point of view: I am much too preoccupied with my work and leisure to be able to cope with the additional burden of some strange new existence whose evangelical zeal is already weighing upon me. In the plane itself I noticed that I had already started imitating the solemn movements of the lay missionary: then I began to understand her patience, that self-effacing gait, her feet scarcely touching the ground, as if to tread more firmly would disturb the other passengers. I, too, had turned pale, my lips unpainted, my expression meek, and wearing the unmistakable head-dress of a lay missionary.

When the plane touches down, I thought to myself, I shall probably wear that expression of suffering-overcome-by-the-peace-of-having-a-mission. And on my face will be imprinted the sweetness of moral hope. Because I have suddenly become extremely moral. Yet when I boarded the plane I was so wholesomely amoral. I was, no, I am! I cried out in protest against the missionary’s prejudices. It was useless: all my energy was being sapped so that I might become delicate. I pretended to be reading a magazine, while she read her Bible.

We were about to make a short landing. The air-steward distributed boiled sweets. And the missionary blushed the moment the young steward approached.

Back on the ground, I was a missionary waiting in a windy airport. I kept a firm grip on the long skirt of that imaginary habit for fear of that threatening wind. I understand, I thought, oh I understand so well how lost she must be feeling during these hours when she is not fulfilling her mission. Like the little missionary, I, too, disapproved of those short skirts worn by the other women passengers, which could only be tempting to men. And when I did not understand, it was with the same purified fanaticism of this pale woman who blushed the moment the young air-steward returned to announce the plane was ready to leave.

I knew that it would be some time before I could hope to regain my own identity. Which perhaps was never really mine apart from the moment I was born, only to be followed by one reincarnation after the other. But no: I am a person. And when my own ghost takes possession of me, the encounter is one of such bliss and rejoicing that in a manner of speaking we weep on each other’s shoulder. Then, wiping away our tears of joy, my ghost fully embodies itself with me and we go out into the world with our head held high.

Once, on another trip, I came across a prostitute reeking of cheap perfume who smoked with her eyes half-closed while staring at a male passenger who was soon hypnotized. I began imitating her to see what would happen. I lit a cigarette and with half-closed eyes began staring at the only man nearby. But the fat man I had chosen in my efforts to identify with the prostitute, was far too engrossed in the New York Times . Besides, my perfume was much too discreet. A complete fiasco.

I find Saturday is the rose of the week; on Saturday afternoon curtains blow in the breeze, and someone empties a bucket of water over the terrace. Saturday with a breeze blowing is the rose of the week. Saturday morning I associated with the yard, the bee flying from plant to plant, and the breeze: a bee-sting, a swollen face, blood and honey, the bee has left its mark. Other bees will follow the scent and on the following Saturday morning I shall see if the yard is full of bees. It was on a Saturday that the ants swarmed over paving-stones in the backyards of my childhood. It was on a Saturday that I saw a man sitting in the shade on the pavement, eating stew and manioc meal out of a gourd. It was Saturday afternoon and we had already bathed in the sea. At two o’clock, a bell announced in the breeze the matinée performance at the local cinema: Saturday with a breeze was the rose of the week. If it rained, I alone knew that it was Saturday; Saturday transformed into a drenched rose? In Rio de Janeiro, just when you think the exhausted week is about to die, the week suddenly opens out into a rose. On the Avenida Atlantica a car slams on its brakes and, suddenly, before the startled breeze can blow once more, I sense it is Saturday afternoon. It has been Saturday, but is no longer the same. I say nothing, seemingly resigned. But I have already gathered my things and moved on to Sunday morning. Sunday morning is also the rose of the week. Although not to be compared with Saturday. I shall never know why.

Those who have never stolen would not understand. And those who have never stolen roses would never be capable of understanding me. For when I was a little girl, I used to steal roses.

In Recife there were lots of streets with large villas on either side, surrounded by extensive gardens, where rich people lived. I used to play a game with another little girl in order to decide who owned those villas. ‘That white one is mine.’ ‘No, it isn’t, we’ve already agreed the white ones are mine.’ But that one isn’t all white for the windows are green. Sometimes we would stand there for ages, our faces pressed against the railings as we peered in.

The stealing began as follows. We were playing this game of ours one day when we stopped in front of a villa which looked like a little castle. At the far end there was an enormous orchard. And in front of the villa there were neat flower-beds full of flowers.

And all alone in the middle of one of the beds there was a bright pink rose which had just started to open. I stood there gaping, lost in admiration for that proud rose which was not yet in full bloom. And then suddenly it happened: I wanted that rose with all my heart. I wanted it, just for me, oh, how I wanted it. And there was no way of getting it. Had the gardener been there I should have asked him for the rose, although most likely he would have chased us away as if we were street-urchins. But there was no gardener around, not a soul to be seen. And to keep out the sun, the blinds were drawn. No trams passed along this street and there were few cars. In the midst of my silence and that of the rose, there was my desire to possess it just for myself. I wanted to touch it. I wanted to smell it until I became intoxicated by its perfume.

Until I could bear it no longer. Overcome with desire, I lost no time in drawing up a plan. And determined to succeed, I gave clear instructions to my little friend and carefully explained the part she was to play. She would keep an eye on the windows and watch out for the gardener, who might suddenly appear, or for any passers-by. Meanwhile, I slowly eased open the gates which were rather rusty, fully expecting them to creak a little. I eased them open just enough for my skinny frame to squeeze through. And then, moving quickly, I tiptoed over the pavingstones between the flower-beds. My heart was beating fast and it seemed to take forever to reach that rose.