Clarice Lispector - Selected Cronicas

I remember with affection English writers who are no longer alive. Especially D.H. Lawrence.

The Queen has a sweet smile. English newspapers are curiously provincial. Any English men or women with good features somehow acquire an extraordinary beauty. But English children are always endearing and when they open their little mouths to speak, they become irresistible.

I am indulging in nostalgia as I try to recapture my memories of London from random notes. I am writing this in haste before they fade forever.

She lived in a boarding-house on São Clemente Street. She was enormous and smelled like a chicken when it is brought half-cooked to the table. She had five teeth, withered lips and a dry throat. Her past reputation was no invention. She still spoke in French whenever she found an opportunity, even if the other person spoke Portuguese and would have preferred to be spared the embarrassment of listening to his or her own poor accent. The absence of saliva removed any trace of fluency, and gave the old girl an air of restraint. There was majesty in that huge body supported on tiny feet, in the strength of those five teeth, in those stray hairs which escaped from a sparse bun and trembled with the slightest breeze.

But one Monday morning instead of coming down from her room, she came in from the street. Her skin looked smooth, her neck washed, and there was no longer any smell of half-cooked chicken. She explained that she had spent Sunday at her son’s house where she had stayed overnight. She was wearing a dowdy black satin dress. Instead of going up to her room to change into an old cotton dress and revert to being a lonely guest living in a boarding-house, she sat in the lounge to make the most of her Sunday and commented that the family is the pillar of society. She referred in passing to the leisurely bath which she had enjoyed in her daughter-in-law’s comfortable bathroom, which explained why she looked clean and was no longer smelling. She made the other residents, who were still in their pyjamas and dressing-gowns, feel awkward as she sat there for hours on end by the tall vase of flowers in the lounge, holding a conversation intended for some invisible audience.

As the afternoon wore on, it became clear that her boots were pinching, but she continued to sit there, all dressed up, holding her large head erect as if she were a prophet. When she enthused about the sumptuous meals served at her son’s house, her eyes closed with nausea. She rushed to the bathroom. They could hear her vomit but she refused any offer of assistance when they knocked at the door.

When it was time for dinner she came down to ask for a cup of tea; there were brown circles round her eyes, and she was wearing an ankle-length floral-patterned dress, and was once again without a bra. What still looked strange was the clearness of her skin. The other guests avoided looking at her in her distress. She spoke to no one: King Lear. She was silent, enormous, dishevelled, and clean. Her happiness had been short-lived.

Let us assume that the telephone system has broken down throughout the city, which happens to be true. Let us assume that I dial a number and it is engaged, which happens to be true. Let us assume that the unengaged tone suddenly starts ringing when I finally make a connection, which happens to be true. Let us assume no one answers, which happens to be true. Let us assume that, instead of getting an answer, I get a crossed line, which happens to be true. Let us assume that out of curiosity I overhear a conversation between a man and a woman, which happens to be true. Let us assume that, as they end their conversation, I distinctly hear a certain phrase, which happens to be true. Let us assume that the phrase I hear distinctly is: ‘May God bless you’, which happens to be true. Let us then assume that I feel myself well and truly blessed because that phrase was also intended for me. Is that not true? Yes. That phrase was intended for me. I shall make no more assumptions. But simply say Yes to the world.

Let us assume that I am a strong person, which does not happen to be true. Let us assume that when I reach a decision I then carry it through, which does not happen to be true. Let us assume that one day I shall write something which will lay bare the human soul, which does not happen to be true. Let us assume that I always have this serious expression I confront in the mirror when I wash my hands, which does not happen to be true. Let us assume that those whom I love are happy, which does not happen to be true. Let us assume that I have fewer serious defects than I have, which does not happen to be true. Let us assume that it only needs a pretty flower to uplift my spirits, which does not happen to be true. Let us assume that I am finally smiling on this day of all days which is not my day for smiling, which does not happen to be true. Let us assume that among my defects there are also many good qualities, which does not happen to be true. Let us assume that I never tell lies, which does not happen to be true. Let us suppose that one day I might turn over a new leaf and change my way of life, which does not happen to be true.

After a phase in which they exchanged words of love, words of anger, or simply words, relations between them became so strained that words and facts became obscured. They had been married for so long that their differences, mutual suspicions and a certain rivalry no longer came to the surface, although this was the level on which they understood each other. This stage virtually ruled out any offence or defence, or any explanations. They were what is normally referred to as an ordinary married couple.

This was a dream which made me sad and frightened. It began somewhere in the middle. There was a jelly which was alive. What were the jelly’s feelings? Silence. Alive and silent, the jelly dragged itself with difficulty to the table, wobbling precariously without falling apart. Who touched it? No one had the courage. When I looked at it, I saw my own face mirrored there, slowly merging with the jelly’s existence. Deformed in essence. Deformed without falling apart. I, too, barely alive. Plunged into horror, I wanted to escape the jelly. I went on to the terrace, prepared to throw myself from my top-floor apartment on to the street below. From my terrace I peered into the pitch-black night, and I was terrified at the thought of my approaching end: everything which is too strong by far appears to be nearing its end. But before jumping, I decided to put on some lipstick. It struck me that my lipstick was curiously soft. I then realized that my lipstick, too, was living jelly. And there I stood on the dark terrace, my lips moistened by this living substance.

My legs were already over the edge and I was just about to let go, when suddenly I saw the eyes of darkness. Not eyes in the darkness but the eyes of darkness. The darkness was watching me with two enormous eyes set wide apart. So the darkness, too, was alive. Where could I find death? For I knew that death was living jelly. Everything was alive. Everything is alive, primary and slow; everything is primarily immortal.

With almost insuperable difficulty, I succeeded in rousing myself, as if I were pulling myself by the hair in order to escape from that living quagmire.

I opened my eyes. The room was in darkness, but it was a familiar darkness, not the profound darkness from which I had dragged myself. I felt more peaceful. It had been nothing but a dream. Then I noticed that one of my arms was exposed. With a start, I pulled it under the sheet. No part of me should be exposed, if I still hoped to save myself. Did I want to save myself? I think so: then I switched on my bedside lamp in order to wake up properly. And I saw the room with its firm outlines. I had solidified the living jelly into a wall — I continued to feel I was dreaming — I had solidified the living jelly into a ceiling; I had killed everything that could be killed in my efforts to restore the tranquillity of death around me; fleeing from what was worse than death: pure life, living jelly. I switched off the light. Suddenly a cockerel was crowing. A cockerel in an apartment block? A hoarse cockerel. In that white-washed building, a living cockerel? Outside, a freshly-painted building, and inside that cry? thus spoke the Book. Outside death — accomplished, pure, definitive, and inside the jelly, essentially alive. This was what I learned in the dead hours of night.