Clarice Lispector - Selected Cronicas

I swear, believe me — the drawing-room was in darkness — but the music summoned me to the centre of the room — there was something lurking there — the entire room grew dark within the darkness — I was in darkness — yet I felt that, however dark, the room was bright — I took refuge in my own fear — just as I had already taken refuge from you in you yourself — what did I find? — nothing except that the dark room lit up with the brightness of a smile — and that it was inherent in the flower — I was trembling in the centre of this awkward light — believe me, even though I cannot explain — it was as if I had never seen a flower — it was something perfect and full of grace which seemed superhuman, but was life — and I nervously pretended that the flower was the soul of someone who had just died — I invented this because I did not have the strength to look directly at the life of a flower — and I looked at that bright centre whose energy was so light that it appeared to stir and become dislocated — and the flower was as vibrant as if a menacing bee were hovering overhead — a bee frozen by fear? — no — it would be more accurate to say that the excited bee and flower were meeting — one life up against another, one life on behalf of another — or frozen by fear before the suffocating grace of this flickering candle which was the flower — I was the bee — and the flower trembled before the dangerous sweetness of the bee — believe me, even if I myself cannot explain it — some fatal rite was being accomplished — the room was filled with that penetrating smile — yet it was nothing more than the whitening of shadows — there was no remaining proof of what I had experienced — I can swear to nothing — I am the only proof of myself — and by giving myself I can explain what I alone witnessed — I cannot understand how anyone could be afraid of a rose — for that flower was a rose — I have had the same experience with violets which were extremely delicate — but I was afraid — they smelled of the grave — and the flowers and bee already summon me — alas I cannot refuse — I am being summoned — and at heart I truly want to go — this rash encounter with a flower is my encounter with my destiny.

There were so many things which I did not know at the time. No one had told me, for example, about this fierce sun at three o’clock in the afternoon. Nor had anyone told me about this dry rhythm of living, this relentless dust. They had vaguely warned me it might be painful. But I had no idea that what would bring me hope from afar would spread over me like an eagle’s wing. I had no idea what it meant to be protected by great outspread, menacing wings, an eagle’s beak lowered towards me and smiling. In adolescence, when I triumphantly wrote in my diary that I did not believe in love, that was precisely when I loved most of all. I had no idea how harmful lies could be. I began to lie as a precaution, and because no one warned me about the danger of being wary, I was no longer able to rid myself of the habit of lying. And I told so many lies that I began to lie even to my very lies. And this — I was amazed to discover — was the same as telling the truth. Until I became so degenerate that I would tell the most shameless lies: I was telling the naked truth.

So this was happiness. To begin with she felt empty. Then her eyes became moist: this was happiness, but since I am mortal, this love for the world transcends me. Love for this mortal life was gently killing her little by little. And what does one do when one is happy? What do I make of happiness? What am I to make of this strange, penetrating tranquillity which is already beginning to cause me anguish like some great silence? To whom shall I give this happiness of mine which is beginning to frighten me and tear me apart? No, she did not want to be happy. For fear of entering some unknown territory. She preferred the humdrum life she knew. Afterwards she tried to laugh in order to mask her awesome and fatal choice. And pretending to be amused, she thought: To be happy? God offers nuts to those without teeth. But she was not amused. She was sad and thoughtful. She was returning to the death of everyday existence.

… Perhaps love is to give one’s own solitude to others? For it is the very last thing we have to offer.

The food was awful, but there was one good thing: it would revive me for some better meal in the future whenever that might be.

Blanquette de Veau. We went to the restaurant with the sole intention of eating well. We were more interested in food than any conversation. When the maître recommended Blanquette de Veau , something told me I should choose something else. I brought up the same old excuse that I did not really care for anything with a white sauce. My friend, who is a great gourmand, assured me that a white sauce is not to be despised. So we decided to compromise and share any risk by ordering one Blanquette and one Tournedos cooked in a wine sauce.

When the food arrived, I set about sampling it and after the first few mouthfuls, I felt there was something wrong.

I asked my friend hesitantly: Don’t you get the impression that something here has been burnt? There is a slight taste of something charred. I could not decide what it was because in my hunger I had chewed everything together. Whereupon my friend tried to reassure me: The rice has probably been overcooked.

As for the Blanquette. Certain dishes, when they are too refined, provoke nausea. Excessive refinement makes one almost feel like being sick. Besides, there should always be a touch of simplicity in good cooking.

As for the Tournedos, that was another mistake. Good meat should give one something to chew on! And any fillet of beef which cuts like butter is a clear warning that the waiter has not heeded my instructions.

This was enough to make me lose my appetite. And nothing could take away the sense of disappointment. I felt quite frustrated, and in a fuming rage I inwardly vowed never to eat again. For I am so immature that I cannot bear to have my pleasures spoiled. ‘So much for eating well’, I said bitterly to my friend. ‘Be patient’, she told me calmly, ‘your appetite will come back’. Her own mother is such a wise and practical woman that, whenever there is illness in the family, she immediately does two important things: she administers medicine and then goes off to her room to pray. And then all is well.

But that is another story. To end the first one, my appetite did come back eventually. But as for Blanquette de Veau — never again. And I am not joking.

It is pleasant to open one’s hands and allow to flow freely that emptiness-cum-fullness which one was cruelly holding back. Then suddenly to discover to one’s amazement: I have opened my hands and heart and am losing nothing! And then sudden fear. Wakeup! for there is danger in having one’s heart so free.

Until one perceives that in this expansiveness lies the perilous pleasure of existing. And there is a strange reassurance: always having something to squander. So hold back nothing of this emptiness-cum-fullness. Squander it.

It always has been and always will be a red-letter day for me when a thermometer gets broken and the silver mercury spills on to the floor, runs a little way and then becomes immobilised and impregnable. I have just broken another one and I try to retrieve the mercury with the help of a sheet of paper which I cautiously slip underneath. But it resists all my efforts. No sooner do I think I have succeeded than it disintegrates between my fingers like damp fireworks. Not unlike what apparently happens to us humans after death, when the energy escapes from our soul and merges with the atmosphere. How hopeless trying to collect that sensitive liquid. It refuses to be handled and maintains its integrity even when divided into innumerable little bubbles: each tiny bubble is a separate entity, whole and entire, even when divided. One only has to prod one of those bubbles very gently for it to be sucked in by another next to it and together they form a larger and rounder bubble. Ever since childhood I have had this same dream whenever I break a thermometer. I dream of thousands of broken thermometers and of an endless stream of dense, lunar, cold mercury spilling all over. And there I am, serious and absorbed, as I play with the living matter of this vast expanse of silver metal. I imagine myself sinking into this pool of mercury which has escaped from the thermometers. As I sink deeper, thousands of bubbles are released, one by one, thick and impenetrable. Mercury is an impregnable substance. In what sense impregnable? I cannot explain. I refuse to explain. There is nothing to explain. Mercury is impregnable and that is that. It seems to possess a cerebral coolness which controls its reaction. I feel as if I am in love with mercury but mercury feels nothing for me. There is none of that submissiveness one expects from material things. For mercury has a life of its own. Coping with mercury is not like coping with other material things. It submits to.no one. And no one is allowed to handle it. Our soul uses our body in order to avoid being contaminated by life and this tiny gleaming nucleus is the ultimate refuge of mankind. Wild beasts also possess this shining nucleus which helps to keep them completely wild and alive.