I see that I’ve never told you how I listen to music—I gently rest my hand on the record player and my hand vibrates, sending waves through my whole body: and so I listen to the electricity of the vibrations, the last substratum of reality’s realm, and the world trembles inside my hands. Clarice Lispector,… Continue reading Clarice Lispector
I want the following word: splendor, splendor is fruit in all its succulence, fruit without sadness. I want vast distances. My savage intuition of myself. ― Clarice Lispector, The Stream of Life. (University of Minnesota Press; 1st edition, June 28, 1989) Originally published August 1973.
In order to write I must place myself into the void. In this void is where I exist intuitively. But it’s a terribly dangerous void: it’s where I wring out blood. I’m a writer who fears the snares of words: the words I say hide others—which? maybe I’ll say them. Writing is a stone cast… Continue reading Clarice Lispector
I write a poem and delude myself that I’ve escaped sadness. I merely make it rhythmic, lighter perhaps. I do my best to make it beautiful, bearable, and for that reasonless reason I cry some more. — Adélia Prado, from “A Good Cause,” The Alphabet in the Park: Selected Poems (Wesleyan, 1990)
Flight from reality. Farther still: flight from fantasy. Farther than anything: flight from oneself, flight from flight, exile without water or words, the voluntary loss of love and memory, — Carlos Drummond de Andrade, from “Lesser Life,” Multitudinous Heart: Selected Poems, transl. by Richard Zenith (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2015)
A time comes when death doesn’t help. A time comes when life is an order. Just life, without any escapes. — Carlos Drummond de Andrade, “Your Shoulders Hold Up the World,” The Ecco Anthology of International Poetry (translated by Mark Strand)
At every moment of our lives, we all have one foot in a fairy tale and the other in the abyss. ― Paulo Coelho