After all, what is happiness? Love, they tell me. But love doesn’t bring and never has brought happiness. On the contrary, it’s a constant state of anxiety, a battlefield; it’s sleepless nights, asking ourselves all the time if we’re doing the right thing. Real love is composed of ecstasy and agony. ― Paulo Coelho, The… Continue reading Paulo Coelho
Don’t let my silence wound you. I’m just tired of words. — Manuel Bandeira, from “Rest Your Hand on My Forehead,” This Earth, That Sky: Poems by Manuel Bandeira (University of California Press, 2018)
I write because I passionately want to speak. Even though writing is only giving me the great measure of silence. — Clarice Lispector, Água Viva. (New Directions, June 13, 2012) Originally published August 1973.
She imagined herself both queen and slave, dominatrix and victim. In her imagination she was making love with men of all skin colors–white, black, yellow–with homosexuals and beggars. She was anyone’s, and anyone could do anything to her. She had one, two, three orgasms, one after another. She imagined everything she had never imagined before,… Continue reading Paulo Coelho
In the meantime, I am inventing your presence… — Clarice Lispector, The Passion According to G.H. (New Directions, 2012)
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.