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.
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.
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)