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I hear the mad song of a little bird and crush butterflies between my fingers.

Clarice Lispector

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Clarice Lispector
Age: 56 †
Born: 1920
Born: December 10
Died: 1977
Died: December 9
Journalist
Model
Novelist
Screenwriter
Translator
Writer
Chechelnik
Helen Palmer
Teresa Quadros
Mad
Fingers
Bird
Hear
Song
Littles
Butterflies
Little
Butterfly
Crush

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You don't understand music: you hear it. So hear me with your whole body.
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I write to save someone's life, probably my own
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I write as if to save somebody’s life. Probably my own. Life is a kind of madness that death makes. Long live the dead because we live in them.
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Today at school I wrote an essay about Flag Day which was so beautiful, but ever so beautiful - for I even used words without really knowing what they meant.
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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.
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Everything in the world began with a yes. One molecule said yes to another molecule and life was born.
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And even sadness was also something for rich people, for people who could afford it, for people who didn't have anything better to do. Sadness was a luxury.
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My life, the most truthful one, is unrecognizable, extremely interior, and there is no single word that gives it meaning.
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And now -- now it only remains for me to light a cigarette and go home. Dear God, only now am I remembering that people die. Does that include me? Don't forget, in the meantime, that this is the season for strawberries. Yes.
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I' is merely one of the world's instantaneous spasms.
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Ela acreditava em anjo e, porque acreditava, eles existiam | She believed in angels, and, because she believed, they existed
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In the world there exists no aesthetic plane, not even the aesthetic plane of goodness.
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No it is not easy to write. It is as hard as breaking rocks. Sparks and splinters fly like shattered steel.
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Facts and particulars annoy me.
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So long as I have questions to which there are no answers, I shall go on writing.
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Her curiosity instructed her more than the answers she was given.
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Love is so much more deadly than I had thought, love is so much inherent as the very lack, and we are guaranteed by a need to be renewed continuously. Love is now, is forever. There is just the blow of grace - call it passion.
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And I want to be held down. I don't know what to do with the horrifying freedom that can destroy me.
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All the world began with a yes. One molecule said yes to another molecule and life was born. But before prehistory there was the prehistory of the prehistory and there was the never and there was the yes. It was ever so. I don’t know why, but I do know that the universe never began. Make no mistake, I only achieve simplicity with enormous effort.
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Do you ever suddenly find it strange to be yourself?
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