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I just know that I don't want cheating. I refuse. I deepened myself but I don't believe in myself because my thought is invented.

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
Believe
Deepened
Cheating
Invented
Refuse
Thought

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How was she to tie herself to a man without permitting him to imprison her? And was there some means of acquiring things without those things possessing her?
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Do you know that hope sometimes consists only of a question without an answer?
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In the world there exists no aesthetic plane, not even the aesthetic plane of goodness.
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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 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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The only truth is that I live. Sincerely, I live. Who am I? Well, that's a bit much.
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Whether she won or lost, she would continue to wrestle with life. It would not be with her own life alone but with all of life. Something had finally been released within her. And there it was, the sea.
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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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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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Her curiosity instructed her more than the answers she was given.
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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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The mystery of human destiny is that we are fated, but that we have the freedom to fulfill or not fulfill our fate: realization of our fated destiny depends on us. While inhuman beings like the cockroach realize the entire cycle without going astray because they make no choices.
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I write and that way rid myself of me and then at last I can rest.
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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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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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Facts and particulars annoy me.
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I hear the mad song of a little bird and crush butterflies between my fingers.
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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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There it is, the sea, the most incomprehensible of non-human existences.
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Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?
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