I have grown weary of literature: silence alone comforts me. If I continue to write, itโs because I have nothing more to accomplish in this world except to wait for death. Searching for the word in darkness. Any little success invades me and puts me in full view of everyone. I long to wallow in the mud. I can scarcely control my need for self-abasement, my craving for licentiousness and debauchery. Sin tempts me, forbidden pleasures lure me. I want to be both pig and hen, then kill them and drink their blood.
Clarice LispectorNo it is not easy to write. It is as hard as breaking rocks. Sparks and splinters fly like shattered steel.
Clarice LispectorThe 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.
Clarice LispectorAnd I want to be held down. I don't know what to do with the horrifying freedom that can destroy me.
Clarice Lispector