I write as if to save somebodyโs life. Probably my own. Life is a kind of madness that death makes. Long live the dead because we live in them.
Clarice LispectorThe only truth is that I live. Sincerely, I live. Who am I? Well, that's a bit much.
Clarice LispectorNo it is not easy to write. It is as hard as breaking rocks. Sparks and splinters fly like shattered steel.
Clarice LispectorI 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 Lispector