{"id":12363,"date":"2021-08-09T21:42:59","date_gmt":"2021-08-10T00:42:59","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/site.claricelispector.ims.com.br\/?p=12363"},"modified":"2021-10-20T10:48:48","modified_gmt":"2021-10-20T13:48:48","slug":"a-literature-without-literature","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/site.claricelispector.ims.com.br\/en\/2021\/08\/09\/a-literature-without-literature\/","title":{"rendered":"A Literature Without Literature"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

The chronicles of Clarice Lispector were collected in a book for the first time in 1984, in The Discovery of the World<\/em>, a volume edited by Paulo Gurgel Valente, the author\u2019s son, who arranged in chronological order 468 texts published in the Jornal do Brasil<\/em> between 1967 and 1973. I read and reread those almost eight hundred pages many times, going from beginning to end, then back to the beginning, and I came to leap from one wonder to another. A single page would launch me into an unsettling experience. I returned to those illuminations so many times over the years that, despite my terrible memory for everything, I realized, at a certain point, that I knew several passages and phrases by heart. The new edition, now with the title Todas as cr\u00f4nicas<\/em> (All the Chronicles), was enough for me to reread again, and once more, all of those texts to which the new editor, Pedro Karp Vasquez, added another 120 theretofore uncollected texts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I had discovered Clarice Lispector before The Discovery of the World<\/em>, when I read \u00c1gua Viva<\/em>, a book published in 1973. As a young and beginning reader, I experienced the deep impression of a disturbing work, which was absolutely not a novel, which did not concern poems either, which resembled a diary, though it was not, which was somewhat similar to a philosophical essay, even though its twisted, strange movement sought nothing but to express sensations about writing and artistic creation. And it was not enough to say that it was a bundle of loose notes about the things of the world and about time. Aware of the irresolute and experimental character of the book, the author classified it as \u201cfiction.\u201d It was a way of explaining without explaining, or rather, of escaping from the narrow limits of so-called literary genres. When I first read the texts of The Discovery of the World<\/em>, I recognized, as if I were dizzy, passages I had read in \u00c1gua Viva<\/em>. I do not know if I came to think what seems so clear to me today: that the pages of the Jornal do Brasil<\/em>, detached from their source, muddled the signs that distinguished book writing from newspaper writing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Writers are not\u2014and never have been\u2014preoccupied with preserving boundaries between genres.  If the chronicle is difficult to circumscribe, describe, or simply approach, the grouping of Todas as cr\u00f4nicas<\/em> not only does not help to set limits, but also makes any demarcation impossible.  If it concerns, on the one hand, the characteristic indeterminacy of the hesitant prose that has long frequented newspapers and magazines, there is, on the other hand, a fluidity that moves beyond that, disturbing perspectives, disorganizing systems, refusing laws.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Intrinsically communicative, factual, ephemeral, light and transparent, the chronicle would be unfeasible for an author whose short stories and novels were defined by a writing opposed to such characteristics. Clarice, however, assumed the task of writing every week without abdicating what publication in mass media demanded of her. The flagrant contradiction, instead of dissolving into an easy and comfortable outcome, ended up engendering a creative process that would display its dilemmas, conflicts, and perplexities to the eyes of the reader. Thus, already in her third week collaborating with the Jornal do Brasil<\/em>, the chronicler affirmed: \u201cI still feel a little uncomfortable in my new role which cannot be strictly described as that of a columnist. And besides being a novice in the art of writing chronicles, I am also a novice when it comes to writing in order to earn money. I have had some experience as a professional journalist without ever signing my contributions. By signing my name, it automatically becomes more personal. And I somehow feel as if I were selling my soul.\u201d1<\/a><\/sup><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Even though the passage consolidates a dilemma mentioned by other authors \u2014 the more or less conflicting difference between writing literature, on the one hand, and, on the other, writing for money (for a newspaper) \u2014, the declaration, considered in the set of chronicles, leads to another ponderation, that apart from the easy antagonism there was in the soul of Clarice a more powerful and subterranean unrest: the vague but decisive refusal of literature.  With this I mean that by immediately consigning that she was writing \u201cto earn money,\u201d she took another step \u2014 a way already cleared \u2014 outside the literary institution, a gesture to be understood less as a frivolous circumstance and much more as a rejection in depth, no matter to what extent the writer was aware of it at the moment.  Such an attitude, it should be noted, was not limited to the mere demystification of the image of the writer as someone who does not take part in vile and pragmatic matters. The financial injunction would return later, once again displayed uncloudedly, but the assertion now would be above all provocative: \u201cThey pay me to write. So I write.\u201d2<\/a><\/sup><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Rubem Braga<\/h4>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

It is commonplace to consider the chronicle a minor genre, despite its virtues and the excellence of its practitioners. Clarice did not aggrandize it. Let us say that, on the contrary, she diminished herself to its size and made a point of making clear the course that she was taking. Furthermore, if she did not intend to elevate the genre, she exercised it in a process of vehement diminishment, as if she were seeking to shrink the genre until making it disappear. We read at a certain point: \u201cTo be frank, this can scarcely be called a column. It is simply what it is. It does not correspond to any genre. Genre no longer interests me. What interests me is mystery.\u201d3<\/a><\/sup><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Therefore, instead of refusing the trademarks that define the secondary character of the chronicle \u2014 those that distance it from literature, or even from everything that, under such a code word, is considered major \u2014, Clarice, at first, adopted the characteristic features of the genre seeking to adjust to it, but soon began to activate them, finding in this operation a freedom as extreme as it was risky, which certainly gave it the real dimension of writing something so minor that it was no longer literature or anything else except writing\u2014just that, beyond all classification.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In this sense, \u201cThe Case of the Gold Fountain-Pen\u201d is exemplary, bringing into play an allegory that ironizes the demand for a major writing: \u201care the words written with a gold pen also made of gold? Would I be obliged to write more elaborate sentences because my implement was so much more precious? And would I end up writing in a completely different style? And if my style were to change, surely that would have the effect of changing me as well. But in what way? For the better? And there was another problem: what would happen if I were to find, like King Midas, that everything I wrote with my gold pen turned out to have the brilliance and unyielding hardness of gold?\u201d4<\/a><\/sup><\/p>\n\n\n\n

It is easy to see how much Clarice discovered in the chronicle a complete way to escape from the \u201cbrilliance and unyielding hardness\u201d demanded of literature. But the escape was not a program to be executed in an unreflective way, for if the chronicle seems, by nature, to permit the escape from literary gilding, it does not fail to offer its models, artifices, and genre traits, albeit minor. Dissonantly, the new chronicler readily probed her suspicions and indecisions. She shed light, for example, on obstacles that sounded insurmountable: \u201cI want to speak without speaking, if possible.\u201d5<\/a><\/sup><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Chronologically accompanying the many uncertainties, we distinguish the fluctuation of a subjectivity that is expressed by acceptance and reception, but also by constant doubt, to the point of exasperation: \u201cThe Jornal do Brasil<\/em> is making me popular. I get roses. One day I\u2019ll stop. To become transformed.\u201d And, further on: \u201cI know that what I write here cannot be called a chronicle or a column or an article. But I know that today it\u2019s a scream. A scream! I\u2019m tired!\u201d6<\/a><\/sup><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The enthusiastic response from the readers lent her some security, to which was added a lively contentment, to the point that, remaining foreign to the m\u00e9tier, to the extent that she wrote something which she could not name except as \u201ca kind of chronicle,\u201d she designates herself as a columnist and chronicler, and even though she does not understand the mystery of being one of them, she feels like one of them: \u201cI\u2019m a happy columnist. I wrote nine books that made many people love me from a distance. But being a chronicler has a mystery that I don\u2019t understand: it\u2019s that chroniclers, at least those from Rio, are much loved. And writing the kind of chronicle on Saturdays has brought me even more love. I feel so close to whoever reads me.\u201d7<\/a><\/sup><\/p>\n\n\n\n

However, the favorable, loving reception of the readers did not eliminate other suspicions. Furthermore, the public\u2019s love somehow fostered uncertainties, generating a spiral of inquiries about the act of writing and about the indecipherable bonds that unite work, author, and reader, inquiries expressed with astonishment one moment and with tranquility the next, which endured as a nerve, either implicit or explicit, in those texts. As for being a chronicler, certainty and indecision went hand in hand: \u201cI know that I\u2019m not, but I\u2019ve been meditating a bit on the matter.\u201d And furthermore: \u201cActually, I should talk to Rubem Braga about it, since he invented the chronicle. But I want to see if I can fumble my way through the matter alone and see if I come to understand it.\u201d8<\/a> <\/sup>Here are manifested both the desire of the beginner who yearns to adapt to the genre and the appetite of the apprentice for discovering her own solutions, one of which is the unusual and constant exposure of her voluntary isolation and of her confrontation with the craft.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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At the Typewriter\u2019s Pace <\/h4>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

The collection of chronicles recomposes the weekly dialogue with the readers as a continuous speech, for whom the \u201ccolumnist\u201d frankly unveiled not only anxiety and confusion, but also the joy of maintaining a loving closeness. Often the anguish seemed overcome and the writing was resolved beyond literary expectations: \u201cAs you all can see this is not a column, it\u2019s just conversation.\u201d9<\/a><\/sup> If the problem of genre \u2014 compliance with certain standards \u2014 would be overcome by an exception attained within the genre itself, another resistance persisted: the exposure of intimacy. This time, Rubem Braga was actually summoned to rescue the author, who declared: \u201cMemorandum: one day I telephoned Rubem Braga, the master of the so-called cr\u00f4nica<\/em>, and confided in despair:  \u2018Rubem, I am no columnist, and what I am writing for the newspaper is becoming exceedingly personal. What am I to do?\u2019 He assured me: \u2018When you are writing chronicles it is impossible not to get personal.\u2019 But I do not want to tell anyone about my life: my life is rich in experience and vivid emotions, but I never intend to publish an autobiography.\u201d10<\/a><\/sup><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The judgment pronounced by the master did not placate the restlessness, which would be mentioned many times: \u201cI have noted something extremely disagreeable. These articles I write for my weekly column are not exactly chronicles, in my opinion. I am beginning, however, to understand our greatest chroniclers. Because they sign their work, they ultimately reveal themselves. Up to a certain point we are able to know them intimately and to recognize their style. And personally I think this is a good thing. When I write my books, I remain anonymous and discreet.\u201d11<\/a><\/sup> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The poignant difference between book writing and newspaper writing consisted, therefore, in the propensity for a kind of nakedness that was irrepressible in texts that demanded periodicity. Another quote is in order: \u201cin writing a weekly column I am allowing readers to know me. Am I in danger of losing my privacy? What am I to do? I type out my articles at the typewriter\u2019s pace, and when I look to see what I have written, I realize I have revealed something about myself. I even believe that if I were to write an article about the over-production of coffee in Brazil, I should end up sounding personal. Am I in danger of becoming popular? The thought horrifies me. I must see if anything can be done to remedy the situation. Words by Fernando Pessoa which I read somewhere give me some reassurance: \u2018To speak is the simplest way of becoming unknown.\u2019\u201d12<\/a><\/sup><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The good-humored hypothesis \u2014 humor is a decisive feature of Clarice\u2019s chronicles \u2014 of an objective writing (her approach to the \u201cproblem of the overproduction of coffee in Brazil\u201d) reveals an unrealizable zero degree of writing, that is, the author\u2019s inability to remain shielded in impersonality, which, finally, coincides with Rubem Braga\u2019s lesson. Thus, what is the reason for the permanent discomfort with the observation that in the \u201ccolumn\u201d the person of the writer was made known? And what is the full scope of the affirmation that she did not want to tell anyone about her life and that she never intended \u201cto publish an autobiography?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By saying she was \u201canonymous and discreet\u201d in her books, Clarice transferred to the chronicle the entire load of intimacy and biographism, as if she were being driven by an uncontrollable force. And, interestingly enough, her strength seems to come from outside her. Not from a higher, mystical, or divine force, but from something quite prosaic: her typewriter. Thus, both her non-compliance with literary principles and her manifestation of intimacy emerge through the force of a mechanism whose performance in time is capable of defining her creative process \u2014 speed would determine writing, and the chronicler, more than once, guarantees that she writes \u201cat the typewriter\u2019s pace.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One of the most important critics of Clarice Lispector\u2019s work, the Portuguese academic Carlos Mendes de Sousa, observes in Figuras da escrita<\/em> (Figures of Writing; Instituto Moreira Salles, 2012) that Clarice\u2019s novels originate from a slow pace, since they are operated by the slow machine of rewriting or from compositional effort, while the chronicles arise from a fast machine, conducive to the flow and to the association of ideas. In the latter case, the free and quick transit of sensations prevails, which often abruptly incorporate metalinguistic awareness: \u201cAh, this is neither a chronicle nor a column, I know. For once I don\u2019t think it matters: the days go by, the typewriter goes on. But if I were a chronicler, ah, I would not lack topics!\u201d13<\/a><\/sup><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The paraphrase is irresistible: there is a direct relationship between text and time; between the pace of days and the pace of the typewriter; between writing driven by the time of the typewriter, and of days, and not being a chronicler; between not being a chronicler and not having anything to say.  Everything takes place as if the typewriter determined the transit of writing, and this, then, escaped the control of the author, who, at certain moments, seems to be watching what takes place from the outside, surprising herself and recording her estrangement.  \u201cThe charlatan sells himself short. What was I about to say?\u201d14<\/a><\/sup><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The mechanism becomes apparent here at the moment when the quick flow \u2014 without being interrupted \u2014 incorporates self-awareness. Something similar occurs in the following fragment: \u201cMy God, how love stops death! I don\u2019t know what I mean by that: I believe in my incomprehension, which has given me an instinctive life, while so-called comprehension is so limited.\u201d15<\/a><\/sup> Sometimes, the awareness of the speed seems to interrupt the flow: \u201cI\u2019m writing very easily, and very fluently. I cannot trust that.\u201d16<\/a><\/sup> This record of mistrust and of the apparent interruption of the march may not be exactly a brake, but a moment of deceleration.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Even complaining about the loss of her \u201cprivacy,\u201d Clarice accepted that writing \u201cat the typewriter\u2019s pace\u201d exposed her, and she even came to want that, although she refused what she deemed autobiographical.  It is necessary to consider the gravity and, at the same time, the irony of the following statement: \u201cI\u2019m sorry to say, I\u2019m a mystery to myself.\u201d17<\/a><\/sup> If there is a strong autobiographical dimension in Clarice\u2019s chronicles, it is necessary to pay attention to another order of values \u200b\u200bthat is insistently staged: she did not fully know about what she was writing, since she sought the unknown in what was most banal, as if she found everything and everyone and above all herself strange; she also did not know how she wrote, surrendering to the \u201ctypewriter\u2019s pace;\u201d finally, she understood even less what she wrote\u2014chronicles?  a \u201ckind of chronicle?\u201d articles?  conversations?  What would Clarice be biographizing, after all?  The only answer, which will seem oblique for being too direct, would be: ignorance. Or even: mystery.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Instinct<\/h4>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

There is no autobiographical project, or a stable issuing center, and this becomes clearer when the chronicles transcribe other people\u2019s speech or texts, often letters from her readers.  More important, however, is the impression that emerges from the whole, that these hundreds of pages are a collection of unstable fragments, sudden flashes, remnants. When I used the expression \u201ccontinuous speech\u201d here, I was referring to the permanence of Clarice Lispector\u2019s dialogue with her readers, which does not mean a linear and\/or integral voice. On the contrary, the general effect is, let us say, one of accumulation and disorder, which results not in the strong and lasting presence of a subject, but in its dissipation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Clarice\u2019s chronicles resemble much more an act of emptying the subject, in which biographical fragments undoubtedly surprise.  Perhaps we could extract from them this pedagogical\/ontological summary: speaking of oneself, excessively, quickly, mechanically, one ceases to be. And if I used the word \u201cact\u201d above, I deem the term ritual more accurate in its imprecision. Approaching mystery and silence, the impersonality of the typewriter and of animals, the sensation of death and of God, the author herself is surprised by the precipitation of her intimacy, as if she came back to herself \u2014 becoming again \u2014 and, in in the midst of the flow, wanted to retreat: \u201cAs in everything, in writing I am also somewhat afraid of going too far. What would that be? Why? I retain myself, as if I retained the reins of a horse that could gallop and lead me to God knows where. I keep my guard.\u201d18<\/a><\/sup><\/p>\n\n\n\n

None of this, however, responded to an intellectual call. The demand came from intuition, from a rapture prior to the mechanisms of a strict rational knowledge.  Thus, Clarice speaks of an urge to write that can take place as \u201cpure impulse \u2013 even when I have no theme.\u201d19<\/a><\/sup> And she adds: \u201cBut who? Who obliges me to write? That is the mystery: no one. Nonetheless, I still feel this compulsion to write.\u201d20<\/a><\/sup> Later, she would come to very clearly formulate her view of the creative process: \u201cTo tell the truth, one cannot think of content without form. Only intuition touches the truth without need of content or form. Intuition is the deep unconscious that does without form, while it itself works before surfacing.\u201d21<\/a><\/sup>   <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Recalling that Clarice incorporated some chronicles into her novel An Apprenticeship or the Book of Pleasures<\/em>, I imagine that Todas as cr\u00f4nicas<\/em> could be called \u201cAn Unlearning:\u201d \u201cI no longer know how to write but the literary aspect has become so unimportant in my life that not being able to write may be precisely what will save me from literature.\u201d22<\/a><\/sup> Writing, the chronicler learned how not to write, while literature became, consequently, a strange gift \u2014 \u201cwriting is a curse\u201d \u2014, for only by means of it, accepting its unimportance, would there be any chance of achieving that which really matters, the unknown object that writing promises: \u201cSo what has become important to me? Whatever it may be, it will probably manifest itself through literature.\u201d23<\/a><\/sup><\/p>\n\n\n\n

These speculations about writing and its mysteries can sound quite amusing, thanks to declarations whose frankness disdains any shadow of pride: \u201cWhen I am not writing, I simply do not know how one writes. And if this most sincere of questions did not sound childish and sham, I would seek out some friends who are writers and ask them: how does one write?\u201d24<\/a><\/sup><\/p>\n\n\n\n

A rare faculty of knowledge is in action through instruments that are inaugurated at every use, such that the revelation of what will be said and the act of saying are confused, with no chance of paving some minimally stable, repeatable awareness, or even, without configuring an ability: \u201cSometimes people wishing to pay me a compliment tell me I am intelligent. And they are surprised when I tell them that being intelligent is not my strong point and that I am no more intelligent than other people. They then accuse me of being modest.\u201d It is once again intuition that comes to the forefront, constituting an intelligent way of operating in the dark: \u201cBut often this so-called intelligence of mine is so limited that one would think I was stupid. People who refer to my intelligence are, in fact, confusing intelligence with what I would call a knowing sensibility. Now that is something I really do possess. […] I daresay this is the kind of sensibility I exercise when I write, or in my relationships with friends. I also exercise it when I come into superficial contact with certain people whose aura I can sense immediately.\u201d25<\/a><\/sup> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Such a willingness to attest to the feasibility of writing outside the contours of a formal intelligence concerning literature gives rise to clarifications that are never lacking in humor and irony. After proclaiming that she is not a \u201cliterati,\u201d because she has not made writing books \u2014 written \u201cspontaneously\u201d \u2014 either a profession or a career, Clarice wonders if she is an \u201camateur.\u201d And without answering, she continues: \u201cI also find it difficult to dissuade certain people from calling me an intellectual. Once again, I am not being modest but simply\u2026 intellectual, one has to exercise, above all, one\u2019s intelligence. What I exercise is not so much intelligence but intuition and instinct. To be an intellectual means being someone who is learned. I am such a poor reader that I must shamelessly confess that I really have no great learning. […] Nowadays, despite often being lazy to write, sometimes I am lazier when it comes to reading than to writing.\u201d26<\/a><\/sup><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The completely unencumbered humor often arises from misunderstandings concerning her intelligence or intellectual gifts, as in the episode in which a friend tells her that some consider her, Clarice, \u201chighly intellectual\u201d and deem that she is very cultured. Her friend says that the author of The Apple in the Dark<\/em> should, \u201cjust not to be embarrassed,\u201d take care of her bookcase, which seemed to her very diminished. The delightful conclusion of the scene comes in the following terms: \u201cBut really je m\u2019en fiche<\/em>. I secretly pretend to let them think whatever they want. Since I do not regret really being \u2018diminished\u2019 \u2013 in other things it hurts \u2013 I am pure when it comes to feeling the taste of success. […] In the beginning I tried to tell the truth: but they thought I was being modest, was lying, or was being \u2018weird.\u2019\u201d27<\/a><\/sup> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It is worth recalling that the vast majority of these texts were written from the second half of the 1960s until the middle of the following decade, a period marked by the counterculture and its ramifications. Clarice, calmly but vigorously defending a marginal place with regard to the literary institution, to its regulations and apparatus, seems to harmonize with that contestatory spirit, as if her more profound vocation had coincided with the youth of her time. It is quite eloquent, and moving, that on February 17, 1968 her non-chronicle is a letter to the Minister of Education, in which she refers to the unfair distribution of student openings at universities, whose conclusion comes with the following sentence: \u201cLet these pages symbolize a march of protest on the part of young men and women.\u201d28<\/a><\/sup> A little later, on June 29 of the same tumultuous year of 1968, the chronicler, speaking directly to one of her readers, intrepidly asserts: \u201cThe students are shouting all over the world, \u00c9lcio. And I shout with them.\u201d29<\/a><\/sup><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I realize at this point that I did not say what the recurrent themes of these chronicles are. In a very brief and hardly responsible list, I would include: taxi drivers, housemaids, animals, God, justice, the urgent need for us to preserve indigenous lands and undertake agrarian reform in the country, fear, her burned hand, indifference, Chico Buarque, the sea, readers, loneliness, silence, hunger, love, her children. I should also have mentioned the various, unusual interviews with people such as Pablo Neruda, Nelson Rodrigues, Mill\u00f4r Fernandes, Tom Jobim, and Zagallo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I shall quote one more passage, almost like a P.S. (it was a party, a meeting of Clarice and some friends, including the author of The Devil to Pay in the Backlands<\/em>): \u201cGuimar\u00e3es Rosa then told me something I shall never forget, it made me so happy. He told me he read my books \u2018not for the literature, but for the lessons in life.\u2019 He quoted whole sentences by heart which I had written and I did not recognize any.\u201d30<\/a><\/sup> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

* Translated by Marco Alexandre de Oliveira and edited by Sean McIntrye. All quotes from the Portuguese original are free translations unless otherwise indicated.
** This text was originally published on April 1, 2019 in the magazine Quatro cinco um<\/a><\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Author\u2019s note<\/h2>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

Some texts published in The Discovery of the World<\/em> are not in Todas as cr\u00f4nicas<\/em> because they are part of The Complete Stories<\/em>.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

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Notas<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

1<\/sup> Clarice Lispector, Selected Cr\u00f4nicas<\/em>. Translated by Giovanni Pontiero. New York: New Directions, 1996. 

2<\/sup> The original quote in Portuguese reads: \u201cPagam-me para eu escrever. Eu escrevo, ent\u00e3o.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

3<\/sup> Clarice Lispector, Selected Cr\u00f4nicas<\/em>. Translated by Giovanni Pontiero. New York: New Directions, 1996. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

4<\/sup> Clarice Lispector, Selected Cr\u00f4nicas<\/em>. Translated by Giovanni Pontiero. New York: New Directions, 1996. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

5<\/sup> The original quote in Portuguese reads: \u201cQuero falar sem falar, se \u00e9 poss\u00edvel.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

6<\/sup> The original quote in Portuguese reads: \u201cO Jornal do Brasil est\u00e1 me tornando popular. Ganho rosas. Um dia paro. Para me tornar tornada; Sei que o que escrevo aqui n\u00e3o se pode chamar de cr\u00f4nica nem de coluna nem de artigo. Mas sei que hoje \u00e9 um grito. Um grito! De cansa\u00e7o. Estou cansada!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

7<\/sup> The original quote in Portuguese reads: \u201cSou uma colunista feliz. Escrevi nove livros que fizeram muitas pessoas me amar de longe. Mas ser cronista tem um mist\u00e9rio que n\u00e3o entendo: \u00e9 que os cronistas, pelo menos os do Rio, s\u00e3o muito amados. E escrever a esp\u00e9cie de cr\u00f4nica aos s\u00e1bados tem me trazido mais amor ainda. Sinto-me t\u00e3o perto de quem me l\u00ea.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

8<\/sup> The original quotes in Portuguese read: \u201cSei que n\u00e3o sou, mas tenho meditado ligeiramente no assunto;\u201d \u201cNa verdade eu deveria conversar a respeito com Rubem Braga, que foi o inventor da cr\u00f4nica. Mas quero ver se consigo tatear sozinha no assunto e ver se chego a entender.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

9<\/sup> The original quote in Portuguese reads: \u201cAs you all can see this is not a column, it\u2019s just conversation.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

10<\/sup> Clarice Lispector, Discovering the World<\/em>. Translated by Giovanni Pontiero. Manchester: Carcanet Press, 1992. Note: Some fragments of the quote were unavailable and therefore translated freely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

11<\/sup> The original quote in Portuguese reads: \u201cNoto uma coisa extremamente desagrad\u00e1vel. Estas coisas que ando escrevendo aqui n\u00e3o s\u00e3o, creio, propriamente cr\u00f4nicas, mas agora entendo os nossos melhores cronistas. Porque eles assinam, n\u00e3o conseguem escapar de se revelar. At\u00e9 certo ponto n\u00f3s os conhecemos intimamente. E quanto a mim, isto me desagrada. Na literatura de livros permane\u00e7o an\u00f4nima e discreta.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

12<\/sup> The original quote in Portuguese reads: \u201cNesta coluna estou de algum modo me dando a conhecer. Perco minha intimidade secreta? Mas que fazer? \u00c9 que escrevo ao correr da m\u00e1quina e, quando vejo, revelei certa parte minha. Acho que se escrever sobre o problema da superprodu\u00e7\u00e3o do caf\u00e9 no Brasil terminarei sendo pessoal. Daqui em breve serei popular? Isso me assusta. Vou ver o que posso fazer, se \u00e9 que posso. O que me consola \u00e9 a frase de Fernando Pessoa, que li citada: \u2018Falar \u00e9 o modo mais simples de nos tornarmos desconhecidos.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

13<\/sup> The original quote in Portuguese reads: \u201cAh, isto n\u00e3o \u00e9 cr\u00f4nica nem coluna, bem sei. Por uma vez acho que n\u00e3o importa: os dias correm, a m\u00e1quina corre. Mas se eu fosse cronista, ah n\u00e3o me faltariam assuntos!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

14<\/sup> Clarice Lispector, Selected Cr\u00f4nicas<\/em>. Translated by Giovanni Pontiero. New York: New Directions, 1996.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

15<\/sup> The original quote in Portuguese reads: \u201cMeu Deus, como o amor impede a morte! N\u00e3o sei o que estou querendo dizer com isso: confio na minha incompreens\u00e3o, que tem me dado vida instintiva, enquanto que a chamada compreens\u00e3o \u00e9 t\u00e3o limitada.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

16<\/sup> The original quote in Portuguese reads: \u201cEstou escrevendo com muita facilidade, e com muita flu\u00eancia. \u00c9 preciso desconfiar disso.\u201d  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

17<\/sup> The original quote in Portuguese reads: \u201cCom perd\u00e3o da palavra, sou um mist\u00e9rio para mim.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

18<\/sup> The original quote in Portuguese reads: \u201cComo em tudo, no escrever tamb\u00e9m tenho uma esp\u00e9cie de receio de ir longe demais. Que ser\u00e1 isso? Por qu\u00ea? Retenho-me, como se retivesse as r\u00e9deas de um cavalo que poderia galopar e me levar Deus sabe onde. Eu me guardo.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

19<\/sup> Clarice Lispector, Discovering the World<\/em>. Translated by Giovanni Pontiero. Manchester: Carcanet Press, 1992.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

20<\/sup> Clarice Lispector, Discovering the World<\/em>. Translated by Giovanni Pontiero. Manchester: Carcanet Press, 1992.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

21<\/sup> Clarice Lispector, Discovering the World<\/em>. Translated by Giovanni Pontiero. Manchester: Carcanet Press, 1992. Note: Some fragments of the quote were unavailable and therefore translated freely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

22<\/sup> Clarice Lispector, Discovering the World<\/em>. Translated by Giovanni Pontiero. Manchester: Carcanet Press, 1992. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

23<\/sup> Clarice Lispector, Discovering the World<\/em>. Translated by Giovanni Pontiero. Manchester: Carcanet Press, 1992.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

24<\/sup> Clarice Lispector, Discovering the World<\/em>. Translated by Giovanni Pontiero. Manchester: Carcanet Press, 1992.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

25<\/sup> Clarice Lispector, Selected Cr\u00f4nicas<\/em>. Translated by Giovanni Pontiero. New York: New Directions, 1996. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

26<\/sup> Clarice Lispector, Discovering the World<\/em>. Translated by Giovanni Pontiero. Manchester: Carcanet Press, 1992 Note: Some fragments of the quote were unavailable and therefore translated freely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

27<\/sup> The original quotes in Portuguese read: \u201caltamente intelectualizada;\u201d \u201cgrande cultura;\u201d \u201cs\u00f3 para n\u00e3o se envergonhar;\u201d \u201cMas realmente je m\u2019en fiche. Brinco toda secreta de deixar que pensem o que quiserem. Como n\u00e3o tenho remorsos de ser realmente uma \u2018desfalcada\u2019 \u2014 em outras coisas me d\u00f3i \u2014 estou pura para sentir o gosto do logro. […] No come\u00e7o tentei dizer a verdade: mas tomavam como mod\u00e9stia, mentira ou \u2018esquisitice.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

28<\/sup> The original quote in Portuguese reads: \u201cQue estas p\u00e1ginas simbolizem uma passeata de protesto de rapazes e mo\u00e7as.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

29<\/sup> The original quote in Portuguese reads: \u201cOs estudantes est\u00e3o gritando em todas as partes do mundo, \u00c9lcio. E eu grito com eles.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

30<\/sup> Clarice Lispector, Discovering the World<\/em>. Translated by Giovanni Pontiero. Manchester: Carcanet Press, 1992. Note: Some fragments of the quote were unavailable and therefore translated freely.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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