{"id":4603,"date":"2019-07-23T00:00:00","date_gmt":"2019-07-23T03:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/site.claricelispector.ims.com.br\/o-amor-tem-cheiro-de-morte\/"},"modified":"2020-12-15T12:08:15","modified_gmt":"2020-12-15T15:08:15","slug":"o-amor-tem-cheiro-de-morte","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/site.claricelispector.ims.com.br\/en\/2019\/07\/23\/o-amor-tem-cheiro-de-morte\/","title":{"rendered":"“Love Smells Like Death”"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
\n

Sex<\/h2>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

Clarice Lispector wrote about sex only once. It was in the book A via cr\u00facis do corpo<\/em> (The Via Crucis of the Body). Even so, as her biographer Benjamin Moser observes, \u201cthe theme that unites the collection is not, in fact, sex. It is motherhood.\u201d Indeed, based on this comment, it is possible to think that the writer undoes the boundary line that separates maternal love and sexual desire by uniting the two instincts into a conjunction, such as in the female organ common to birth and to copulation.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Moser also says that some of the writer\u2019s friends considered her \u201ctouchingly naive\u201d in matters of sex. Her friend and plastic artist Maria Bonomi, who at the time had separated from her husband to date a woman, was supposedly interrogated with \u201ctechnical questions\u201d by a curious Clarice. Such an interest was also imprinted in the article \u201cO v\u00edcio impune da literatura\u201d (The unpunished vice of literature), published in the Folha de S.Paulo<\/em>, in 1992, in which one reads about a supposed \u201cexchange of imported pornographic magazines\u201d between her and the poet Carlos Drummond de Andrade. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

In any case, it is Clarice herself who is evasive, in the preface to A via cr\u00facis do corpo<\/em>: \u201cif there\u2019s indecency in the stories, it\u2019s not my fault. Needless to say it didn\u2019t happen to me.\u201d In 1975, in an interview given to the Manchete<\/em> magazine on the occasion of the book\u2019s release, she reiterates: \u201cEven I was surprised [\u2026] how I knew so many things about the topic.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

If it is true that there is almost no sex in Clarice\u2019s work, it is also a fact that her literature is impregnated with eroticism; an eroticism that touches the limits of matter. The best example of this is the mystical experience that the main character of The Passion According to G.H.<\/em> undergoes when she eats the white mass of the dead cockroach that she had just crushed against the closet door, in the maid\u2019s microcosmic room. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The incident with G.H. can be understood in light of what the French thinker George Bataille, in his book Eroticism<\/em>, classifies as \u201csacred eroticism,\u201d which is connected to the concrete world, to its objects, and is therefore distinguished from the eroticism of bodies or of hearts \u2013 an experience that is thus independent both of sexual and personal relations.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For him, the depersonalization of the erotic fusion can be considered similar to that experienced in sacrificial rituals. In the face of the immolation of the victim \u2013 in the case of G.H., the cockroach \u2013, what is revealed to the senses of the participants, who often eat it, is the experience of the sacred<\/em>. As Bataille affirms: \u201ca violent death disrupts the creature\u2019s discontinuity; what remains, what the tense onlookers experience in the ensuing silence, is the continuity of all existence with which the victim is now one.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Continuity<\/em> and discontinuity<\/em> are terms that must be understood as the reintegration of a mortal and singular being, who is therefore discontinuous, to the general fermentation of life, which is indistinct and impersonal. As in Lavoisier\u2019s maxim, \u201cnothing is lost, nothing is created, everything is transformed,\u201d the body serves as food for bacteria, which participates in the decaying process of human flesh and sets in motion the incessant cycle of life and death.   <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The immediate horror experienced with the putrefaction of the corpse reveals to men and women the unavoidable affinity between the \u201cstinking putrefaction\u201d of death and the essence of life itself. Thus, if on the one hand \u201cthe horror of death drives us off, for we prefer life; on the other an element at once solemn and terrifying fascinates us and disturbs us profoundly.\u201d    <\/p>\n\n\n\n

A disturbance of such an order, Bataille continues, is triggered by the direct contact with that which is commonly called nausea or repugnance. The term he uses, \u201csovereign disturbance,\u201d perfectly fits that which critics and Clarice herself call \u201cexistential moment,\u201d \u201csurprise,\u201d \u201cflash,\u201d \u201cepiphany,\u201d etc., in her work. The overcoming of disgust seen in sacrifice is the same that, in the face of an unexpected event, will cause the disorder that comes from reality-based erotic experience to burst in Clarice\u2019s characters. It is an experience that, since it is not part of our will, always \u201cwaits upon chance,\u201d according to the French thinker.        <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But if for the writer, as we have seen, sex is not a priority, what is it that is revealed, then, in the blatant eroticism of her texts? In The Passion According to G.H.<\/em>, she herself answers: \u201cAh, people put the idea of sin in sex. But how innocent and childish that sin is. The real hell is that of love. Love is the experience of a danger of greater sin \u2014 it is the experience of the mud and the degradation and the worst joy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

Love<\/h2>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

In the short story \u201cLove,\u201d from the book Family Ties<\/em>, Clarice Lispector narrates the story of Ana, a housewife who is on the tram, tired, returning from the market to her house, and carelessly thinking about everyday life at home: the broken stove, her children, her husband \u2013 to everything, Ana gave \u201cher small, strong hand, her stream of life,\u201d one reads.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The narrator warns the reader: \u201cA certain hour of the afternoon was more dangerous. [\u2026] when the house was empty and needed nothing more from her, the sun high, the family members scattered to their duties.\u201d At this moment, Ana became restless. Before having a family, her life was \u201crestless exaltation,\u201d it was no longer within reach, for she \u201chad created at last something comprehensible, an adult life\u201d \u2014 in order.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Absorbed in her thoughts, Ana is disoriented, all of a sudden, by the sight of a blind man chewing gum: \u201c[\u2026] her heart beat violently, at intervals. Leaning forward, she stared intently at the blind man, the way we stare at things that don\u2019t see us. He was chewing gum in the dark. Without suffering, eyes open. The chewing motion made it look like he was smiling and then suddenly not smiling, smiling and not smiling \u2014 as if he had insulted her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It is worth observing the original way that Clarice stages some clich\u00e9s, restoring to them the original meaning of the words. The trivial description of the blind man \u2013 eyes open in the dark, which is equivalent to the commonplace \u201cseeing in darkness\u201d \u2013 is metaphorically figured as a sort of existential longing on the part of the character: the calm understanding of life in full ebullition, in its intrinsic disorder. The chewing that seemed to make him oscillate between laughter and seriousness evokes, in the same way, the reconciliation \u201cwithout suffering\u201d between opposites, in a unity that is primordial and \u201cinexpressive,\u201d as G.H. says.      <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Suddenly, the tram brakes and the bags that were on Ana\u2019s lap fall on the ground. She yells. The driver stops. She collects what was scattered on the ground. But the eggs had broken: \u201cviscous, yellow yolks dripped through the mesh\u201d of the knit bag. Here, we witness the representation of yet another catch phrase: \u201cthe life that slips through your fingers.\u201d The yoke, the egg of a chicken, if fertilized by the male, gives life; if not, it is life that could have been and was not. Thus, once the spoil of life \u2013 her own? \u2013 has been discarded, all the fragile harmony of Ana\u2019s everyday life also slips away.       <\/p>\n\n\n\n

She then perceives an absence of law; she no longer knows where to go \u2013 \u201cShe had pacified life so well, taken such care for it not to explode. [\u2026] And a blind man chewing gum was shattering it all to pieces.\u201d Without realizing it, she missed the stop for her house and, in a rage, gets off the tram. It was getting dark. Little by little, she recognizes the place where she is and walks through the Botanical Garden. Equivalences arise with the Garden of Eden, which, on the one hand shifts the Judeo-Christian mythical paradise to the real park in the city of Rio de Janeiro, but, on the other, describes it in new terms. Contrary to the nice and lovely atmosphere in Genesis<\/em>, in \u201cLove,\u201d horror and degradation are established:       <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0There was a secret labor underway in the Garden that she was starting to perceive. In the trees the fruits were black, sweet like honey. On the ground were dried pits full of circumvolutions, like little rotting brains. The bench was stained with purple juices. With intense gentleness the waters murmured. Clinging to a tree trunk were the luxuriant limbs of a spider. [\u2026] it was a world to sink one\u2019s teeth into [\u2026]. it was fascinating, the woman was nauseated, and it was fascinating.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

\n
\n

Morality<\/h2>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

Bataille, in another text, the essay \u201cThe Language of Flowers,\u201d published in the magazine Documents<\/em> in 1929, criticizes the image of the flower as a symbol of the discovery of love. The frequent association would be explained, according to him, by the fact that both the brilliance of flowers and human feelings are \u201ca question of phenomena that precede fertilization.\u201d Nevertheless, for men and women, what becomes a sign of desire, in the flower, is the corolla, its most decorative aspect, and not the sexual organ, a \u201crather sordid tuft,\u201d covered by the petals. The flower\u2019s appearance is equivalent, therefore, to an ideal of human beauty and, for this reason, says nothing about its real nature \u2013 flowers \u201cwither like old and overly made-up dowagers, and they die ridiculously on stems that seemed to carry them to the clouds,\u201d affirms the thinker, for whom \u201clove smells like death.\u201d      <\/p>\n\n\n\n

To destroy the impression of harmony in the nature of plants, Bataille continues, it is enough to imagine \u201cthe impossible and fantastic vision of roots swarming under the surface of the soil, nauseating and naked like vermin.\u201d To roots, in contrast to stems, could then be attributed the lowest moral value. The similarities between Clarice\u2019s text and Bataille\u2019s arguments are evident (and somewhat unprecedented). She writes: \u201cThe erotic impulse of entrails is linked to the eroticism of the twisted roots of trees. It is the rooted force of desire. My truculence. Monstrous viscera and hot lava of burning mud.\u201d [1]<\/a> The theme reappears in The Passion According to G.H<\/em>.: \u201cthe unclean is the root \u2014 for there are created things that never decorated themselves.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In \u201cLove,\u201d Ana\u2019s experience is therefore the experience of interdiction. The narrator alerts the reader: \u201cThe moral of the Garden was something else.\u201d Unlike the biblical garden, where God already dictated orders to the first couple, in Ana\u2019s garden (or Clarice\u2019s), it is the character herself who encounters, without prescription, and with a mix of attraction and repulsion, the erotic depersonalization that reconciles good and evil in an indistinct and amoral totality. In the words of Spinoza, of whom Clarice was an enthusiastic reader, Ana allows herself to be \u201caffected\u201d by the things of the world and learns an ethical lesson that has the body as a seat and real experience as a base. In a manner very close to the Dutch philosopher, Clarice reflects, in The Passion According to G.H.<\/em>, upon morality:      <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0Would it be simplistic to think the moral problem with regard to others consists in behaving as one ought to, and the moral problem with regards to oneself is managing to feel what one ought to? Am I moral to the extent that I do what I should, and feel as I should? All of a sudden the moral question seemed to me not only overwhelming, but extremely petty. The moral problem, in order for us to adjust to it, should be at once less demanding and greater. Since as an ideal it is both small and unattainable. Small, if one attains it: unattainable, because it cannot even be attained. [\u2026] The solution had to be secret. The ethics of the moral is keeping it secret. Freedom is a secret.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

\n

The Secret (or The Ethics) <\/h2>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

Ana was breathing in the putrid perfume of the decomposing plants \u2013 until she remembers her children. She immediately feels guilty. But why? \u201cWhat was she ashamed of?\u201d When she left the garden, she was no longer the same. Now, \u201cher heart had filled with the worst desire to live.\u201d And this was incompatible with her previous routine. Still in a trance, she arrives home, receives guests for dinner; the children play in the living room. Everything seemed normal, but she was absent and delirious, and she involuntarily frightens one of her children:     <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mama, the boy called. She held him away from her, looked at that face, her heart cringed. Don\u2019t let Mama forget you, she told him. As soon as the child felt her embrace loosen, he broke free and fled to the bedroom door, looking at her from greater safety. It was the worst look she had ever received. The blood rushed to her face, warming it.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

Ana\u2019s senses were saturated and the atmosphere of the house was like an overwhelming shadow. She hears an explosion on the stove. \u201cWhat happened?!\u201d, she asks her husband, startled. He becomes surprised by his wife\u2019s fear; \u201c\u2018It was nothing,\u2019 he said, I\u2019m just clumsy.\u2019\u201d He brings her close to him and caresses her. Ana transfers to her husband all the love of one who had come face to face with death and tells him in a serious tone: \u201cI don\u2019t want anything to happen to you, ever!\u201d He finds what she said funny; \u201cTime for bed,\u201d he says. He then leads his wife to bed, \u201cremoving her from the danger of living\u201d;  back to the night that follows the day that follows the night \u2013 practical life, which, although miserable, nevertheless bears the existence of who knows love.        <\/p>\n\n\n\n

[1]<\/a> The passage, written by hand on the backside of the typescript for \u201cObjeto gritante\u201d (\u201cScreaming Object,\u201d the text that gave rise to the book \u00c1gua Viva<\/em>), is quoted by the Angolan critic Carlos Mendes de Sousa, in Clarice Lispector: pinturas<\/em> (Clarice Lispector: Paintings).<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Sex Clarice Lispector wrote about sex only once. It was in the book A via cr\u00facis do corpo (The Via Crucis of the Body). Even so, as her biographer Benjamin Moser observes, \u201cthe theme that unites the collection is not, in fact, sex. It is motherhood.\u201d Indeed, based on this comment, it is possible to […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5,"featured_media":4760,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"inline_featured_image":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[564],"tags":[621,596,622,623,624,625,626,627,600,628,629,630,604,631],"class_list":["post-4603","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-essays","tag-a-paixao-segundo-g-h-en","tag-amor-en","tag-carlos-drummond-de-andrade-en","tag-carlos-mendes-de-sousa-en","tag-epifania-en","tag-erotismo-en","tag-espinoza-en","tag-etica-en","tag-georges-bataille-en","tag-jardim-do-eden-en","tag-lacos-de-familia-en","tag-lavoisier-en","tag-moralidade-en","tag-sexo-en"],"yoast_head":"\n"Love Smells Like Death" - Clarice Lispector<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/site.claricelispector.ims.com.br\/2019\/07\/23\/o-amor-tem-cheiro-de-morte\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\""Love Smells Like Death" - Clarice Lispector\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Sex Clarice Lispector wrote about sex only once. It was in the book A via cr\u00facis do corpo (The Via Crucis of the Body). Even so, as her biographer Benjamin Moser observes, \u201cthe theme that unites the collection is not, in fact, sex. 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