miércoles, marzo 16, 2005

CLARICE LISPECTOR



"Mas há a vida que é para ser intensamente vivida, há o amor.
Que tem que ser vivido até a última gota. Sem nenhum medo. Não mata."



"Estou sentindo uma clareza tão grande que me anula como pessoa atual e comum: é uma lucidez vazia, como explicar? assim como um cálculo matemático perfeito do qual, no entanto, não se precise. Estou por assim dizer vendo claramente o vazio. E nem entendo aquilo que entendo: pois estou infinitamente maior que eu mesma, e não me alcanço. Além do que: que faço dessa lucidez? Sei também que esta minha lucidez pode-se tornar o inferno humano - já me aconteceu antes. Pois sei que - em termos de nossa diária e permanente acomodação resignada à irrealidade - essa clareza de realidade é um risco. Apagai, pois, minha flama, Deus, porque ela não me serve para viver os dias. Ajudai-me a de novo consistir dos modos possíveis. Eu consisto, eu consisto, amém. "




En el final de los años cincuenta, un jóven del interior de Bahía que soñaba ser cineasta, tuvo momentos de encantamiento al leer cuentos de una escritora que empezaba a ser conocida del gran público a través de la prensa. El chico, un adolescente de 17 años, parecía entrever en aquellos textos publicados en las paginas de la revista Senhor, un perfíl estético que el silenciosamente esperaba. La autora de los cuentos que tanto impresionaran al joven fue Clarice Lispector, que a través de su literatura crearía uno de los momentos más bonitos y elaborados de la prosa en lengua portuguesa. El joven era Caetano Veloso.

"My first language was Portuguese. Do I speak Russian? No, absolutely not. (…) My tongue is tied. (…) some people used to ask me if I was French, because of the way I pronounce the r’s... When I learned to read and write, I devoured books! I thought books were like trees, like animals: a thing that was born! I could not find out what an author was! Then, at a certain point, I found out what an author was! So I said: I want that too.” (Interview)

It was Clarice playing
Deeper still
Where the word seems to meet
Its reason for being
And portraying man.
CARLOS DRUMMOND DE ANDRADE…




Clarice doesn’t denounce, she doesn’t tell, she doesn’t narrate nor does she picture anything – she carves a tunnel in which she suddenly replaces the searched for object in its unexpected essence.

LÚCIO CARDOSO, writer, moviemaker, painter and a great friend.




Clarice’s work recodifies and reinterprets in contemporary poetic prose the Kabalistic beliefs. For the Kabala, as well as for Clarice herself, existence reveals itself explicitly and structures itself in the certainty of the Mystery that allows humanity to exercise its freedom (ZOHAR); Creation is not a comprehension, it’s a new mystery -- Visão do esplendor [Vision of the Splendor].

ESTER SCHWARTZ, M.A., professor, co-director of ALACL




… (You get a thousand waves that I don’t get, I feel like a little radio, only receiving the station on the corner and you receive radar, television, and short waves. It’s funny, you hit me and you enrich me at the same time, and that hurts a little, it makes me feel less safe and secure.

RUBEM BRAGA, writer and friend.





The development of certain important themes in the fiction of Clarice Lispector belongs in the context of the philosophy of existence, composed of doctrines which, although differing in their conclusions, have the same starting point: the Kierkegardian intuition of the pre-reflexive, individual and dramatic character of human existence. It deals with issues such as angst, nothing, failure, language, communication between consciousness, some of which traditional philosophy had ignored or relegated to a second plane.

BENEDITO NUNES, philosopher, critic, writer.




I didn’t write to you about your short stories book, Family Ties, for sheer shyness of telling you what I think. Here it is: it is the most important collection of stories published in this country since Machado de Assis.

ÉRICO VERÍSSIMO, writer and friend.




Where were you at night
You who return in the morning
with the ultra-world in your veins
among abyssal flowers?

We were in the most distant
that the letter can reach:
reading Clarice’s book,
mystery and key in the air.

CARLOS DRUMMOND DE ANDRADE


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