By Clarice Lispector
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The moment is the stay seed. the key concord of disharmony: i do not wish what's already made yet what's tortuously within the making. My unbalanced phrases are the luxurious of my silence. I write in acrobatic, aerial pirouettes—I write simply because I passionately are looking to communicate. although writing is barely giving me the good degree of silence. And if I say "I," this is why i do not dare say "you," or "we," or "a individual. " i am restricted to the standard act of self- personalization via lowering myself, yet i'm the "you-are. " certain, i would like the ultimate, that's additionally so first that its already stressed with the intangible a part of the genuine. i am nonetheless afraid to leave from good judgment simply because I fall into the instinctive and the direct, and into the long run: the discovery of this present day is my merely means of building the long run. any longer is destiny, and any hour is an appointed hour. besides, what damage is there in my departing from common sense? i am facing primal subject. i am after what is in the back of notion. it really is dead to attempt to categorise me: I easily slip away no longer leaving, different types pin me down not. i am in a really new and actual nation, one concerned about itself, so beautiful and private that it defies my skill both to color it or write it. it is like definite moments I had with you, whilst I enjoyed you, moments past which i may by no means cross on the grounds that I plumbed the depths of moments. it is a nation of touch with the encompassing strength, and that i tremble. a type of loopy, loopy concord. i do know that my glance has to be the glance of a primitive one who surrenders thoroughly to the area, primitive just like the gods who purely widely settle for stable and evil and are not drawn to the great that is wound into evil like into hair, the evil that's the sturdy. I catch unexpected instants that deliver their very own loss of life with them and others are born—I seize the instants of metamorphosis, and their series and concomitance have a poor attractiveness. Now it truly is becoming gentle and sunrise is a white mist at the sands of the seashore. every thing is mine, then. I not often contact meals, i do not are looking to wake up myself past the waking of the day. I develop with the day which, in starting to be, kills in me a definite imprecise wish and forces me to examine the tough sunlight nose to nose. A gust of wind blows and scatters my papers. I pay attention that shouting wind, rattle of birds in slanted flight. And the following I strength myself into the severity of a annoying language, I strength myself into the nudity of a white skeleton freed from humors. however the skeleton is freed from existence, and whereas i am alive I tremble in every single place. i cannot succeed in the ultimate nudity. and that i doubtless don't but wish it. this is often existence obvious by means of lifestyles. i could now not have a feeling, yet it is the very loss of experience pulsing vein has. i would like to write down you as one that is studying. I picture each one immediate. I delve into phrases as though I have been portray not only an item yet its shadow. i do not are looking to ask why, you'll be able to perpetually ask why and stay endlessly with out a solution: will I have the capacity to bring myself over to the expectant silence that comes after an answerless query?