A segment of Clarice Lispector’s book originally written in Brazillian Portuguese translated by Stefan Tobler. Originally published in 1973. Translated in 2012 by New Directions Press.
A reminder of why I write and why I am here or there.
“We will meet this afternoon. And I won’t even talk to you about this that I’m writing and which contains what I am and which I give to you as a present though you won’t read it. You will never read what I’m writing. And when I’ve noted down my secret of being–I shall throw it away as if into the sea. I’m writing to you because you can’t accept what I am. When I destroy my notes on the instants, will I return to my nothing from which I extracted an everything? I must pay the price. The price of someone who has a past that is only renewed with passion in the strange present. When I think of what I already lived through it seems to me I was shedding my bodies along the paths.”