Clarice Lispector Quotes

But don't forget, in the meantime, that this is the season for strawberries. Yes.

Everything in the world began with a yes. One molecule said yes to another molecule and life was born.

It is because I dove into the abyss that I am beginning to love the abyss I am made of.

The only truth is that I live. Sincerely, I live. Who am I? Well, that's a bit much.

I only achieve simplicity with enormous effort

Do you ever suddenly find it strange to be yourself?

Do you know that hope sometimes consists only of a question without an answer?

There it is, the sea, the most incomprehensible of non-human existences.

Her curiosity instructed her more than the answers she was given.

Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?

Things were somehow so good that they were in danger of becoming very bad because what is fully mature is very close to rotting

What I want is to live of that initial and primordial something that was what made some things reach the point of aspiring to be human.

No it is not easy to write. It is as hard as breaking rocks. Sparks and splinters fly like shattered steel.

You don't understand music: you hear it. So hear me with your whole body.

My life, the most truthful one, is unrecognizable, extremely interior, and there is no single word that gives it meaning.

How was she to tie herself to a man without permitting him to imprison her? And was there some means of acquiring things without those things possessing her?

I want the following word: splendor, splendor is fruit in all its succulence, fruit without sadness. I want vast distances. My savage intuition of myself.

And even sadness was also something for rich people, for people who could afford it, for people who didn't have anything better to do. Sadness was a luxury.

To think is an act. To feel is a fact.

I work only with lost and founds.

Reality prior to my language exists as an unthinkable thought. . . . life precedes love, bodily matter precedes the body, and one day in its turn language shall have preceded possession of silence.

I' is merely one of the world's instantaneous spasms.

So long as I have questions to which there are no answers, I shall go on writing.

And I want to be held down. I don't know what to do with the horrifying freedom that can destroy me.

The world's continual breathing is what we hear and call silence.

Do not mourn the dead. They know what they are doing.

Holding someone's hand was always my idea of joy.

I hear the mad song of a little bird and crush butterflies between my fingers.

Ela acreditava em anjo e, porque acreditava, eles existiam" | "She believed in angels, and, because she believed, they existed

Today at school I wrote an essay about Flag Day which was so beautiful, but ever so beautiful - for I even used words without really knowing what they meant.

Love is now, is always. All that is missing is the coup de grâce- which is called passion.

Living isn't courage, knowing that you're living, that's courage

For one has the right to shout. So, I am shouting.

I write and that way rid myself of me and then at last I can rest.

I write to save someone's life, probably my own

For at the hour of death you became a celebrated film star, it is a moment of glory for everyone, when the choral music scales the top notes.

I write as if to save somebody’s life. Probably my own. Life is a kind of madness that death makes. Long live the dead because we live in them.

I ask myself: is every story that has ever been written in this world, a story of suffering and affliction?

I just know that I don't want cheating. I refuse. I deepened myself but I don't believe in myself because my thought is invented.

I, who called love my hope for love.

In the world there exists no aesthetic plane, not even the aesthetic plane of goodness.

Facts and particulars annoy me.

Brazil is where I have to be, where I have my roots.

I studied mathematics which is the madness of reason.

When I think of what I already lived through it seems to me I was shedding my bodies along the paths.

but the crime is more important than the punishment. I enliven all of me in my happy instinct for destruction.

It was darker, all she could see of him was a shadow. He was fading more and more, slipping through her hands, dead at the bottom of sleep.

Long live the dead because we live in them.

Sometimes writing a single line is enough to save your own heart.

Where does music go when it’s not playing?—she asked herself. And disarmed she would answer: May they make a harp out of my nerves when I die.