Clarice Lispector

Brazil
10 Dec 1920 // 9 Dec 1977
Writer

Quotes

Next >>

I've always liked putting things in their places. I think it's my only true calling. By ordering things I create and understand at the same time... Ordering is finding the best form.

The Passion According to G.H.
I love you as much as if I were always bidding you farewell. When I'm too alone, I fasten rattles to my ankles and wrists. That way almost all my thoughts are externalized and return to me as replies.

A Breath of Life
If I raised the alarm at being alive, voiceless and hard they would drag me away since they drag away those who depart the possible world, the exceptional being is dragged away, the screaming being.

The Passion According to G.H.
I nourish myself with what's left over of me and it's very little. There is left over however a certain secret silence.

A Breath of Life
I, who called love my hope for love.

The Passion According to G.H.
I cannot stand repetition: routine divides me from potential novelties within my reach.

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

Near to the Wild Heart
I want to seize my is. And like a bird I sing hallelujah into the air. And my song belongs to no one. But no passion suffered in pain and love is not followed by an hallelujah.

The Stream Of Life
Would it be simplistic to think the moral problem with regards 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?

The Passion According to G.H.
Suffering for a being deepens the heart within the heart.

A Breath of Life
Next >>
Search

 

On Anger: "For every minute you remain angry, you give up sixty seconds of peace of mind."
Essays
On Destiny: "Our destiny exercises its influence over us even when, as yet, we have not learned its nature: it is our future that lays down the law of our today."
Human, All Too Human
On Friendship: "A crowd is not company; and faces are but a gallery of pictures; and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love."
Essays