Complete Stories

by Clarice Lispector

  A dog howled with laughter in the dark. “I’m scared,” said a child. “Scared of what?” asked the mother. “Of my dog.” “But you don’t have a dog.” “Yes I do.” But then the little child also laughed while crying, mingling tears of laughter and fright.

  At last they arrived, the damned. And they gazed upon that eternal Widow, the great Solitary Woman who fascinated everyone, and men and women couldn’t resist and wanted to get closer so as to die loving her but she with a gesture kept them all at a distance. They wanted to love her with a strange love that vibrates in death. It didn’t bother them to love her while dying. The cloak the She-he wore was an agonizing shade of violet. But the mercenary women of the feasting sex tried to imitate her in vain.

  What time could it be? no one could live in time, time was indirect and by its very nature forever unattainable. Their joints were already swollen, their excesses rumbled in their earth-filled stomachs, their lips swelling yet cracked — they climbed the slope. The shadows were of a low and dark sound like the darkest note from a cello. They arrived. The Ill-fated, the He-she, before the worship of kings and vassals, gleamed like a gigantic illuminated eagle. The silence swarmed with panting breaths. The vision was of mouths parted in the sensuality that nearly paralyzed them, so crude was it. They felt saved from the Great Tedium.

  The hill was a scrap heap. When the She-he stopped for an instant, men and women, surrendering to themselves for an instant, said to themselves fearfully: I don’t know how to think. But the He-she was thinking inside them.

  A mute herald proclaimed the news with a strident clarinet. What news? about bestiality? Though perhaps it was this: starting from the herald every one of them began to “feel himself,” to feel his own self. And there was no repression: free!

  Then they began to murmur but inwardly because the She-he was scathing when it came to not disturbing one another during their slow metamorphosis. “I am Jesus! I am a Jew!” the poor Jew cried in silence. The annals of astronomy have never recorded anything like this spectacular comet, recently discovered — its vaporous tail will drag millions of miles through space. Not to mention time.

  A hunchbacked dwarf was hopping like a frog, from one crossroad to another — the place was full of crossroads. Suddenly the stars appeared and were gems and diamonds in the dark sky. And the dwarf-hunchback kept leaping, as high as he could to reach the diamonds that awakened his greedy desire. Crystals! Crystals! he cried in thoughts that bounded like his leaps.

  Latency pulsated light, rhythmic, ceaseless. All were entirely latent. “There is no crime we have not committed in our thoughts”: Goethe. A new and inauthentic Brazilian history was written abroad. Furthermore, domestic researchers complained about the lack of resources for their work.

  The mountain had volcanic origins. And suddenly the sea: the crashing revolt of the Atlantic filled their ears. And the salt smell of the sea fertilized them and tripled them into little monsters.

  Can the human body fly? Levitation. Saint Teresa of Avila: “It seemed as if a great force was lifting me into the air. This put a great fear in me.” The dwarf levitated for a few seconds but enjoyed it and was not afraid.

  “What’s your name,” the boy said mutely, “so I can call you for the rest of my life. I’ll shout your name.”

  “I have no name down there. Here I have the name Xantipa.”

  “Ah, I want to shout Xantipa! Xantipa! Look, I’m shouting on the inside. And what’s your name during the day?”

  “I think it’s . . . it’s . . . it seems to be Maria Luísa.”

  And she shuddered as a horse bristles. Then fell bloodless to the ground. No one was killing anyone because they had already been killed. No one wanted to die and indeed no one died.

  Meanwhile — delicately, delicately — the He-she was using a certain emblem. The color of the emblem. For I want to live in abundance and would betray my best friend in exchange for more life than one can have. That seeking, that ambition. I scorned the precepts of the wise men who counseled moderation and poverty of the soul — the simplification of the soul, in my experience, was saintly innocence. But I struggled against temptation.

  Yes. Yes: to fall until hitting abjection. That is their ambition. The sound was the herald of the silence. Because none could let themselves be possessed by That-nameless-he-she.

  They wanted to revel in the forbidden. They wanted to praise life and didn’t want the pain that is required to live, to feel and to love. They wanted to feel dreadful immortality. Because the forbidden is always the best. They at the same time were not bothered by possibly falling into the enormous pit of death. And life was only precious to them while they were shouting and moaning. To feel the strength of hatred was what they most wanted. I call myself the people, they thought.

  “What must I do to be a hero? Because only heroes can enter the temples.”

  And in the silence suddenly his howling cry, hard to say whether of love or mortal pain, the hero smelling of myrrh, frankincense and resin.

  He-she covered his-her nudity with a cloak that was beautiful but like a shroud, a purple shroud, now cathedral-red. On moonless nights She-he became an owl. Thou shalt devour thy brother, she said in the thoughts of others, and at the savage hour there shall be a solar eclipse.

  So they wouldn’t betray themselves they ignored the fact that today was yesterday and there would be a tomorrow. A transparency wafted through the air the likes of which no man had ever breathed. But they sprinkled pepper on their own genital organs and writhed in ardor. And suddenly hatred. They weren’t killing one another but felt such implacable hatred that it was like a dart launched at a body. And they rejoiced damned by what they felt. The hatred was a vomit that released them from a greater vomit, the vomit of the soul.

  He-she with seven musical notes achieved the howl. Just as with the same seven notes one can create sacred music. They heard inside themselves the do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-ti, the “ti” soft and extremely high. They were independent and sovereign, despite being guided by the He-she. Death roaring in dark dungeons. Fire, scream, color, vice, cross. I remain vigilant in the world: by night I live and by day I sleep, elusive. I, with a dog’s sense of smell, orgiastic.

  As for them, they carried out rituals that the faithful execute without understanding their mysteries. The ceremonies. With a light gesture She-he touched a child striking it down and everyone said: amen. The mother let out a wolf howl: she, completely dead, she, too.

  But it was in order to have super-sensations that people went up there. And it was a sensation so secret and so profound that jubilation sparkled in the air. They wanted the superior power that has reigned over the world through the centuries. Were they afraid? They were. Nothing could substitute the richness of the silent dread. Being afraid was the accursed glory of the darkness, silent like a Moon.

  Gradually they adjusted to the dark and the Moon, previously hidden, all round and pale, had smoothed their ascent. It was pitch dark when one by one they had climbed “the mountain,” as they called the somewhat elevated plain. They had leaned against the ground so as not to fall, treading on dry and rugged trees, treading on prickly cactuses. It was an irresistibly attractive fear, they would rather die than abandon it. The He-she was like their Lover. But if anyone was ambitious enough to dare touch her he was frozen in place.

  He-she told them inside their brains — and everyone heard her inside themselves — what happened to a person when that person didn’t heed the call of the night: what happened was that in the blinding light of day that person lived in open flesh and with eyes dazzled by the sin of the light — that person lived without anesthesia the terror of being alive. There is nothing to fear, when you have no fear. It was the eve of the apocalypse. Who was the king of the Earth? If you abuse the power you have conquered, the masters will punish you. Filled with terror of a fierce joy they prostrated themselves and amid shrieks of laughter ate poi
sonous weeds off the ground and the echoes of their laughter resounded from darkness to darkness. The air was heavy with the suffocating scent of roses, roses damned in their strength of nature gone mad, the same nature that invented snakes and rats and pearls and children — the mad nature that now was night in darkness, now bright day. This flesh that moves merely because it has a spirit.

  From their mouths drooled saliva, thick, bitter and slick, and they urinated on themselves without feeling it. The women who had recently given birth violently squeezed their own breasts and from their nipples a thick black milk gushed. One woman spit hard in the face of a man and the harsh spittle slid down his cheek to his mouth — eagerly he licked his lips.

  They were all unleashed. The joy was frenetic. They were the harem of the He-she. They had fallen at last into the impossible. Mysticism was the highest form of superstition.

  The millionaire was shouting: I want power! power! I want even objects to do my bidding! And I’ll say: move, object! and it will move all by itself.

  The old, disheveled woman said to the millionaire: want to see how you’re not a millionaire? Well I’ll tell you: you do not own the next second of your life, you could die without knowing it. Death will humiliate you. The millionaire: I want the truth, the absolute truth!

  The journalist working on a magnificent story about raw life. I’m going to be internationally famous like the author of The Exorcist which I haven’t read so it won’t influence me. I’m looking directly at raw life, I’m living it.

  I am a solitary person, said the masturbator to himself.

  I’m waiting, and waiting, nothing ever happens to me, I’ve already given up on waiting. They were drinking the bitter liquor of the rough weeds.

  “I am a prophet! I see the beyond!” a boy was shouting to himself.

  Father Joaquim Jesus Jacinto — all J’s because his mother liked the letter J.

  It was December 31, 1973. Astronomical time would be harmed by atomic clocks, which are off by a mere second every three thousand three hundred years.

  The other woman was prone to spitting, one glob after another, nonstop. But she liked it. The other woman was named J. B.

  “My life is truly a novel!” cried the failed writer.

  Ecstasy was reserved for the He-she. Who suddenly underwent a bodily exaltation, at length. She-he said: stop! Because she was falling under the demon’s sway by feeling the ecstasy of Evil. All of them through her were coming: it was the celebration of the Great Law. The eunuchs were engaged in something it was forbidden to watch. The others, through She-he, were shudderingly receiving orgasms in waves — but only in waves because they weren’t strong enough to, without destroying themselves, take it all. The women painted their mouths violet like fruit crushed by sharp teeth.

  The She-he told them what happened when someone didn’t become initiated into the prophesying of the night. State of shock. For example: the girl was a redhead and as if that weren’t enough she was red on the inside and on top of that colorblind. Such that in her small apartment was a green cross on a red background: she mixed up the two colors. How had her terror begun? Listening to an album or the reigning silence or footsteps from upstairs — and there she was terrified. Afraid of the mirror that reflected her. Across from it was a wardrobe and she got the idea that the clothes were moving around inside it. Little by little she began shrinking the apartment. She was even afraid of getting out of bed. The feeling that they’d grab her foot from under the bed. She was emaciated. Her name was Psiu,* a red name. She was afraid of turning on the light in the dark and finding the cold gecko that lived with her. In agony she felt the gecko’s clammy little white toes. She eagerly scanned the newspaper for the crime reports, news of what was going on. Frightful things were always happening to people, like her, who lived alone and were attacked at night. On her wall was a picture of a man who stared her right in the eyes, watching her. She imagined that figure following her through every corner of the house. She had a panicked fear of rats. She’d rather die than come into contact with them. Yet she heard their squeaking. She even felt them nibbling at her feet. She’d always bolt awake, in a cold sweat. She was a cornered animal. Normally she’d talk things over with herself. She’d weigh the pros and cons and the one who lost was always her. Her life was a constant subtraction of itself. All because she didn’t heed the siren’s call.

  The He-she only showed his-her androgynous face. And from it radiated such a blind splendor of a madman that the others reveled in their own madness. She was the prediction and the dissolution and was born tattooed. All the air now bore the scent of fatal jasmine and was so strong that some vomited their own entrails. The Moon was full in the sky. Fifteen thousand adolescents awaited the kind of man or woman they would be.

  Then She-he said:

  “I shall eat thy brother and there will be a total eclipse and the end of the world.”

  Once in a while a prolonged neighing could be heard and no horse was seen. All one knew was that with seven musical notes one could make all the songs that exist and that existed and that will exist. From the She-he emanated the strong scent of crushed jasmine because it was the night of a full Moon. Black magic or witchcraft. Max Ernst as a child was mistaken for the Baby Jesus during a procession. Later he provoked artistic scandals. He had a limitless passion for men and an immense and poetic freedom. But why am I speaking of this? I don’t know. “I don’t know” is a fine answer.

  What was Thomas Edison doing, so inventive and free, among those who were commanded by He-she?

  Griffonage, thought the perfect student, was the most difficult word in the language.

  Hark! the herald angels sing!

  The poor Jew was shouting mutely and no one heard him, the whole world wasn’t hearing him. He spoke thus: I am thirsty, sweat and tears! and to quench my thirst I drink my sweat and my own salt tears. I don’t eat pork! I follow the Torah! but grant me relief, Jehovah, who looks too much like me!

  Jubileu de Almeida was listening to his transistor radio, always. “The tastiest porridge is made from Cream of Wheat.” And afterward they announced, from Strauss, a waltz that incredible as it might seem was called “The Free Thinker.” It’s true, it really exists, I’ve heard it. Jublieu was the owner of “The Golden Mandolin,” a musical instrument shop on the verge of bankruptcy, and was mad about Strauss waltzes. A widower, he was, Jubileu that is. His rival was “The Bugle,” his competitor on Rua Gomes Freire or Frei Caneca. Jubileu was also a piano tuner.

  Everyone there was ready to fall in love. Sex. Pure sex. They reined themselves in. Romania was a dangerous country: gypsies.

  The world had an oil shortage. And, without oil, there was a food shortage. Meat, especially. And without meat they were becoming terribly carnivorous.

  “Here, Lord, I offer up my soul,” Christopher Colombus had said upon dying, dressed in the Franciscan habit. He didn’t eat meat. He became sanctified, Christopher Columbus, the discoverer of the waves, and who discovered St. Francis of Assisi. Hélas! he perished. Where are you now? where? for God’s sake, answer!

  Suddenly and ever so slightly — fiat lux.

  There was a startled scattering as of sparrows.

  All so fast that it rather seemed like they had dissolved.

  At that same hour they were either lying in bed asleep, or already awake. What had existed was silence. They didn’t know anything. The guardian angels — who had been resting since everyone was peacefully in bed — awoke refreshed, still yawning, but already protecting their wards.

  Dawn: the egg came spinning very slowly from the horizon into space. It was morning: a blonde girl, married to a rich young man, gives birth to a black baby. Child of the demon of the night? No one knows. Troubles, shame.

  Jubileu de Almeida awoke like day-old bread: stale. Since childhood he had been bland like that. He turned on the radio and heard: “Morena’s Shoes where h
igh prices are against the rules.” He’d check it out, he needed shoes. Jubileu was an albino, a light-skinned black man whose eyelashes were an almost-white yellow. He cracked an egg into the frying pan. And thought: if one day I could hear “The Free Thinker,” by Strauss, it would make up for my solitude. He’d only heard that waltz once, he couldn’t remember when.

  The powerful man wished to eat spoonfuls of Danish caviar at breakfast, popping the little balls between his sharp teeth. He was a member of the Rotary Club and the Freemasons and the Diners Club. He had enough class not to eat Russian caviar: it was a way of defeating mighty Russia.

  The poor Jew awakes and drinks water thirstily right from the faucet. It was the only water there was at the back of the flophouse where he lived: once there was a cockroach swimming in the soupy beans. The prostitutes who lived there didn’t even complain.

  The perfect student, who didn’t suspect he was a bore, thought: what was the most difficult word in existence? What was it? One that meant adornments, embellishments, finery? Ah, yes, griffonage. He memorized the word so as to write it on his next exam.

  When the first rays of daylight began to shine everyone was in bed yawning endlessly. As they awoke, one was a cobbler, one had been imprisoned for rape, one was a housewife, giving orders to the cook, who never arrived late, another was a banker, another was a secretary, etc. They awoke, then, a bit groggy, satisfied by a night of such deep sleep. Saturday had passed and today was Sunday. And many went to the mass celebrated by Father Jacinto who was the priest currently in fashion: but none went to confession, for they had nothing to confess.

  The failed writer opened her red leather-bound diary and began to write this down: “July 7, 1974. Me, me, me, me, me, me, me! On this beautiful morning of Sunday sunshine, after having slept very badly, I, in spite of everything, appreciate the marvelous beauties of Mother Nature. I won’t go to the beach because I’m too fat and that’s unfortunate for someone who so appreciates the little green waves of the Sea! I find myself revolting! But I can’t stick to a diet: I die of hunger. I like living dangerously. Thy viper’s tongue shall be cut by the scissors of complacency.”