The Apple in the Dark

by Clarice Lispector

  moment, with the stupid face of a man who is thinking, with the

  patience of the shoemakers in the picture, he was practicing a

  way to open up his path. Certain then that she would finally get

  her tranquilizing answer, with the assurance a mother uses to

  establish domains where she can fit in with her children, Ermelinda asked him, "How long are you going to stay?"

  "I don't know," he replied.

  Ermelinda was startled again. And as if her shudder had

  been impalpably communicated to Vit6ria, both of them, more

  active, began to act as if the time were coming to a close; Vit6ria

  grew impatient about the ditches with which he was not making

  much headway, she watched over him on horseback. And a new

  rhythm could be felt on the place.

  And Martim? Martim worked. He looked and he worked,

  making a fair copy of the world. His rudimentary thoughts were

  meanwhile still stubbornly anchored in what he considered most

  basic-from where he would gradually go on to an understanding of everything, from a woman who for years had asked him

  "what time is it" to the sun that rose every day and people

  would get out of bed then, to an understanding of the patience

  of other people, understanding why a child is our investment

  and the arrow we shoot off in the air. Could that be what he

  wanted? it was really hard to say. In the meantime he was

  molding himself, and that always takes time; he was giving

  shape to what he was. Life in the making is difficult, like art in

  the making.

  It was becoming difficult to see all of that. The most easily

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  T H E A P P L E

  I N T H E D A R K

  recognizable truth was that the man was confused. As has been

  pointed out, it was only persistent ambition that kept him from

  seeing any obstacles in his path, and thanks to his stupidity it

  was easy. His grandiloquence, in the meantime, had taken on

  some humility. Because he had already come to accept the fact

  that each moment had no strength in itself he had begun to rely

  on the cumulative strength of time-"the passage of many

  moments would take him to where he wanted to go." And so his

  humility became an instrument of patience. He worked without

  cease; the trenches were getting deep.

  The small group on the place would look up at the sky,

  scrutinize, and keep on working. Everything was quivering in a

  heat that was gradually growing without anyone's feeling the

  transitions. The branches trembled; the heat was duplicating

  everything in a refracted glow. From the depths of his own

  mystery Martim looked at the plants in their innocent lushness

  that still did not seem to feel the menace being sparkled out by

  the red sun; drought. He looked. Now that he had courage

  everything belonged to him, which was not at all easy. He

  looked, for example, at the fields which had become his field of

  battle, and there was no breach through which anything could

  invade what belonged to him. What was all that he saw? That

  everything was a soft prolongation of everything; what existed

  joined with what existed; the curves became full, harmonious;

  the wind devoured the sands, beat uselessly against the stones. It

  was quite true that in some strange way, when something was

  not understood, everything became obvious and harmonious; the

  thing was rather explicit. In the meantime, looking, he had

  trouble understanding that evidence of meaning, as if he were

  trying to observe a light within another light.

  And that was how from time to time Martim would lose

  sight of his objectives. Had there really been a planned finality,

  or was he only following an uncertain necessity? Up to what

  point was he determining things? Martim was probably quite

  capable of arriving at a conclusion quite quickly, but when you

  have been purified, the road is longer. And if the road is long,

  ( l 5 0 )

  The Birth of the Hero

  the person can forget where he was going and stand in the

  middle of the road and look amazed at a stone or lick with pity

  the feet that have been wounded by the walking or sit down for

  just an instant to wait a little while. The road was hard and

  beautiful; beauty was the temptation.

  And the meaning of it is that in that interval something had

  happened.

  Something insidious had begun to gnaw away at the master

  beam. And it was something that Martim had not counted on.

  He was beginning to love what he saw.

  Free, free for the first time, what did Martim do? He did

  what imprisoned people do : he loved the harsh wind; he loved

  his work on the trenches, like a man who had marked out the

  great meeting point of his life and never arrived because he was

  injured and had become distracted examining green leaves. That

  was how he loved and lost himself. And the worst was that he

  loved without having any concrete reason to. Just because a

  person who was born would love and not know why. Now that

  he had created with his own hands the opportunity not to be a

  victim or a torturer any more, to be outside of the world and not

  have to worry himself any more with pity or love, not to have to

  punish or be punished any more love for the world was suddenly

  being born. And the danger in it was that if he was not careful,

  he would stop advancing.

  Because something else had also happened just as important

  and serious and real as sadness or pain or anger: he was content.

  Martim was content. He had not foreseen this additional

  obstacle, the struggle against pleasure. He was enjoying the petty

  chores in the cowshed too much. To his surprise, he was becoming satisfied with so little, doing jobs . . . It was more than enough for him to be simply a person who wakes up in the

  morning. The not quite dark sky was enough for him-and the

  mist-covered earth and the fresh trees, and he had learned how

  to milk the cows, who lowed apathetically in the dawn. So it

  was. "I am a man who milks cows." The flow of grace was strong

  in the morning, and it was enough to possess a living body. If he

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  T H E A P P L E

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  was not careful he would feel that he was the owner of it all. If

  he was not careful a tree taller than the others might make him

  feel complete; and when he was hungry he would be bought by a

  plate of food, and he would join his enemies who had been

  bought by food and beauty. Restless, he would feel guilty if he

  did not transform, in his mind at least, the world in which he

  lived. Martim was losing himself. "Could there really be a

  finality?" He was starting to have an astonishing and benevolent

  vanity about his "escapades," and he would see himself as a

  great horse we have at home, who would sometimes take wild

  runs about the place, free with impunity, guided by the beauty

  of his restraining spirit, the same as the way our bodies do not

  come to pieces. Exercises in living. Martim was finding pleasure

  in hin1self. Miserably, nothing more than that. As
is evident, he

  could not have been happier.

  It was with superhuman effort that every day Martim tried

  to overcome the sense of vanity of belonging to a countryside so

  vast that it grew without sense; it was with austerity that he

  overcame the pleasure he found in the empty harmony. With

  effort he reached beyond himself obliging himself, in the face of

  the current that was dragging him along in all its grace, not to

  betray his crime. As if by means of contentment, he was plunging a knife into his own revolt. Then he would get the strength to force himself not to forget his compromise. And once again

  he would assume a spiritual state of work, a kind of trance into

  which he had learned to fall when necessary.

  His state of work consisted in taking an animal-like attitude

  of purity and vulnerability. He had learned the technique of how

  to be vulnerable and alert with the face of an idiot. It was

  nothing easy, in fact it was quite difficult. Until-until he could

  reach that certain imbecility he needed. As a starting point he

  would create an attitude of astonishment for himself, he would

  become defenseless, without any weapon in his hand; he did not

  want to use any instruments at all; he wanted to be his own

  instrument, and with empty hands. Because after all he had

  committed a crime just so that he could be openly exposed.

  ( l 5 2 )

  The Birth of the Hero

  But if that attempt at innocence made him reach objectivity,

  it was the objectivity of a cow: no words. And he was a man who

  needed words. Then he would patiently correct the exaggerations in his imbecility. "It is also necessary not to make myself any more of a jackass than I already am." Because there were not

  so many advantages in being an imbecile either, it was necessary

  not to forget too that the world did not belong only to imbeciles. Then he would take on a new way of working, the opposite direction, and a resolute attitude that made one think of a

  challenge. That attitude was not difficult to take on. But he

  could not get beyond it, and with everything in readiness, like a ·

  man preparing for a mile race who finds out that h e only has to

  run six feet, he deflated in disappointment. It became obvious

  that the pose of letting himself go into imbecility had been a

  task beyond his real capacity to let it be what it was.

  It was true that when it occurred to him that the end was

  not far off he no longer needed to harass himself or create

  techniques to get on with his monstrous task. When it occurred

  to him that he suddenly had to have everything, and "revelation" as well his haste would once again become perfect, tranquil, and concentrated, like that of the two shoemakers underneath the cauldron. And his own contentment seemed to be a necessary part of the slow work of craftsmen.

  Oh, he was quite unprotected. He simply did not know how

  to approach what he wanted. He had lost that stage in which he

  had taken on the dimensions of an animal and in which comprehension was silent, like a hand that grabs something. And he had also lost that moment up on the hill when all that he had

  needed was the use of words. All had been so perfect and so

  almost human that he had said to himself, "Speak! " and all that

  had been lacking was the words. What point had he reached

  now? The point at which he had been before the crime. As

  before, now he was something that might perhaps have meaning

  if seen from a distance that would give it the proportions of a

  leaf on a tree. Seen too closely, he would either be too big or

  people would stop looking. He was nothing, basically, and it

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  took some effort for him to assume a bit of importance. Because

  he really was quite important : he was only alive once.

  And the fact was that now it was too late. Despite his

  contentment he would have to continue on. Not only because of

  the obligation to preserve his crime. Because even in retreat he

  felt that he was going forward.

  He felt that-that's it-that he was almost beginning to

  understand. It was true that by a mistake in calculation he had

  started too close to the beginning; it was true that the green of

  the weeds was so strong that his eyes could not translate it; it

  was true that it occurred to the man that he had destroyed the

  world so completely that he would never receive it whole again,

  not even for one single moment, as one receives extreme unction. All of that was true, yes. But the fact was that sometimes the resistance seemed ready to give way . . .

  There was a peaceful resistance in everything. An immaterial

  resistance, like trying to remember and not managing to. But

  just as the memory would be on the tip of one's tongue so the

  resistance was ready to give way. So it was that on the following

  morning, as he opened the door of the woodshed to the coolness

  of the morning, he felt the resistance giving way. The clean air

  of the morning trembled among the bushes, the coffee in the

  cracked cup joined him to the mistless morning, the leaves of

  the palm trees showed darkly; peoples' faces were red from the

  wind, as if a new race was walking through the countryside;

  everybody working without haste and without cease; the yellow

  smoke rising up from the bottom of the wall. And, in God's

  name, that had to be more than great beauty. That had to be

  being. Then as his resistance began to give way, even with some

  scruples, he almost understood. With scruples, as if he did not

  have the right to use certain processes, as if he had been

  understanding something entirely incomprehensible like the

  Holy Trinity. And he hesitated, hesitated because he knew that

  after understanding all would be irremediable in some way.

  Understanding could become a pact with solitude.

  But how to escape the temptation to understand? Without

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  The Birth of the Hero

  managing to overcome a certain feeling of sensuality he understood. Not to become completely compromised, he turned enigmatic, so that he would be able to retreat as soon as it became more dangerous. Then, careful and crafty, he understood it in

  this way : "How can one fail to understand, if a person knows so

  well when a thing is there ! " and the thing was there. He knew it;

  the thing was there. "Yes, that's how it was, and there was the

  future." The long future that had started with the beginning of

  the centuries and from which it is useless to flee, for we are part

  of it, and "it is useless to flee because it will be something," the

  man thought, rather confused. "And when it is" -oh, how could

  he explain it to himself in such an innocent morning?-"and

  when it is, then it will be," he said, humiliated by the little he

  was saying. And when it is, the man who is born will be

  astounded that before . . . "But who knows if it isn't already?"

  -it occurred to Martim with great acumen. "I think maybe it

  already is," he concluded with the dignity of a thought. Then,

  satisfied in some way, he took on an official pose of meditation.

  He meditated as he looked out at the morning in the country.

  And who will e
ver have to explain why butterflies in a field can

  stretch out a man's sight into an obscure comprehension?

  In this way, by means of half-excuses, Martim finally reached

  a state, jumping over himself like a hero. And in this way, by

  means impossible to retell, he finally freed himself of the beginning of beginnings where by ineptness he had been trapped for so long. A phase had come to a close, the most difficult one.

  Chapter 6

  THERE WERE SILENCE AND INTENSITY beneath the sun on the

  farm.

  There was probably no way for Martim's mute vigilance to

  be communicated to the others because he kept on working

  calmly with the same face that did not speak and in his eyes

  there was an expression that eyes take on when the mouth is

  gagged. However, a date beyond which everything would be

  impossible seemed to have been established. Maybe his intensity

  had been communicated by his strongest hammer-blow, or

  maybe by his thick-booted walk, or by his sudden disappearances. They would look for him and not find him, but before his absence would upset them he would appear peacefully, as if out

  of nowhere.

  "And where have you been?" Vit6ria would ask inconsiderately.

  The man's answer gave her no sense of relief. The man's

  stability did not fool her; that was all going to end, she knew it.

  Vit6ria gave him new jobs, she invented petty chores, and she

  never let him out of her sight. Since the time was limited the

  woman had assumed a wisdom that was instinctive, and she did

  so much that in it all that one essential thing might have

  escaped her grasp without her wanting it to.

  But if Vit6ria did not seem to know what she wanted,

  Ermelinda knew. And she kept circling the man closer and

  closer. "Look at that fern ! " she said one afternoon. "Look how

  uselessly it grows ! It's so pretty it's becoming drab."

  But the man did not understand what she was hinting at; he

  was too foggy. And nothing was happening. If the emotion

  brought on by his feelings had given him a pretty little ignorance

  it was not very efficient. And if Ermelinda bathed herselt in the

  ( l 5 6)

  The Birth of the Hero

  surf of what she was attempting and became entranced with the

  beauty of her plans no one understood. And why should they?

  When she had been a girl, out of a pure tendency toward