The Complete Stories

by Clarice Lispector

  Husband: She sinned with one body and they set fire to another. I was hurt in one soul, and behold I am taking vengeance in another.

  People: What a beautiful tawny color burnt flesh has.

  Priest: But not even the color is hers any longer. It is from the Flame. Ah how purification blazes. At last, I suffer.

  People: We do not understand, we do not understand and we are hungry for roast meat.

  Husband: With my cloak I might still smother the fire on your garments!

  Lover: Not even her death does he understand, he who shared with me the woman who belonged to no one.

  Priest: How I suffer. But “ye have not yet resisted unto blood.”

  Husband: If with my cloak I were to smother your garments . . .

  Lover: You could, yes. But understand: would she have the strength to extend over a long life the pure fire of an instant?

  Priest: Behold, she who will become ashes and dust. Ah, “verily thou art a God that hidest thyself.”

  1st guard: I tell ye, she burns faster than a heathen.

  Priest: “And the world passeth away, and the lust thereof.”

  2nd guard: I tell ye, the smoke is such that I can hardly see the body.

  Husband: I can hardly see the body of what I was.

  Priest: Praised be the name of the Lord, “Thy grace suffices me,” “I counsel thee to buy of me gold tried in the fire,” was spoken at the Apocalypse, praised be the name of the Lord.

  People: Well amen, amen and amen.

  Priest: “She took her delight in the slavery of the senses.”

  Husband: She was no more than a common, common, common woman.

  Lover: Ah she was sweet and common. You were so very mine and common.

  Priest: I suffer.

  Lover: For me and for her began something that forever must be.

  The newborn angels: Good morning!

  Priest: “Waiting for the day of eternal brightness to rise and the shadows of the symbols to disperse.”

  1st and 2nd guards: All speak and none listen.

  Priest: It is a melodious uproar: I already hear the angels of the dying.

  The newborn angels: Good morning, good morning and good morning. And already we do not understand, we do not understand and we do not understand.

  Husband: Cursed be, if you think you have freed yourself from me and that I have freed myself from you. Beneath the weight of brutal attraction, you shall not leave my orbit and I shall not leave yours, and with nausea we shall spin, until you overtake my orbit and I overtake yours, and in a superhuman hatred we shall be one.

  Priest: The beauty of a night without passion. What abundance, what consolation. “Great and unfathomable are His works.”

  1st and 2nd guards: Just as in war, when evil is committed to the flames, the good is not what remains . . .

  The newborn angels: . . . we are born.

  People: We do not understand and we do not understand.

  Husband: I shall return now to the dead woman’s house. For there is my former wife, awaiting me in her empty necklaces.

  Priest: The silence of a night without sin . . . What brightness, what harmony.

  Sleepy child: Mother, what has happened?

  The newborn angels: Mama, what has happened?

  Women of the people: My children, it went like this: etc. etc. and etc.

  Member of the people: Forgive them, they believe in fatality and are therefore fatal themselves.

  Profile of Chosen Beings

  (“Perfil de sêres eleitos”)

  He was a being who chose. Among the thousand things he might have been, he had gone along choosing himself. In work for which he wore glasses, discerning whatever he could and using his damp hands to grope at whatever he couldn’t see, the being kept choosing and therefore would indirectly choose himself. Bit by bit he had gathered himself into being. He kept separating, separating. In relative liberty, if one discounted the furtive determinism that had acted discreetly without naming itself. Discounting this furtive determinism, the being chose himself freely. What guided him was the desire to discover his own determinism, and to make an effort to follow it, since the true line is very faded, the others are more visible. He kept separating, separating. He would separate the so-called wheat from the chaff, and the best, the best the being ate. Sometimes he ate the worst. The difficult choice was to eat the worst. He separated dangers from the great danger, and it was the great danger that the being, though afraid, would keep. Just to measure by fear the weight of things. He pushed away all the lesser truths that he never ended up learning. He wanted the truths that were hard to take. Since he ignored the lesser truths, the being seemed shrouded in mystery; since he was ignorant, he was a mysterious being. He had also become: an ignorant savant; a naive sage; forgetful but well aware; an honest fake; an absentminded contemplative; nostalgic for what he had neglected to learn; wistful for what he had definitively lost; and courageous because it was already too late. All this, paradoxically, gave the being the wholesome joy of the peasant who only deals with the basics, though he has no clue what movie is currently playing. And all this gave him the involuntary austerity that all vital work gives. Choosing and gathering had no proper start or end time, indeed it lasted a lifetime.

  All this, paradoxically, increasingly gave the being the kind of profound joy that needs to be revealed, displayed, and communicated. In this communication the being was helped by his innate gift for liking. And this was something he hadn’t even gathered or chosen, it was a gift indeed. He liked the deep joy of others, through his innate gift he discovered the joy of others. Through his gift, he could also discover the solitude that other people had in relation to their own deepest joy. The being, also through his gift, knew how to play. And from birth he knew that gestures, without wounding through offense, transmitted the liking he felt for others. Without even feeling that he was using his gift, the being expressed himself; he would give, without realizing when he was giving, he would love without realizing that this was called love. His gift, in fact, was like the lack of a shirt on a happy man: since the being was very poor and didn’t have anything to give, the being would give himself. He would give himself in silence, and give what he had gathered of himself, like someone calling others over so they can see too. All this discreetly, for he was a shy being. It was also discreetly that the being saw in others what others had gathered of themselves; the being knew how difficult it was to find the faded line of one’s own destiny, how difficult it was to be careful not to lose sight of it, to go over it with pencil, erring, erasing, getting it right.

  That was how the mistake came to surround the being. The others believed almost simplemindedly that they were seeing a static and fixed reality, and viewed the being as you view a picture. A very rich picture. They didn’t understand that for the being, pulling himself together, had been a labor of paring down and not of wealth. And, by mistake, the being was chosen. By mistake the being was loved. But feeling loved would mean recognizing oneself in this love. And that being was loved as if he were another being: as if he were a chosen being. The being shed the tears of a statue who at night on the square weeps without moving atop his marble horse. Falsely loved, the being ached all over. But whoever had chosen him wasn’t giving him a hand to get off the horse of hard silver, nor did they want to mount the horse of heavy gold. Aching stone was what the being felt while breaking to pieces alone in the square. Meanwhile, the beings who had chosen him slept. In fear? but they slept. Never had the darkness been greater in the square. Until dawn came. The rhythm of the earth was so generous that dawn came. But at night, when night fell, it grew dark again. The square enlarged again. And again, those who had chosen him slept. In fear, perhaps, but they slept. Were they afraid because they
thought they would have to live in the square? They didn’t know that the square had merely been the being’s place of work. But that, in order to wander, he didn’t want a square. Those who slept didn’t know that the square had meant war for the chosen being, and that the war had been intended precisely to conquer what lay beyond the square. They thought, those who slept, that the chosen being, wherever he went, would throw open a square the way someone unrolls a canvas to paint on. They didn’t know that the canvas, for the chosen being, had merely been the way to survey on a map the world where the chosen being wished to go. The being had been preparing his whole life to be suitable for what lay beyond the square. It’s true that the being, upon feeling as ready as someone bathed in oils and perfumes, the chosen being had seen that there hadn’t been any time left to learn how to smile. But it’s true that this didn’t bother the being, since it was at the same time his great expectation: the being had left an entire land to be granted him by whoever wanted to grant it. The calculation of the being’s dream had been to remain deliberately incomplete.

  But something had gone wrong. When the being caught sight of himself in the picture the others had taken of him, he was humbled in astonishment at what the others had made of him. They had made of him, no more, no less, than a chosen being; that is, they had besieged him. How to undo the mistake? To simplify things and save time, they had photographed the being. And now they no longer referred to the being, they referred to the photograph. All they had to do really was open the drawer and pull out the picture. Anyone, in fact, could get a copy. It was cheap, in fact.

  Whenever people said to the being: I love you (but what about me? what about me? why not me too? why just my picture?), the being would get upset because he couldn’t even at least thank them: there was nothing to thank. And he didn’t complain, since he knew that the others weren’t making the mistake out of ill will, the others had given themselves to a photograph, and people don’t joke around: they have a lot to lose. And they couldn’t risk it: it was the photograph, or nothing. The being, for the sake of kindness, sometimes tried to imitate the photograph in order to validate what the others possessed, that is, the photograph. But he couldn’t remain at the simplified height of the picture. And sometimes he got all mixed up: he hadn’t learned to copy the picture, and had forgotten what he was like without it. So that, as they say of the laughing clown, the being sometimes wept beneath his whitewashed painting of a court jester.

  Then the chosen being undertook a covert operation to destroy the photograph. He did or said things so counter to the photograph that it would bristle in the drawer. In the hopes of becoming more current than his own image, and causing it to be substituted by something less: by the being himself. But what happened? What happened was that everything the being did just ended up retouching the picture. The being had become a mere contributor. And an inevitable contributor: it no longer mattered what the contributor gave, it no longer mattered that the contributor didn’t give at all, everything, even dying, embellished the photograph.

  And so it went. Until, profoundly disillusioned in his sincerest aspirations, the chosen being died as people die. He ended up making a great effort to get off the stone horse by himself, fell several times, but finally learned how to walk around by himself. And, as they say, never had the land seemed so beautiful to him. He recognized that this was precisely the land for which he had prepared himself: he hadn’t been mistaken, then, the treasure map held the right directions. Walking around, the being touched everything, and with a smile. The being had learned all by himself how to smile. One fine day, . . .

  Inaugural Address

  (“Discurso de inauguração”)

  . . . the future that we are inaugurating here is a metallic line. It is something deliberately stripped down. Of all we have lived only this line shall remain. It is the result of the mathematical calculation of insecurity: the more it is purified, the less risk it will run, the metallic line does not run the same risk as the line of flesh. Only the metallic line will not feed the vultures. Our metallic line holds no possibility of rot. It is a line guaranteed to be eternal. We, the ones who are here right now, initiate it with the intention that it be eternal. We want a metallic line because from beginning to end it is made of the same metal. We do not know with much certainty whether this line will be strong enough to save, but it is strong enough to endure. To endure on its own, as our creation. Tests have yet to be made to see whether the line bows under the weight of the first soul that hangs from it, as over the abysses of Hell.

  What is this line like? It is slippery and cylindrical. And like a strand of hair, though ever so fine, has room to be hollow—like this our line is empty. It is deserted inside. But we, who are here, have a fondness and a nostalgia for deserted things as if we had already been disappointed by blood. We shall leave it hollow so the future may fill it. We who, out of vitality, might have filled it with ourselves, we abstain. Thus shall all of you be our survival, but without us: this mission of ours is a suicide mission. The eternal metallic line, product of us all gathered here now, that eternal metallic line is our crime against today and also our purest effort. We launch it into space, we launch it from our umbilical cord, and this thrust is for eternity. The hidden intention is that, by thrusting it, our body too—bound to it by the umbilical cord—our body too will be wrenched from the ground of today and thrust into space. This is our hope, this is our patience. This is our calculation of eternity. The mission is suicidal: we have volunteered ourselves for the future. We are businessmen who need not money, but our own posterity. What we have taken for ourselves from the present has in no way used up eternity. We have loved, but this does not use up the future, for we have loved exclusively in the style of today, what one day will be mere flesh for the vultures; we have also eaten bread with butter, which also does not steal from the future, for bread with butter is merely our simple filial pleasure; and at Christmas we have gathered with our families. But none of this harms the eternal line, which is our true enterprise. We are the artists of this enterprise and we make the sacrifice as a bargain: our sacrifice is the most lucrative investment. Once in a while, also without using up eternity, we surrender to passion. But we can calmly take this for ourselves from the present, since in the future we shall be merely the dead elders of others. We shall not do as our own dead elders who left us, as inheritance and burden, flesh and soul, and both unfinished. Not us. Defeated by centuries of passion, defeated by a love that has been in vain, defeated by a dishonesty that has borne no fruit—we have invested in honesty as being more lucrative and we have created a line of the sincerest metal. We shall bequeath a hard and solid skeleton that contains the void. As within the narrow hollow space of a strand of hair, for those to come it will be arduous to get inside the metallic line. We, who inaugurate it now, know that to enter our metallic line will be the narrow doorway for those to come.

  As for ourselves, just as our children find us strange, the eternal metallic line will find us strange and be ashamed of us, the ones who built it. We are nonetheless aware that this is a suicide mission of survival. We, the artists of this great enterprise, know that the work of art does not understand us. And that living is a suicide mission.

  Mineirinho

  Yes, I suppose it is in myself, as one of the representatives of us, that I should seek the reasons why the death of a thug is hurting. And why it does me more good to count the thirteen gunshots that killed Mineirinho rather than his crimes. I asked my cook what she thought about it. I saw in her face the slight convulsion of a conflict, the distress of not understanding what one feels, of having to betray contradictory feelings because one cannot reconcile them. Indisputable facts, but indisputable revolt as well, the violent compassion of revolt. Feeling divided by one’s own confusion about being unable to forget that Mineirinho was dangerous and had already killed too many; and still we wanted him to live. The cook grew slightly guarded, seeing me perhaps as an avenging justi
ce. Somewhat angry at me, who was prying into her soul, she answered coldly: “It’s no use saying what I feel. Who doesn’t know Mineirinho was a criminal? But I’m sure he was saved and is already in heaven.” I answered, “more than lots of people who haven’t killed anyone.”

  Why? For the first law, the one that protects the irreplaceable body and life, is thou shalt not kill. It is my greatest assurance: that way they won’t kill me, because I don’t want to die, and that way they won’t let me kill, because having killed would be darkness for me.

  This is the law. But there is something that, if it makes me hear the first and the second gunshots with the relief of safety, at the third puts me on the alert, at the fourth unsettles me, the fifth and the sixth cover me in shame, the seventh and eighth I hear with my heart pounding in horror, at the ninth and tenth my mouth is quivering, at the eleventh I say God’s name in fright, at the twelfth I call my brother. The thirteenth shot murders me—because I am the other. Because I want to be the other.

  That justice that watches over my sleep, I repudiate it, humiliated that I need it. Meanwhile I sleep and falsely save myself. We, the essential phonies. For my house to function, I demand as my primary duty that I be a phony, that I not exercise my revolt and my love, both set aside. If I am not a phony, my house trembles. I must have forgotten that beneath the house is the land, the ground upon which a new house might be erected. Meanwhile we sleep and falsely save ourselves. Until thirteen gunshots wake us up, and in horror I plead too late—twenty-eight years after Mineirinho was born—that in killing this cornered man, they do not kill him in us. Because I know that he is my error. And out of a whole lifetime, by God, sometimes the only thing that saves a person is error, and I know that we shall not be saved so long as our error is not precious to us. My error is my mirror, where I see what in silence I made of a man. My error is the way I saw life opening up in his flesh and I was aghast, and I saw the substance of life, placenta and blood, the living mud. In Mineirinho my way of living burst. How could I not love him, if he lived up till the thirteenth gunshot the very thing that I had been sleeping? His frightened violence. His innocent violence—not in its consequences, but innocent in itself as that of a son whose father neglected him. Everything that was violence in him is furtive in us, and we avoid each other’s gaze so as not to run the risk of understanding each other. So that the house won’t tremble. The violence bursting in Mineirinho that only another man’s hand, the hand of hope, resting on his stunned and wounded head, could appease and make his startled eyes lift and at last fill with tears. Only after a man is found inert on the ground, without his cap or shoes, do I see that I forgot to tell him: me too.