Clarice Lispector

And always in the sliver of time that followed nothing happened if she kept waiting for what was going to happen, you see?

“Daddy, what shall I do?”

“Go do your homework.”

“I’ve already done it.”

“Go play.”

“I’ve already played.”

“Then don’t pester me.”

but whenever she caught that something in her hand, like a fly, and then peeked at it—though she was careful not to let anything escape—she only found her own hand, rosy pink and disappointed. Yes, I know the air, the air! But it was no use, it didn’t explain things. That was one of her secrets.

“What’s this about, girl?” He picked her up, looked unfazed at her burning, sad little face. “What’s this about?”

“I haven’t got anything to do.”

Everything was like the noise of the tram before falling asleep, until you felt a little afraid and drifted off. The mouth of the typewriter had snapped shut like an old woman’s mouth, but it had all been making her heart race like the noise of the tram, except she wasn’t going to sleep.

What else was that feeling of contained force, ready to burst forth in violence, that longing to apply it with her eyes closed, all of it, with the rash confidence of a wild beast? Wasn’t it in evil alone that you could breathe fearlessly, accepting the air and your lungs? Not even pleasure would give me as much pleasure as evil, she thought surprised. She felt a perfect animal inside her, full of contradictions, of selfishness and vitality.

Deep down the animal may have disgusted her because she still had in her a desire to please and to be loved by someone as powerful as her dead aunt. To then walk all over her, however, to disown her without a second thought

It smelled of raw meat kept for too long. Without entirely rotting in spite of everything. It was freshened up from time to time, seasoned a little, enough to keep it a piece of lukewarm, quiet meat.

His legs under the table kept time to an inaudible melody, the devil’s music, of pure, uncontained violence. The ferocity, the richness of his color . . . Reddish around the lips and at the base of his nose, pale and bluish under his beady eyes

. But she wouldn’t be able to tell afterwards if it had been out of repugnance or fascination and lust. Both no doubt.