Clarice Lispector: The Passion According to G.H.

03 October 2019

The problem was that I no longer had anything to say. My agony was like the agony of trying to talk before dying. I knew that I was leaving something forever, something was going to die, and I wanted to pronounce the word that would at least capture that thing that was dying.

Finally I at least succeeded in articulating a thought: “I am asking for help.”

Then it occurred to me that I had nothing to ask for help against. I had nothing to ask.

Suddenly, this was it. I was understanding that “asking” was a leftover from an entreatable world, which was becoming more and more remote. And if I continued trying to ask, it was to cling to the remainders of my old culture, to cling so tight that I wouldn’t be pulled by what was now reclaiming me. And to which—in a pleasure without hope—I was now giving in, oh I now wanted to give in—to have experienced it was now the beginning of a Hell of wanting, wanting, wanting … Was my will to want stronger than my will to salvation?

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