Nothing but an Insect – Clarice Lispector

It took me a while to understand what I was seeing, it was so unexpected and subtle: I was seeing a perched insect, pale green, with high legs. It was a hope, which I’ve always been told bodes well. Then hope began to walk very lightly on the mattress. It was transparent green, with legs that held its body high and so to speak loose, a plane as fragile as the legs themselves, which were made only of the color of the bark. Inside the lint of the legs there was nothing inside: the inside of such a shallow surface is already another surface itself. It looks like a shallow drawing that has come off the paper and, green, walks. But she was sleepwalking, determined. Sleepwalker: a tiny leaf of a tree that has gained the solitary independence of those who follow the faded trace of destiny. And I walked with the determination of someone who copied a trait that was invisible to me. Without trembling she walked. Its inner mechanism was not quivering, but had the regular twitch of the most fragile watch. What would love between two hopes be like? Green and green, and then the same green, which suddenly, by vibration of green, turns green. Predestined love by its own semi-aircraft mechanism. But where were the glands of her destiny in her, and the adrenaline of her dry green inner self? For it was a hollow being, a grafting of sticks, a simple elective attraction of green lines. Like me? I we? Us. In a magic hope with high legs, which would walk on the breast without even waking up the rest of the body in this hope that cannot be hollow, in this hope and atomic energy without tragedy, it moves forward in silence. We? We.

(Original from Chronicle – Clarice’s exhibition at the Museu da Língua Portuguesa – 2007)

Written by Feitosa-Santana

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