‘Oh what sadness. What can you possibly do. Seated at the edge of the bed, blinking in resignation. How well you could see the moon on these summer nights. She leaned forward ever so slightly, indifferent, resigned. The moon. How well you could see it. The high, yellow moon gliding across the sky, poor little thing. Gliding, gliding… Up high, up high. The moon. Then the profanity exploded from her in a sudden fit of love: bitch, she said laughing.’

– Clarice Lispector, Daydream and Drunkenness of a Young Lady

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‘I write because I have nothing else to do in the world: I was left over and there is no place for me in the world of men. I write because I’m desperate and I’m tired, I can no longer bear the routine of being me and if not for the always novelty that is writing, I would die symbolically every day.’

– Clarice Lispector, Hour of the Star

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