wants revenge at all costs. It warns me that I must struggle like someone drowning, even if I should perish in the end. If it be so, so be it.)
Is Macabéa about to die? How can I tell? Not even those onlookers could tell. Although someone from a nearby house, suspecting that she might be dying, placed a lit candle beside her body. The luxury of that generous flame appeared to sing of glory.
(I give the bare essentials, enhancing them with pomp, jewels and splendour. Is this how one should write? No, not by accretion but rather by denudation. But I am frightened of nakedness, for that is the final word.)
Meanwhile, Macabéa, lying on the ground, seemed to become more and more transformed into a Macabéa, as if she were arriving at herself.
Is this a melodrama? What I can say is that melodrama was the summit of her life. All lives are an art, and hers inclined towards an outburst of restless weeping with thunder and lightning.
A scrawny fellow appeared on the street-corner, wearing a threadbare jacket and playing the fiddle. I should explain that, when I was a child and living in Recife, I once saw this man as dusk was falling. The shrill, prolonged sound of his playing underlined in gold the mystery of that darkened street. On the ground, beside this pitiful fellow, there was a tin can which received the rattling coins of grateful bystanders as he played the dirge of their lives. It is only now that I have come to understand. Only now has the secret meaning dawned on me: the fiddler's music is an omen. I know that when I die, I shall hear him playing and that I shall crave for music, music, music.
Macabéa, Hail Mary, full of grace, serene land of promise, land of forgiveness, the time must come, ora pro nobis . I use myself as a form of knowledge. I know you through and through, by means of an incantation that comes from me to you. To stretch out savagely while an inflexible geometry vibrates behind everything. Macabéa remembered the docks. The docks went to the heart of her existence.
Macabéa ask for pardon? One must always ask. Why? Reply: it is so because it is so. Was it always so? It will always be so. And if it were not so? But I am saying that it is so. Very well.
It was quite obvious that Macabéa was still alive, for her enormous eyes went on blinking and her flat chest heaved and fell as she struggled for breath. But who can tell if she was not in need of dying? For there are moments when one needs a taste of death without even realizing it. Personally, I substitute the act of death with one of its symbols. A symbol that can be summarized by a deep kiss, not up against a wall, but mouth to mouth in the agony of pleasure that is death.
To my great joy, I find that the hour has not come for the film-star Macabéa to die. At least, I cannot divine if she gets her fair-haired foreigner. Pray for her and interrupt whatever you're doing in order to breathe a little life into her, for Macabéa is presently adrift, like a door swinging in a never-ending breeze. I could resolve this story by taking the easy way out and murdering the infant child, but what I want is something more: I want life. Let my readers take a punch in the stomach to see how they enjoy it. For life is a punch in the stomach.
Meantime, Macabéa was nothing but a vague sentiment lying on the dirty paving stones. I could leave her lying there and simply not finish the story. But no. I shall go on until I reach that point where the atmosphere finishes, where the howling gale explodes, where the void makes a curve, where my breath takes me. Does my breath deliver me to God? I am so pure that I know nothing. I know only one thing: there is no need to pity God. Or perhaps there is?
Macabéa had enough life left in her to stir gently and take up the foetal position. She looked as grotesque as ever. Reluctant to surrender, yet avid for the great embrace. She embraced herself, longing for sweet nothingness. She was damned and didn't know it. She
Is Macabéa about to die? How can I tell? Not even those onlookers could tell. Although someone from a nearby house, suspecting that she might be dying, placed a lit candle beside her body. The luxury of that generous flame appeared to sing of glory.
(I give the bare essentials, enhancing them with pomp, jewels and splendour. Is this how one should write? No, not by accretion but rather by denudation. But I am frightened of nakedness, for that is the final word.)
Meanwhile, Macabéa, lying on the ground, seemed to become more and more transformed into a Macabéa, as if she were arriving at herself.
Is this a melodrama? What I can say is that melodrama was the summit of her life. All lives are an art, and hers inclined towards an outburst of restless weeping with thunder and lightning.
A scrawny fellow appeared on the street-corner, wearing a threadbare jacket and playing the fiddle. I should explain that, when I was a child and living in Recife, I once saw this man as dusk was falling. The shrill, prolonged sound of his playing underlined in gold the mystery of that darkened street. On the ground, beside this pitiful fellow, there was a tin can which received the rattling coins of grateful bystanders as he played the dirge of their lives. It is only now that I have come to understand. Only now has the secret meaning dawned on me: the fiddler's music is an omen. I know that when I die, I shall hear him playing and that I shall crave for music, music, music.
Macabéa, Hail Mary, full of grace, serene land of promise, land of forgiveness, the time must come, ora pro nobis . I use myself as a form of knowledge. I know you through and through, by means of an incantation that comes from me to you. To stretch out savagely while an inflexible geometry vibrates behind everything. Macabéa remembered the docks. The docks went to the heart of her existence.
Macabéa ask for pardon? One must always ask. Why? Reply: it is so because it is so. Was it always so? It will always be so. And if it were not so? But I am saying that it is so. Very well.
It was quite obvious that Macabéa was still alive, for her enormous eyes went on blinking and her flat chest heaved and fell as she struggled for breath. But who can tell if she was not in need of dying? For there are moments when one needs a taste of death without even realizing it. Personally, I substitute the act of death with one of its symbols. A symbol that can be summarized by a deep kiss, not up against a wall, but mouth to mouth in the agony of pleasure that is death.
To my great joy, I find that the hour has not come for the film-star Macabéa to die. At least, I cannot divine if she gets her fair-haired foreigner. Pray for her and interrupt whatever you're doing in order to breathe a little life into her, for Macabéa is presently adrift, like a door swinging in a never-ending breeze. I could resolve this story by taking the easy way out and murdering the infant child, but what I want is something more: I want life. Let my readers take a punch in the stomach to see how they enjoy it. For life is a punch in the stomach.
Meantime, Macabéa was nothing but a vague sentiment lying on the dirty paving stones. I could leave her lying there and simply not finish the story. But no. I shall go on until I reach that point where the atmosphere finishes, where the howling gale explodes, where the void makes a curve, where my breath takes me. Does my breath deliver me to God? I am so pure that I know nothing. I know only one thing: there is no need to pity God. Or perhaps there is?
Macabéa had enough life left in her to stir gently and take up the foetal position. She looked as grotesque as ever. Reluctant to surrender, yet avid for the great embrace. She embraced herself, longing for sweet nothingness. She was damned and didn't know it. She
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