The Hour of the Star by Clarice Lispector Page A

clung to a thread of consciousness and mentally repeated over and over again: I am, I am, I am. Precisely who she was, she was unable to say. She had searched in the deep, black essence of her own being, for that breath of life granted by God.
    As she lay there, she felt the warmth of supreme happiness, for she had been born for death's embrace. Death is my favourite character in this story. Was Macabéa about to bid herself goodbye? I don't believe that she is going to die, for she has so much will to live. There was even a suggestion of sensuality in the way she lay there huddled up. Or is this because pre-death resembles some intense sensual longing? Macabéa's expression betrayed a grimace of desire. Things are ever vesperal and if she is not dying now, then like us, she has reached the vigil of death. Forgive me for reminding you, for I find it difficult to forgive myself for this clairvoyance.
    A sensation as pleasurable, tender, horrifying, chilling and penetrating as love. Could this be the grace you call God? Yes? Were she about to die, she would pass from being a virgin to being a woman. No, this wasn't death. Death is not what I want for this girl: a mere collision that amounted to nothing serious. Her struggle to live resembled something that she had never experienced before, virgin that she was, yet had grasped by intuition. For only now did she understand that a woman is born a woman from that first wail at birth. A woman's destiny is to be a woman. Macabéa had perceived the almost painful and vertiginous moment of overwhelming love. A painful and difficult reflowering that she enacted with her body and that other thing you call a soul and I call — what?
    At that instant, Macabéa came out with a phrase that no one among the onlookers could understand. She said in a clear, distinct voice:
    — As for the future.
    Did she crave a future? I hear the ancient music of words upon words. Yes, it is so. At this very moment Macabéa felt nausea well up in the pit of her stomach and almost vomited. She felt like vomiting something that was not matter but luminous. Star with a thousand pointed rays.
    What do I see now, that is so terrifying? I see that she has vomited a little blood, a great spasm, essence finally touching essence: victory!
    And then — then suddenly the anguished cry of a seagull, suddenly the voracious eagle soaring on high with the tender lamb in its beak, the sleek cat mangling vermin, life devouring life.
    Et tu, Brute?
    Yes, this was the way I had hoped to announce that — that Macabéa was dead. The Prince of Darkness had triumphed. Coronation at last.
    What was the truth about my Maca? It is enough to discover the truth that she no longer exists: the moment has passed. I ask myself: what is she? Reply: she is not.
    But don't grieve for the dead: they know what they're doing. I have been to the land of the dead and after the most gruesome horrors I have come back redeemed. I am innocent! Do not devour me! I am not negotiable!
    Alas, all is lost, and the greatest guilt would appear to be mine. Let them bathe my hands and feet and then — then let them anoint them with the holy, perfumed oils. Ah, such a longing for happiness. I try forcing myself to burst out laughing. But somehow I cannot laugh. Death is an encounter with self. Laid out and dead, Macabéa looked as imposing as a dead stallion. The best thing is still the following: not to die, for to die is not enough. It fails to achieve my greatest need: self-fulfilment.
    Macabéa has murdered me.
    She is finally free of herself and of me. Do not be frightened. Death is instantaneous and passes in a flash. I know, for I have just died with the girl. Forgive my dying. It was unavoidable. If you have kissed the wall, you can accept anything. But suddenly I make one last gesture of rebellion and start to howl: the slaughter of doves! To live is a luxury.
    Suddenly it's all over.
    Macabéa is dead. The bells were ringing without making any