But even though it is cut off from a body, this hand doesn't scare me.

Its creation
comes from an idea of love such that it is as if the hand were really
attached to a body, and if I don't
see it it's because I am unable to love more. I'm not up to picturing a
whole person because I'm not a
whole person myself.

Creation isn't
imagination, it's running the huge risk of coming face to face with
reality


I ask myself: if I look into the darkness with a magnifying glass, will I
see more than darkness?
the glass won't disperse the darkness, it will only reveal it all the more.
And if I look at brightness
with a magnifying glass, I shall see, with a shock, only greater
brightness.

I would take a quick glance at the face in the photograph and, for
a second, in that inexpressive face the world would look equally
inexpressively back at me.

is wanting not to be subject to vanity the worst form of vanity itself?

I think I just need to be able to look without having the color of my
eyes matter. I need to get rid of
myself to be able to see.
I suppose my habit of thinking only at the moment when it is necessary
came from my
sculpture, for it taught me to think only with my hands and only at the
time of using them.

in the presence of the living cockroach, the worst discovery was that
the world is not
human, and that we are not human.
The problem was that I no longer had anything to say. My agony was
like the agony of trying to
talk before dying

we die without knowing
where we go, and that is a body's greatest courage.


Of my own death, yes, I was indeed aware, for death was the future and
is imaginable, and I
had always had time to imagine. But the instant, the very instantthe
right nowt h a t is
unimaginable, between the right now and the I there is no space:

I had struggled all my life against the deep desire to
let myself be touchedand I had struggled because I wasn't able to
allow the death of what I called
my goodness; the death of human goodness

"I remember you, when I kissed your man-face, slowly, slowly kissed
it, and when the moment
came to kiss your eyesI remember that then I tasted the salt in my
mouth and that the tear salt in your
eyes was my love for you. But what had even more wrapped me in a
fright of love had been, in the
depths of the depths of the salt, your bland, innocent, childish
substance: in exchange for my kiss your
more deeply insipid life was given me, and kissing your face was
bland, busy, patient love-work, it
was a woman weaving a man, just as you had woven me, the neutral
artisanry of life."

my fear, too, was different now: not the fear
of someone who is still about to go in but the so much greater fear of
someone who has gone in.

I was afraid of God's face, I was afraid of my final nakedness on the
wall.

How I went into what exists between the number one and the number
two, how I saw the
mysterious, fiery line, how it is a surreptitious line. Between two
musical notes there exists another
note, between two facts there exists another fact, between two grains of
sand, no matter how close
together they are, there exists an interval of space, there exists a sensing
between sensing-in the
interstices of primordial matter there is the mysterious, fiery line that is
the world's breathing, and the
world's continual breathing is what we hear and call silence.


I felt unable to be as real as the reality that was reaching me


Will the man of the future understand us as we are today?
He, with distracted tenderness, will distractedly pat our heads like we
do with a dog who comes up
to us and looks at us from within its darkness, with silent, stricken eyes.
He, the future man, would pat
us, remotely comprehending us, just as I would remotely understand
myself afterward, with the
memory of the memory of the long-lost memory of a time of pain, but
knowing that our time of pain
would pass, just as a child is not a static child but a growing being.
All right, after holding the sand dunes down with eucalyptus

I

am unrachable to myself just as a star is unreachable for me.






<b><u>Clarice Lispector</u></b> , one of the most popular writers in
Latin America , yet the most not understandable.

Her book , "The Passion According to G.H." talks with the 1st point of
view about what she feels now regarding the shocking incident that
happened to her a day ago.
In our lives , we do face many incidents , normal ones , on the daily
basis. But we may , as well , have our one and only incident that turns
our life aside. That reminds us about ourselves , that puts dots on the
letters , and enlightens the darkened places in our inner soul. An
incident that will change our look to this life from a shallow one to
profound ?

How , in your imagination , a cool woman , who has nothing to lose,
who lives satisfied with what she has , will react when she sees her
biggest scare : A Cockroach ?!

Through this novel , you'll soar in the skies of meditation , philosophy ,
a deep self-monologue that goes profoundly in the obscurity of the
protagonist's identity. Thus creating questions and thoughts about life,
death , love , fear , need , existentialism , Eternal life , Religion and
God , written in a poetic , not-so-easy pattern for direct-prose readers.

As mentioned before , this book is not for every one at all , it is a pause
for thinking , contemplation and diving into the abstruse seas of : LIFE
!


<i><u>Some of the quotes that i like most :</u></i>

<b>"-But even though it is cut off from a body, this hand doesn't scare
me. Its creation comes from an idea of love such that it is as if the hand
were really attached to a body, and if I don't see it it's because I am
unable to love more. I'm not up to picturing a whole person because I'm
not a
whole person myself.

-Creation isn't imagination, it's running the huge risk of coming face to
face with reality


-I ask myself: if I look into the darkness with a magnifying glass, will I
see more than darkness? the glass won't disperse the darkness, it will
only reveal it all the more. And if I look at brightness with a
magnifying glass, I shall see, with a shock, only greater brightness.

-I would take a quick glance at the face in the photograph and, for a
second, in that inexpressive face the world would look equally in-
expressively back at me.

-is wanting not to be subject to vanity the worst form of vanity itself?

-I think I just need to be able to look without having the color of my
eyes matter. I need to get rid of myself to be able to see.
I suppose my habit of thinking only at the moment when it is necessary
came from my
sculpture, for it taught me to think only with my hands and only at the
time of using them.

-in the presence of the living cockroach, the worst discovery was that
the world is not human, and that we are not human.
The problem was that I no longer had anything to say. My agony was
like the agony of trying to
talk before dying

-we die without knowing where we go, and that is a body's greatest
courage.


-Of my own death, yes, I was indeed aware, for death was the future
and is imaginable, and I had always had time to imagine. But the
instant, the very instantthe right nowt h a t is unimaginable,
between the right now and the I there is no space:

-I had struggled all my life against the deep desire to let myself be
touchedand I had struggled because I wasn't able to allow the death
of what I called my goodness; the death of human goodness

-"I remember you, when I kissed your man-face, slowly, slowly kissed
it, and when the moment came to kiss your eyesI remember that then
I tasted the salt in my mouth and that the tear salt in your
eyes was my love for you. But what had even more wrapped me in a
fright of love had been, in the
depths of the depths of the salt, your bland, innocent, childish
substance: in exchange for my kiss your more deeply insipid life was
given me, and kissing your face was bland, busy, patient love-work, it
was a woman weaving a man, just as you had woven me, the neutral
artisanry of life."

-my fear, too, was different now: not the fear of someone who is still
about to go in but the so much greater fear of someone who has gone
in.

-I was afraid of God's face, I was afraid of my final nakedness on the
wall.

-How I went into what exists between the number one and the number
two, how I saw the
mysterious, fiery line, how it is a surreptitious line. Between two
musical notes there exists another note, between two facts there exists
another fact, between two grains of sand, no matter how close together
they are, there exists an interval of space, there exists a sensing
between sensing-in the interstices of primordial matter there is the
mysterious, fiery line that is the world's breathing, and the world's
continual breathing is what we hear and call silence.


-I felt unable to be as real as the reality that was reaching me . "</b>