Clarice Lispector

Agua Viva. BOOK’s plot – as if there is an ex-lover somewhere to whom she must explain. And para after para gushes out then, after thresholds where language goes beyond the simple or the complex, beyond deviousness, and even beyond reflection or admission, to something ailing for a form. Seeps as paint does blood through the grave and the mighty. Irresolvable with hidden beauty, nestling in cracks. Luminance and void, dangling off hiatus of every breadth, every death, hearing itself scream, for murder & joy. Forthright as heresy. Wild as a state of nature.

Because writing is a kind of heresy that inhabits like a tyrant with a ukulele. Performs a burden of death & emptiness and longing, composure becomes everything