Free Near to the Wild Heart by Clarice Lispector Page B

self-sufficient that sometimes, out of sheer happiness, she felt sadness cover her like the shadow of a mantle, leaving her as fresh and silent as nightfall. She expected nothing. She was in herself, her own end.
    Once she divided herself, became restless, she began to go out in search of herself. She went to places where men and women were gathered. They said to themselves: fortunately, she has woken up, life is short, one must make the most of it. Previously, she was spiritless, now she's a real person. No one realized that she was being unhappy to the point of needing to go in search of life. That was when she chose a man, loved him and love came to thicken her blood and mystery. She gave birth to a son, her husband died after impregnating her. She carried on and thrived very well. She gathered together all her belongings and no longer went looking for people. She rediscovered her window where she settled, enjoying her own company. And now, more than ever, there was no thing or creature more happy and fulfilled to be found. Despite all those people who looked at her condescendingly, believing her to be weak. For her spirit was so strong that she had never neglected to have an excellent lunch or dinner without, however, any excessive indulgence. Nothing they could say bothered her or whatever happened to her, and everything slid over her and vanished into waters other than those inside her.
    One day, after having patiently experienced many such days, she saw herself different from herself. She felt weary. She paced to and fro. She herself didn't know what she wanted. She began to hum quietly without opening her mouth. Then she tired of this and began to think about things. But she didn't quite succeed. Inside her something was trying to call a halt. She waited but nothing came from her to her. She slowly grew sad from a lack of sadness, and was therefore twice as sad. She went on walking for several days and her footsteps sounded like withered leaves falling to the ground. She herself was lined inside with greyness, and she could see nothing within herself other than a reflection of her ancient rhythm, now slow and leaden. Then she knew that she was drained and for the first time she suffered because she really had become divided in two, one part facing the other, watching it, desiring things that it could no longer give. In fact, she had always been two, the one who superficially knew that she was, and the one that truly existed in depth. Until now both parts functioned together and merged. Now the one that knew that she was, functioned on its own, which meant that that woman was being unhappy and intelligent. She made one last effort to try and invent something, some thought that might distract her. In vain. She only knew how to live.
    Until the absence of herself finally made her fall into the night, and pacified, darkened, and refreshed, she began to die. She then embraced sweet death, as if she were a ghost. Nothing more is known because she died. One can merely surmise that in the end she, too, was being happy as only a thing or creature can be. For she had been born for the essential, to live or die. And for her, the intermediary was suffering. Her existence was so complete and so closely bound to truth that she probably thought at the moment of surrendering and reaching her end, had she been in the habit of thinking: I never was. Nor is it known what became of her. Such a beautiful life must surely have been followed by a beautiful death. Today she is certainly grains of earth. She never ceases to gaze up at the sky. Sometimes when it rains, her grains remain full and rotund. Then she dries up in summer and the slightest breeze disperses her. She is now eternal.
    After a moment's hesitation, Joana saw that she had envied her, that half-dead creature who was smiling and had spoken to her in an unfamiliar tone of voice. Above all, she went on thinking, she understands life because she is not sufficiently intelligent