Read Online The Complete Stories by Clarice Lispector - Free Book Online Page B

in the light of day. In the shadows, she herself a shadowy figure, it’s easier not to believe in her. He starts walking slowly, dragging his lethargic legs, lifts the sheets, pats the pillow, and slides back in, with a sigh. He’s so humbled at the sight of the lively street and indifferent sun . . . In his bed, in his room, eyes shut, he is king.
    He burrows in deeply, as if outside it were raining, raining, and here inside some warm and silent arms were drawing him close and transforming him into a small boy, small and dead. Dead. Ah, it’s the fever dream . . . It’s the fever dream. A very sweet light is spreading over the Earth like a perfume. The moon is slowly dissolving and a boy-sun languidly stretches his translucent arms . . . Cool murmurings of pure waters that surrender themselves to the hillsides. A pair of wings dances in the rosy atmosphere. Silence, my friends. The day is about to begin.
    A faraway lament comes rising along the Earth’s body . . . There’s a bird that escapes, as always. And she, panting, suddenly tears asunder with a rumble, left with a gaping wound . . . Gaping like the Atlantic Ocean and not like a wild river! She vomits gushes of mud with every shriek.
    Then the sun raises its trunk erect and emerges whole, powerful, bloody. Silence, friends. My great and noble friends, ye shall witness a millennial struggle. Silence. S-s-s-s . . .
    From the black and broken Earth, tiny beings of pure light emerge one by one, gentle as the breath of a sleeping child, barely treading the earth with their transparent feet . . . Lavender colors hover in space like butterflies. Slender flutes extend toward the heavens and fragile melodies burst in the air like bubbles. The rosy shapes keep sprouting from the wounded earth.
    All of a sudden, thundering anew. Is the Earth bearing children? The shapes dissolve in midair, scared away. Corollas wilt and colors darken. And the Earth, arms contracted in pain, splits open into fresh black fissures. A strong smell of wounded earth wafts in dense plumes of smoke.
    A century of silence. And the lights reappear timidly, trembling still. From bloody and heaving grottoes, other beings are endlessly being born. The sun parts the clouds and shimmers warm shine. The flutes unfurl strident songs like gentle laughter and the creatures rehearse the most nimble of dances . . . Tiny, fragrant flowers throng over the dark wounds . . .
    The continuously depleted Earth shrivels, shrivels in folds and wrinkles of dead flesh. The joy of the newborn beings has reached its peak and the air is pure sound. And the Earth ages rapidly . . . New colors emerge from the deep gashes. The globe now spins slowly, slowly, weary. Dying. One last little being made of light is born, like a sigh. And the Earth hides.
    Her children take fright . . . break off from their melodies and nimble dances . . . Their delicate wings flutter in midair in a confused hum.
    For a moment they shimmer. Then flicker out in exhaustion and in a blind beeline plunge vertiginously into Space . . .
    Whose victory was it? A tiny man stands up, in the last row. He says, in an echoing, strangely lost voice:
    “I can tell you who won.”
    Everyone shouts, suddenly furious.
    “The audience won’t say! The audience won’t say!”
    The little man is intimidated, but goes on:
    “But I know! I know: it was the Earth’s victory. It was her revenge, it was revenge . . .”
    Everyone wails. “It was revenge” comes closer and closer, reaches a violent crescendo in every ear until, gigantic, it explodes in a roaring din. And in the abrupt silence, the space is suddenly gray and dead.
    He opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is a piece of white wood. Looking beyond it, he sees other planks, all alike. And in the middle of it all dangling, is a bizarre animal that gleams, gleams and sinks its long, flashing claws into his pupils, until reaching the nape of his neck. It’s true that if he lowers