Água Viva

by Clarice Lispector

I don’t want to have the terrible limitation of those who live merely from what can make sense. Not I: I want an invented truth.

Animals fantasticate me.

“What about turtles?”

But what can I do if you are not touched by my defects, whereas I loved yours. My candour was crushed underfoot by you. You didn’t love me, only I know that. I was alone. Yours alone. I write to no one and a riff is being made that doesn’t exist. I unglued myself from me.