Immortal Openings, 7: Clarice Lispector, The Stream of Life

It’s with such intense joy.  It’s such an hallelujah.  “Hallelujah,” I shout, an hallelujah that fuses with the darkest human howl of the pain of separation but is a shout of diabolical happiness.  Because nobody holds me back anymore.  I still have the ability to reason–I’ve studied mathematics, which is the madness of reason–but now I want plasma.  I want to feed directly from the placenta.  I’m a little frightened, still afraid to give myself over since the next instant is the unknown.  Do I make the coming instant?  Or does it make itself?  We make it together with our breathing.  And with the ease of a bullfighter in the ring.

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