From Ulisses she'd learned to have the courage to have faith—lots of courage, faith in what? In faith itself, since faith can be a real scare, it can mean falling into the abyss, Lori was afraid of falling into the abyss and was holding on to one of Ulisses's hands while Ulisses's other hand was pushing her into the abyss—soon she'd have to let go of the hand that was weaker than the one pushing her, and fall, life isn't a joke because in the middle of the day you’d die.
A human being's most pressing need was to become a human being.
(An Apprenticeship, or The Book of Pleasures by Clarice Lispector)
Sometimes, a book falls into your lap the exact moment you need it. An Apprenticeship was the second book I had come across by Clarice Lispector, but it was the first one I really appreciated; reading it a few weeks ago on a beach south of Lisbon was pure magic. Perched on a sun bed, my ego a little shaken from a potential romance that was quickly losing its potential, this great Brazilian author’s words nursed me back to my senses. She wrote and played with form in a way I had never really seen before, the sentences amusing me, distracting me from a sadness that I would soon realize was quite shallow. But of course, I didn’t realize it then—I was desperate for any distraction and this book was it for the time being.
In addition to being a distraction and a lesson in life, the novel also acted as a manual. I attempted to apply one of my interpretations of it, doing as the protagonist did and redirecting my yearning towards the physical pleasures that were already in front of me: the hug of the warm afternoon sun, my feet planted firmly on the fine sand (almost as good as the sand back home), the sound of the soft crashing of the waves, lulling me to close my eyes for a little bit, and then later, opening my eyes to the sound of my friend offering me a second serving of sangria from the pitcher we had ordered. I took a bite of the sliced apple that was inside my drink, which was even sweeter as it had been swimming in the sangria for at least an hour. This tastes amaaazing, I told my friend at least twice, the buzz seeping in. For a few moments, I felt my desire for this guy shrink until it was as tiny as the grains of sand on my feet. When you’re glued to your phone, waiting for any scrap of evidence that might assuage your fears, it can be easy to forget about the little things that bring you pleasure.
In short, reading poetic sentences near a body of water never fails to heal. I don’t know if I want kids of my own, but if I ever do end up having children and grandchildren, this is a lesson I would probably pass down to them.
Commercial break
Speaking of the pleasures of eating fruit, here is one of my favorite descriptions:
I remember walking across Sixty-second Street one twilight that first spring, or the second spring, they were all alike for a while. I was late to meet someone but I stopped at Lexington Avenue and bought a peach and stood on the corner eating it and knew that I had come out out of the West and reached the mirage. I could taste the peach and feel the soft air blowing from a subway grating on my legs and I could smell lilac and garbage and expensive perfume and I knew that it would cost something sooner or later—because I did not belong there, did not come from there—but when you are twenty-two or twenty-three, you figure that later you will have a high emotional balance, and be able to pay whatever it costs. I still believed in possibilities then, still had the sense, so peculiar to New York, that something extraordinary would happen any minute, any day, any month.
“Goodbye to All That,” Slouching Towards Bethlehem by Joan Didion)
I know I’ve been doing a terrible job at being consistent with this, and if I’ve learned anything during my eight-month hiatus, it is not to give you any promises. Yet, the will to write remains! (A curse that every self-proclaimed writer deals with.) While I’ve been consistent with journaling and with writing pieces every now and then for publications, there is always room for another creative outlet. Perhaps I let my ego get in the way a little bit, associating my idea of being a ‘writer’ with being published—a stupid thought. Obviously, maintaining creative outlets and cultivating hobbies are equally as important, if not more. I think the most important thing now to protect is one’s writing practice. And allowing yourself to make mistakes.
Another thing: I’m considering compiling my written work/articles on a tab here instead of maintaining a website that I rarely update. Updates to follow!
If you’ve made it here, thanks for reading. xx.