At that moment I was truly inside my inner self and there was silence. Only I realized that my silence was part of the silence of the countryside. And I did not feel abandoned. The horse, from which I'd fallen, was waiting for me beside the river. I remounted and sped along the slopes where refreshing shadows were gathering. I pulled up the reins, stroked the animal's fevered and throbbing neck. I rode on at a slow pace, listening to the happiness inside me, as high and limpid as a summer sky. I stroked my arms where there were still trickles of water. I could feel the live animal close to me, an extension of my body. We both breathed, throbbing and youthful. A somewhat sombre colour had settled on the plains, warmed by the last rays of sunlight and the gentle breeze slowly died away. I must never forget, I thought, that I have been happy, that I am happy, happier than anyone could hope to be. But I forgot, I was always forgetting.
- Lispector, Clarice. Near to the Wild Heart. Trans. Giovanni Pontiero. New York: New Directions, 1990. pp. 65.
(It's an open question whether the translation above is necessarily the best one out there, but it's the one that I read and loved first. So.)
((If you're new to Clarice, though, try starting with The Passion According to G.H. Idra Novey's recent translation, edited by Ben Moser, is excellent -- and the novel itself, astonishing.))
Durham, UK (missing Toronto, Canada)