RETURN TO NATURE (EXTRACT)
In Rio there was a place with an open hearth. And when she saw that it was not only cold but raining in the trees, she could not believe she had been given so much. The world awakening with something she did not even realize she needed, as if she were suffering from hunger. It was raining, raining. The flames wink at her and her man. He takes care of the things she takes for granted. He pokes the fire in the hearth as if it were his duty from birth. While she — who is ever restless and busying herself trying out this and that — never so much as remembers to poke the fire. That is not her job. After all, what does she have a man for? If he is a man, then let him carry out his mission. All she is prepared to do is to coax him: ‘That piece of wood,’ she tells him, ‘still hasn’t caught fire.’ And before she can finish saying what she has to say, the man has seen the piece of wood for himself and is already poking at it. Not because she ordered him to, for she is the man’s wife and he would lose his authority if she were to start giving him orders. His other hand, which is free, is within reach. She knows but does not take it. His hand is there for the taking if she so desires and that is all she asks.
Ah, to think all this will end! For it cannot last by itself. No, no, she is not referring to the fire, she is referring to what she feels. What she feels never lasts, what she feels always comes to an end, perhaps never to return. So she savours this moment, consumes its fire, and the sweet fire burns, burns and glows. Then she who knows that everything must end, reaches out and, as she takes the man’s free hand in hers, she sweetly burns, burns and glows.
AS YOU SLEEP
There is something different about tonight. It is three o’clock in the morning. I am having one of my bouts of insomnia. I made myself some coffee since sleep seemed unlikely. I put in too much sugar and the coffee tasted horrid. I can hear the waves beating against the shore. Tonight is different because as you sleep I am talking to you. I break off, go out on to the terrace, look down on to the street, the long, narrow strip of beach and the sea. It is dark. So dark. I think of my favourite people: they are all asleep or out enjoying themselves. Some of them might even be drinking whisky. My coffee tastes even sweeter and becomes quite undrinkable. The night turns darker. I am sinking into painless melancholy. It is not so bad. Only to be expected. Tomorrow I might experience some happiness, not exactly ecstasy, just happiness. And that is not so bad either. True, but I am scarcely enjoying my pact with humdrum existence.
A BOURGEOIS IDEAL
How does an untidy person become tidy? My papers are in disorder, my drawers need sorting out. (I must have a secretary because I am suffering from nervous exhaustion, according to my doctor.) This would not matter so much in my opinion if I had some inner order. But people who are over-preoccupied with external order are precisely those who are suffering from inner disorder and need some counter-balance to give them some reassurance. I need reassurance and this could be achieved if my drawers were to be put into some kind of order. Well, merely thinking of tidying out those drawers made me feel weary and lazy. The laziness that comes at weekends. I hope my laziness will strike a chord in some of my male and female readers so that they will not feel too superior. Frankly, when it comes to tidiness, what I should like is for someone to take it upon themselves to provide me with some semblance of order. My absurd idea of luxury would be for some sort of governess-cum-secretary to take care of my external life, even to the extent of going to certain parties and receptions on my behalf. Naturally, this person would have to adore me — but with the utmost discretion, because naked worship is more than I can bear. It is inhibiting and kills any spontaneity. It deprives us of our right to have those faults, innate or acquired, which we jealously hold on to for support, because it is not only our virtues which serve as crutches.
What else could this governess-cum-secretary do for me? She should not look at me too often so as not to embarrass me. She should speak to me quite naturally but also know when to be silent and leave me in peace. She should decide what to prepare for lunch and dinner — then meals would be a constant and pleasant surprise. And, of course, she would keep my papers in order. She would also understand my moments of sadness but be sufficiently discreet not to show that she had understood. And naturally, I would expect her to reply on my behalf to publishers with tact and diplomacy. As for my children, I myself would take care of them. But she could act as a surrogate mother whenever I want to work or go to the cinema. A surrogate mother has the advantage of not embarrassing children with too much affection. As children grow up, their mother has to become smaller. Alas, mothers tend to go on being enormous. If my sons ever read this, they will be amused. When mothers of Russian descent start to kiss their children, instead of being content with one kiss they want to give them forty. I tried to explain this to one of my sons but he told me I was just looking for an excuse to justify all those kisses.
BELONGING
A friend of mine who is a doctor has assured me that right from the cradle, children sense their surroundings, and want things. Right from the cradle the human being has started to exist.
I am certain that right from the cradle my first desire was to belong. For reasons of no importance here, I must have somehow felt that I did not belong to anything or anyone. That my birth was superfluous.
If I first experienced this human hunger in the cradle, it continues to accompany me throughout life, as if predestined. So that I feel pangs of envy and desire whenever I see a nun: for she belongs to God.
Precisely because of this deep longing to give myself to something or someone, I have become rather aloof: I am afraid of revealing how much I need and how poor I am. Yes, poor. Very poor. All I possess is a body and a soul. And I need something more. Perhaps I started writing so early in life because, at least by writing, I belonged to myself to some extent. Which is a pale imitation.
Over the years, especially of late, I have lost the knack of being like other people. I no longer know how it is done. And a whole new kind of ‘solitude through not belonging’ has started to smother me like ivy on a wall.
If I have always wanted to belong, why then have I never joined any club or association? Because that is not what I mean by belonging. What I want and cannot achieve, is to be able to give the best of myself to whomever or whatever I might belong. Even my moments of happiness can be so solitary at times. And solitary moments of happiness can be so moving. It is like holding a gift in your hands, beautifully wrapped, but with no one to whom you can say: Here, this is for you, open it! Not wishing to find myself in moving situations and somewhat inhibited and reluctant to strike a tragic note, I rarely parcel up my feelings in gift wrapping.
Belonging does not simply come from being weak and needing to unite oneself to something or someone stronger. An intense desire to belong often comes from my own inner strength — I wish to belong so that my strength will not be useless and may serve to strengthen some other person or thing.
But I do get some satisfaction out of life: for example, I belong to my country and, like millions of others, I belong to Brazil in the sense that I am Brazilian. And I, who in all sincerity have never desired or could desire fame — I am far too much the individualist to tolerate any invasion of my privacy — I, who do not seek fame, nevertheless enjoy being associated with Brazilian literature. No, no, not out of pride or ambition. I am happy to be associated with Brazilian literature for reasons which have nothing to do with literature, for I am not even what might be called a bluestocking or intellectual. I am happy simply ‘to participate’.