I don’t know, I don’t know. Since the thing can never really be touched

She watched him beat his fists on the table, maddened, weeping with fury

At having suffered, and let us continue to suffer sweetly. Weary sorrow reduced to a tear

I’ll have to make the effort to translate telegraph signals — to translate the unknown into a language I don’t speak, and without even understanding what the signals mean. I shall speak that sleepwalker’s language that would not be a language if I were awake.

Then she’d ask her aunt for some medicine. And her aunt would say: “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with your liver.” Then, being very close to this favorite aunt, she explained to her who the medicine was for

— Oh, never! — she exclaimed very shocked, for she wasn’t fool enough to waste food, as I said.

You sense there’s a long dusty road before reaching the resting place of the painting, for in some ways it is ultimately a resting place, and a welcoming one. Even though Gastão Manoel Henrique’s doorways do not open

Meantime the music gyrates and develops, they live the dawn, the powerful day, the night, with one constant note in the symphony, that of transformation. This is music which is not sustained by things, by space or time, the same colour as life and death

Are there yellow clouds? There are golden ones. I don’t have a story

The high, yellow moon gliding across the sky, poor little thing. Gliding, gliding

And I give such a profound cry of horror and praise that things shatter at the vibration of my only voice. Collision of stars

No, during all that I hadn’t been crazy or beside myself

She’d never forget that when they first met he’d called her “missy," he’d made her a somebody. Since she was a somebody, she’d even bought a pink lipstick

You know what I mean, a little darkness and then plenty of fresh air; your whole body benefits, receives a new lease of life. Just like a neglected child

None of the figures was connected, and the three did not form a group: each figure looked forward, as if they’d never looked to the side, as if they’d never seen each other and didn’t know anyone existed beside them.

— I don’t like to see blood at the movies

“Scream,” I calmly ordered myself

From its bulk and slowness, it had to be a very old cockroach. With my archaic horror of cockroaches I’d learned to guess, even from a distance, their ages and dangers; even without ever having really looked a cockroach in the face I knew the ways they existed.

And because I myself was then sure I would end up dying of starvation beneath the fallen stone that was pinning me by my limbs — I then saw like someone who is never going to tell. I saw, as uninvolved as someone who isn’t even going to tell herself

The square. What a sight