An Apprenticeship or the Book of Pleasures by Clarice Lispector (literature books to read TXT) 📕

of voice as if he’d changed the subject and yet the subject was the same:

— Well, I had to pay my debt of joy to a world that was so often hostile to me.

— Living, she said in that incongruous dialogue in which they seemed to understand each other, living is so out of the ordinary that I’m only alive because I was born. I know that anyone could say the same, but the fact is I’m the one saying it.

— You still haven’t got used to living? Ulisses asked with intense curiosity.

— No.

— Then that’s perfect. You’re the right woman for me. Because in my apprenticeship I’m missing someone to say obvious things in such an extraordinary way. Obvious things, Lóri, are the hardest truths to see — and to keep the conversation from getting too serious he added with a smile — Sherlock Holmes was aware of that.

— But it’s sad to only see obvious things the way I do and find them strange. It’s so strange. Suddenly it’s as if I opened my closed hand and found a stone: a rough diamond in its raw form. Oh God, I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore.

They sat in silence.

— I’ve never spoken this much, Lóri said.

— With me you’ll speak your whole soul, even in silence. One day I’ll speak my whole soul, and we won’t run dry because the soul is infinite. And besides we have two bodies which will be a joyful, mute, deep pleasure for us.

Lóri, to Ulisses’s delighted surprise, blushed.

He looked closely at her and said:

— Lóri, you’ve gone red yet you’ve had five lovers.

She bowed her head, not in guilt but as a child hides its face. That’s what Ulisses thought and his heart beat joyfully. Because he was infinitely further along in the apprenticeship: he could recognize in himself the joy and the victory.

Again they lapsed into silence. As if feeling they’d said more than she could, at present, bear, Ulisses struck a lighter and more casual tone:

— How long since you completed your training, I mean, to be a teacher?

— Five years.

— Are you all about the number five? he asked smiling. I bet you were top of your year.

She was surprised:

— How did you know?

— Because your fellow students must have been busy with life, and you, in order not to suffer, must have devoted yourself body and soul to your studies. I bet you’re also one of the best teachers at your school.

— For the same reason? she asked sadly.

— Yes. I don’t mean there’s always only one reason for being among the best. I, for example, am supposed to be one of the best professors in my university. Firstly because the subject always excited me and I expected it to answer my questions, to make me think. I take enormous pleasure in thinking, Lóri. Later, I was lucky to have great teachers, as well as simultaneously being an autodidact: I spent almost all my money back then buying ridiculously expensive books. Another bit of luck for me as a teacher: my students love me. But I was also living, and I keep living now. Whereas you’re a good teacher but you might not even let yourself laugh with your pupils. Later you’ll learn, Lóri, and then you’ll experience in full the great joy of communicating, of imparting.

Lóri sat there silent and serious.

— Lóri, read this poem and understand — he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket — I write poetry not because I’m a poet but to exercise my soul, it’s man’s most profound exercise. In general what comes out is incongruous, and it rarely has a theme: it’s more like research into how to think. This one might have come out with a meaning that’s easier to grasp.

She read the poem, didn’t understand anything and gave him back the sheet, in silence.

— If I ever write an essay again, I’ll want it to be the greatest. And the greatest should be said with the mathematical perfection of music, transposed to the deep rapture of a feeling-thought. Not quite transposed, since the process is the same, except music and words use different tools. There must, there has to, be a way to reach that. My poems are unpoetic but my essays are long poems in prose, in which I exercise to the maximum my ability to think and intuit. We, people who write, have in the human word, written or spoken, a great mystery that I don’t want to unmask with my reasoning which is cold. I must not question the mystery in order not to betray the miracle. Whoever writes or paints or teaches or dances or does mathematical calculations, is working miracles every day. It’s a great adventure and demands much courage and devotion and much humility. Humility in living isn’t my strong point. But when I write I’m fated to be humble. Though within limits. Because the day I lose my own importance inside me — all will be lost. Conceitedness would be better, and the person who thinks he’s the center of the world is closer to salvation, which is a silly thought, of course. What you can’t do is stop loving yourself with a certain immodesty. To keep my strength, which is as great and helpless as that of any man who has respect for human strength, in order to keep it I have no modesty, unlike you.

They sat in silence.

— Instead of a guarana soda, can I have a whiskey? she asked.

— Of course, he said as he waved the waiter over. Are you trying to intensify this moment with the whiskey?

— Yes, she replied, surprised by his explanation.

She didn’t know how to drink: she drank quickly as if it were soda. Soon, a little bashfully, she asked for another.

Ulisses smiled, as he called for the waiter.

— Drink more slowly or it’ll go straight to your head. And also because drinking isn’t about getting drunk, it’s something