the sun will rise

“If Kafka had been a woman. If Rilke had been a Jewish Brazilian born in Ukraine. If Rimbaud had been a mother, if he had reached the age of fifty. If Heidegger had been able to stop being German, if he had written the Romance of the Earth. Why have I cited these names? To try to sketch out the general vicinity. Over there is where Clarice Lispector writes. There, where the most demanding works breathe, she makes her way. But then, at the point where the philosopher gets winded, she goes on, further still, further than all knowledge. After comprehension, step by step, she plunges trembling into the incomprehensible shuddering depth of the world, the ultrasensitive ear, tensed to take in even the sound of the stars, even the minimal rubbing of atoms, even the silence between two heartbeats.”