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— The Passion According to G.H. - Clarice Lispector, Benjamin Moser, and Idra Novey
==Like a building in which everyone sleeps calmly at night, unaware that the foundations are sagging and that, in an instant unsuggested by the peacefulness, the beams will give way because their cohesive strength is slowly pulling them apart one millimeter per century.
And then, when it’s least expected — in an instant as repetitively common as lifting a drink to a smiling mouth during a dance — then, yesterday, on a day as full of sunlight as the days at the height of summer, with men working and kitchens giving off smoke and a jackhammer shattering stones and children laughing and a priest trying to stop, but stop what?
yesterday, without warning, there was the loud sound of something solid that suddenly crumbles.== In the collapse, tons fell upon tons.
==And when I, G.
H.
even on my suitcases, I, one of the people, opened my eyes, I was — not atop debris, for even the debris had already been swallowed by the sands — I was on a calm plain, kilometers and kilometers below what had been a great city.
Things had gone back to being what they were.
The world had reclaimed its own reality, and, as after a catastrophe, my civilization had ended: I was nothing more than a historical fact.
Everything in me had been reclaimed by the beginning of time and by my own beginning.== I had moved onto the first foreground, I was in the silence of the winds and in the age of tin and copper — in the first age of life.
— Listen, faced with the living cockroach, the worst discovery was that the world is not human, and that we are not human.