“If she prayed, if she thought it would be to give thanks for having a body made for love.
The only truth became the tenderness she had sunk into. Her face was light and imprecise, floating among the other opaque, confident faces, as if it still couldn’t find support in any expression. All of her body and soul lost their limits, mixed together, merged into a single chaos, soft and amorphous, slow and with vague movements like matter that was simply alive. It was the perfect renewal, creation.”
Near to the Wild Heart
by Clarice Lispector

















