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The Secret of Clarice Lispector 

(English Edition – Previous Version)

O Segredo de Clarice Lispector 

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Vertygo – O Suicídio de Lukas 

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Vertygo – The Suicide of Lukas 

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Era bruxa Clarice Lispector? Marcos Deminco levanta essa questão em "O segredo de Clarice Lispector". Para quem... https://t.co/CKZK0uQuY1

— FalandoEmLiteratura (@falandoemlitera) 28 de dezembro de 2017

Baixei hoje pra ler no meu Kindle o segredo de Clarice Lispector.

— Lucão malvadão (@LcKoube) 29 de novembro de 2017

[Resenha]: O Segredo de Clarice Lispector — de Marcus Deminco https://t.co/N1V5IAIAj1

— Renata Pereira (@UmaLeituraaMais) 17 de setembro de 2017

Livraria. Marcus Deminco E-Livros

The Secret of Clarice Lispector.

The Secret of Clarice Lispector. The truth no one has ever told.

Why was the most important Brazilian writer in the 20th century, considered the greatest Jewish writer since Franz Kafka, was known as 'The Great Witch of Brazilian Literature?' What sort of bond did Clarice Lispector establish with the magical universe of sorcery? Why her close friend Otto Lara Resende always warned her writer to be careful with her texts, saying they were not only literature but witchcraft? 'Number 7 was my secret, kabbalistic number.' There are 7 keys with which all the songs that exists or that will exist' can be composed. There is a recurrence of 'theosophical additions', numbers that can be summed up to reveal an amount of magic. I assure you that 1978 will be the real kabbalistic year. Therefore, I commanded to polish the instants of time, to shine the stars, to wash the moon with milk, and the sun with liquid gold. Every year, I start to live another life.'

Despite having died weeks before starting that so called kabbalistic year, those ritualistic habits and her obsessions for numbers can supposedly clarify why Clarice has promptly accepted the invitation of warlock Simon to participate as a lecturer in the First World Congress of Witchcraft.

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>>Read more on www.amazon.com

The Secret Map of Vertygo Island (O Mapa Secreto da Ilha de Vertygo)

The Secret of Clarice Lispector. The truth no one has ever told (By Marcus Deminco)

Rio de Janeiro – December, 9^th 1977 10:30 a.m.  It was only a day before her fifty-seventh birthday, when, due to cancer, the prodigious Brazilian writer Clarice Lispector departed from this transitory universe of humans to perpetuate her existence through some precious writings which overflowed her complex feminine soul. The numerous connoisseurs of her pulsing nature and her intrepid-sensitive force became orphans of her epiphanic words and literary world. Although enriched by an immortal legacy that would remain in tales, chronicles and novels, all of her work would be unfinished for sharing and even her posthumous works and her unpublished stories faded along with Clarice.

Meanwhile, long after her death, numerous controversies concerning her private life came to public notice when the Clarice Lispector Archive was inaugurated in the Museum of Brazilian Literature at the House of Rui Barbosa Foundation in September 1987, exhibiting a collection of personal documents of the writer donated by her son, Paulo Gurgel Valente. After a closer look at some postcards, letters exchanged between friends/ relatives, snippets of literary writings, and so many written papers about events, it was clear she was the one who signed a column under the pseudonym Helen Palmer in the Correio da Manhã newspaper published between August 1959 and February 1961.

Surely, that was not one her biggest secrets. In fact, it was not even a fact to hide. Many of her friends, especially the closest ones, knew that Clarice chose Tereza Quadros as a  pen name to sign a column writer Ruber Braga invited her to write, from May to October 1952, in a tabloid called Comício. They were also aware that, as of April 1960, she was the hand behind the column entitled ‘Just for Women’, published in Diário da Noite, signed by the model and actress Ilka Soares. Undoubtedly, Clarice kept something far beyond her introspective lyricism, something that would exhaust the interpretation of her hermetic texts and the revelation of her aliases. It was a mystery that challenged logic, a puzzle that persisted out of her oblique melancholy eyes.

It is believed that she had only accepted to participate in the First World Congress of Witchcraft, held in Bogota, Colombia, in August 1975, because she was already fully convinced that the cyclical capacity for renewal came from a supreme force, far more intricate than the religious conflicts she felt. Perhaps that was true. Perhaps that was not. Maybe more about that inexplicable feeling could have been noted if, under the guise of a sudden malaise, she had not given up reading the text about magic she had written for her presentation instead of having written a different speech.

In fact, Clarice wanted to be buried in St. John the Baptist Cemetery. In deference to her Jewish customs concerning the Shabbat, she could only be buried on Sunday. It is known that her body rests in tomb #123, row G, in Israeli Communal Cemetery, located in Caju, a neighborhood in the Northern Zone of Rio de Janeiro. Coincidentally, it is located next to the place where her character Macabéa used to spent her spare time. However, like all the extraordinary people who make their lives a journey, it is assumed that Clarice had surely taken a fraction of irrevocable lessons with herself. Perhaps the most obscure cases, such as the most secretive episodes and unfinished writings, were left behind, shrouded in shadows, waiting to be unraveled – for instance, it is unknown the real reason she had created those aliases.

Clarice has an unfathomable existence, and her interests were the antagonistic as they were voracious: faith and skepticism walked alongside fear and anguish of living. She felt happy not to cry in the face of sadness, and claimed that crying gave her comfort. She was indifferent, but humanist. Tedious and intriguing; reserved and intimate; foreign and native; Jewish and Christian; lesbian and housewife; man and mother; witch and saint. Ukrainian, Brazilian, Northeasterner and Carioca. Authorities asserted that she was right-wing, others claimed she was a communist. She spoke seven languages, but her nationality was always questioned. At birth, she was registered Chaya Pinkhasovna, and died Clarice Lispector.

After all, why was the most studied Brazilian writer in the world known as The Great Witch of Brazilian Literature? What kind of bond Clarice have possibly established with the universe of witchcraft? One of her closest friends, journalist and writer Otto Lara Resende always warned readers: ‘You should be careful with Clarice. This is not just literature, it’s witchcraft.’

Certainly, even today, many of her readers are completely unaware of her close involvement with occult practices, either ignore her deep interest in Kabbalistic magic. Her participation in the Witchcraft Convention could be just another rumor among many others surrounding the fanciful imagery of her name.

In spite of this rumors, it is noted that Clarice had different mystical habits, mainly linked to her beliefs in the power of certain numbers. For her, numbers 5 (five), 7 (seven) and 13 (thirteen) represented a magic symbolism, a kind of karmic identity. In her creative process was coffee, cigarettes and a typewriter in her lap, and she always marked 7 (seven) spaces before each opening paragraph. On several occasions she did not hesitate to ask her friend Olga Borelli to finish the last few paragraphs of her texts judiciously marked on page number 13 (thirteen).

Once, she wrote: ‘Seven is the number of men. The deepest wound heals in seven days if the destroyer is not around [...] Number seven was my secret, Kabbalistic number. There are seven notes with which you can compose all the songs that exist and that will exist.’ There is a recurrence of ‘theosophical additions,’ numbers that can be summed up to reveal a magic amount. The year 1978, for example, has a sum that results equal to seven: 1 + 9 + 7+ 8 = 25, and 2 + 5 = 7. ‘I assure you that 1978 will be the one true Kabbalistic year. Therefore, I commanded to polish the instants of time, to shine the stars, to wash the moon with milk, and the sun with liquid gold. Every year, I start to live another life.’

Even though she died only few weeks before the beginning of that Kabbalist year, all these ritualistic customs undoubtedly clarified the real reason she had accepted with care and enthusiasm the unexpected invitation from the Colombian writer and occultist Sorcerer Simon to participate as a guest in the First World Congress of Witchcraft he was organizing.

December 14th, 1958.

8:15 p.m.

Satin night dress, messy hair, blurred make-up. A tense body facing the typewriter. Restless breathing, furrowed brow, stiff neck, and a turgid look trying to sidestep the letters, numbers, and signs marked on dirty keys, cleared by the low yellowish light of a small porcelain lamp placed on a rustic dresser with four closed drawers.

Dilated pupils, rapid heart rate, increased frantic blood pressure and adrenal glands secreting copious quantities of adrenaline. Muscles of legs contracted, minimisation of blood flow in the intestines, feet tingling on the cold floor, a line of pain in the abdomen. One trembling hand repeatedly taking a cigarette from the ashtray and bringing it to the edges of her lips moistened with a non-expensive wine.

It was not the first time Helen had that unpleasant feeling of mediocrity, and even having predicted that after a lasting feeling inertia, everything would return to normal, a fearful thinking coerced her that time was going to be different. She felt unable, incapable of exceeding the limit of her embarrassment. She had the disgusted impression of having turned into a perpetual prisoner of her own story. She saw herself completely tied when that damn thirteenth chapter got her stuck as if some obstacle or some future negative motivation in that plot was preventing her to keep on writing.

Exasperated, she took a sip from the bottleneck and a drag on a cigarette. Behind the cloud of smoke continually exhaled, she glimpsed the blank page, waiting for the next words that had disappeared with her quiet. Nothing seemed to make sense. In her disturbed mind, now roamed whirls of disconnected thoughts. Her ideas became inaccurate, her intentions and faculties were as disorganized as that huge mess accumulated in pieces and piles of papers on that filthy floor of the room in a modest pension where she had chosen to hide.

With the mind exhausted, emotions disturbed and nerves touched, she felt a dreadful will to cry, but hold the tears pressing the jaw with the teeth. Magnified and inert, she wanted scream her agony until her throat exploded out. Instead, she swallowed the anger, and kept quiet. Anguish suffocated her thoracic cavity walls, making it difficult for air to go into her lungs. This gave her an undefined grief, an unknown anxiety for something which fatally was about to happen and there was nothing she could do to stop.

That feisty and tormenting angry was spreading in a turbulent challenge to hold back the impulse to throw the typewriter out of the window. That made her express a passive feeling. She wielded a pencil sharpener blade, and even though it was unbending, she gave up that almost uncontrollable urge to nail it in her chest. She wanted to mutilate herself, to punish herself, and desperately needed to take out this wrath to express her anger.

Swept away by an indistinguishable fury, she collected the fingers and thought of punching it in one of her eyes, but she soon could control herself. She thought of scratching the side of her face with her nails, tried to pull her hair, to slap and bite herself. Then, sunk in ambiguous impulses and taken by wild drives, she was not able to curb her right hand holding a glowing tip cigarette upside down, moved steadily toward her legs and slowly rubbed that red ember on her left knee, unburdening all her wrath.

Little by little, the shoulder joints relaxed the arms resting on the chair, while all the frenzy gradually decreased: the brain and the forehead slowly cooled, and the ears relaxed in snaps of decompression. The pain became a kind of subterfuge disguised as a relief, a medicine a greater inner disease. It was a warning that yet completely disoriented, her flesh was still acting to external stimuli.

Being happy or being sad was indifferent. Having the publishers rejected her books and kept them on shelves for years did not affect her to any less discouragement. There was an infinite reason greater than a cheap wish for being appreciated. She did not write for ideology, nor to be judged by the punitive perspectives of literary critics. Nor to ogle over varied temptations of fame or a vanity. She wrote for urgency, for an almost vital necessity to stay lucid. She did it to scare away the bitterness, to exorcise old demons. The letters worked as understandable words, and become the only remaining sobriety of introspection.

Without a correct perception of time afflicted by sleepless nights, Clarice no longer remembered of having contracted that condition to a phobia. Aversion was spontaneous, and panic attacks were hideous just to imagine herself wandering in the streets full of people. She had a grudge to fairs, trembling and perspiring cold just thinking about that trite commotion of downtown area. She did not use to go to the masses, and never, under any circumstances, was near beaches for she strongly disliked the sea. The waves brought of a past so nefarious that she would rather erase it from memory.

Doubtful and without any prospect of improvement, she chose to be confined and started living alone, hidden from everyone and everything. She did not have any friends, did not visit relatives, and did not got involved in any love affairs - possibly because of her animosity or of obedience to her physical instincts. Apart from the characters she created, anyone else knew about her daily life. In a barren experience on the continuous solitary act of writing was found a way to beat her biggest traumas.

She was not rich or lived in poverty either, her financial situation was reasonable financial. The good economic conditions of his foster father allowed her to live some whims. She could travel the world, meet different civilizations, connect with interesting and well-educated people. However, she knew that nothing and nobody could fill that vast emptiness, that deep displeasure. Wherever she goes, her mind was not there. She had a life inside herself, and rather enjoyed reality of her lies than watched the made-up truths of her transitional shelters.

Out of social interaction, she sporadically sought for refuge. Most of the time after having finished a book, she moved to a different place to avoid the risk of being mocked or found. For so, anonymously cloistered, she stayed in hostels, hostels and pensions, hotels, without anyone - not even Jovino Andrade - suspect that behind that indistinct figure holed up in different streets and neighborhoods in the capital of Bahia was, in fact, a secret identity of a bizarre writer.

A few months later, however, all that isolated eccentricity made her turn into a silent hostage of her own creations. Her monotony blended with the plots of her writings, the inviting adventures of intrigues seduced her overshadowed routine, and her unpleasant impressions confused with the intimate sensation with which she described to designed her characters.

Thus, as much as her unusual behavior challenged normality, and as much as her nomad action challenged the pragmatic governing sense, there was - at least for her - a coherent meaning to act that way: bordering insanity and dueling against all logic.

_________

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Why read Paulo Coelho? - By Marcus Deminco

You don't have to search for long on the internet to find the most varied criticism to the prodigious writer Paulo Coelho. The most-read author in Brazil, one of the ten living writers in the world, who earned over than seventy awards, was translated to seventy-six languages and is read in one hundred sixty country, is he a real big mess as some spiteful scholars claim?

Just when I finished my first book, an autobiography, still drunk with all those words and letters but willing to keep on writing fiction, I was stupidly bewildered to decide to make further studies on aspects related to creative process and literature construction. While pseudo-specialists under the influence of Kafka and Flaubert state that Paulo Coelho was a foolish charlatan, I forged to be the elitist I will never be and read Madame Bovary, The Process and the Metamorphosis. However, what I really wanted was that they let me read the wizard.

While some promising writers (that never were anything but promises) lent me Dante, Shakespeare, Balzac, Dostoevsky and Cervantes, I started questioning my self-alienating blindness: how would be possible that 48 out of 100 best-selling titles in Brazil in the 90s were by national writer and 20 of them belong to the so called dumb wizard? Then, when xenophobic disguised as patriotic scholars said that real literature was Machado de Assis and Guimarães Rosa, I no longer wanted to know if was Dom Casmurro or The Posthumous Memoirs of Bras Cubas which made Machado de Assis a specialist in first person writing or if was the first ellipse in The Devil to Pay in the Backlands a case for grammar or not. I was completely in love with Veronika decides to die.

Suddenly, I began to see through the walls of limitation of wise fools that surrounded me: the more I kept imprisoned by the rules, standards, styles and literary methods, the less I could write. I knew what was break of semantic parallelism, euphemism, onomatopoeia, prosopopoeia, epistrophe, periphrases, inversion, pleonasm...whatever. Almost all these bullshit that the morons think to be what it takes to be a genius.

But, was when a professor told me in a tone of joke that Paulo Coelho writes for needy, depressive young adults who believe in elves and who think about suicide. I immediately replied:'THEN I DON'T WANT MAKE LITERATURE, I WANT TO MAKE PAULO COELHO!' So, unlike Virginia Woolf, Paulo Coelho writes not only with his fingers or as a whole person; he writes with his soul, not being subservient to grammar rules that limits the most overbearing authors. And you know what would be worse than a flopped author writing a book only to externalize their contained disability? TWO FRUSTRATED AUTHORS WITH THE SAME PURPOSE:

1)           The messenger without a message named DIOGO MAINARDI, who cannot enjoy the verve great authors can have, wrote LULA É MINHA ANTA (his Magnum Opus); gathering all his repetitive and dull articles about the man he wanted to be.

2)           And following the same steps of mediocrity, the illustrious unknown, Janilto Andrade wrote the unpopular best-seller WHY NOT READ PAULO COELHO in which he defines the wizard as an exciting vulgar looking for being qualified as sophisticated art.

But as John Steinbeck would say: 'Of all animals in God’s creation .... Man is the only one who drinks without being thirsty ...eats without being hungry and talks without having something to say.'

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Oração para Nova Semana – por Marcus Deminco

– SENHOR! ABENÇOA A NOSSA SEMANA –

QUE eu mantenha o meu otimismo vivo, mesmo quando todos já tiverem desistido de acreditar. QUE eu não me perca do destino, por mais caminhos desvirtuados que eu tenha que trilhar. QUE a minha fé permanece acima de todas as minhas promessas solidificadas no desquerer do acaso. QUE eu possa aprender tanto com os meus erros, a ponto de evitar que outros passem pelos mesmos sofrimentos. QUE ao sentir as dores alheias eu seja capaz de dilui-las em aflições pelo simples desejo de querer-lhes bem. QUE eu compreenda que nem todas as verdades cabem em todos os ouvidos. QUE diante de todas as razões para abandonar uma pessoa, eu encontre apenas um único motivo para não deixá-la. QUE eu acredite em meus maiores sonhos, mesmo quando todos disserem que será impossível. QUE eu consiga sempre enxergar a luz, nas noites de maiores escuridão. QUE em todo tempo, e diante de qualquer situação, a minha esperança seja superior as minhas maiores desilusões. QUE a minha crença supere todas as dúvidas intermitentes da vida. QUE eu compreenda que nem tudo precisa ser explicado, algumas coisas apenas no silêncio de senti-las ultrapassam qualquer entendimento. QUE a minha alegria seja maior que apenas para mim, e que o meu desejo de ser feliz seja infinitamente maior do que qualquer receio de me machucar novamente. MAS, que acima de tudo, somente a tua vontade prevaleça sobre todos os meus anseios. Que assim seja. AMÉM!

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Oração para Nova Semana – por Marcus Deminco

Marcus Deminco GIFS CARD'S BOOKS

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— Marcus Deminco (@marcusdeminco) 24 de maio de 2017

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BeijoMolhado: Pensamento do dia #1

BeijoMolhado: Pensamento do dia #1: “O primeiro sentido da vida é senti-la, o segundo, vivê-la e o terceiro:  conseguir realizar continuamente os dois.” (Marcus Deminco) ...

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O Segredo de Clarice Lispector (Resenha @Livrosemrabisco)

OSegredo de Clarice Lispector. Resenha ✅ Moço, em obséquio, como faz pra ir embora? Lea Leopoldina carrega um filho na barriga e uma única esperança: sair da miséria do sertão e tantar uma vida melhor na cidade. . "Se Deus realmente existisse como eles criam, tivera sido injusto demais com todos os sertanejos. Aquela imensidão de água azul sobrando, diante da miséria deles, feria as regras da lógica, as leis da coerência. Era um insulto, uma aberração um tapa metafórico, mas bem dolorido na cara" Chegando à cidade, encontra uma realidade muito diferente da que imaginava, vendo-se tão logo como pedinte para alimentar a si e seu filho. É neste ponto que sua vida cruza com Jovino. Há dois anos atrás, exato momento em que o filho de Lea nascia, ele enterrava sua mulher e o filho recém-nascido. Buscando através de cartomantes um indício de mudança em sua vida, Jovino descobre que um menino com nome celestial iluminará sua vida. E é então que sua vida se junta a de Lea e João Bento Gabriel, o bentinho. Sem delongas, não vou contar aqui a trama toda, que de forma bastante inteligente, acaba por se ligar a Clarice Lispector e o antigo pseudônimo Helen Palmer, que a autora usou para escrever anonimamente. Por um motivo ou outro, minha trajetória na literatura ainda não passou pelas sábias palavras de Clarice. Ao me deparar com um título tão sugestivo sobre a vida da escritora, me perguntei o quanto encontraria nestas páginas de realidade e de ficção. A resposta, para quem também ficou curioso, é: um realismo fantástico, com um pouco de realidade entrelaçada a uma história muito bem narrada. É uma escrita rica, com detalhes e fora da narrativa central, relata fatos verídicos sobre a autora e seus segredos. Indico a todos que apreciem boas histórias, este com certeza é um dos melhores livros que li este ano. Gostou? Aproveita e baixa o e-book, que está gratuito HOJE na @amazonbrasil ❤

Uma publicação compartilhada por Livro Sem Rabisco 📖❤✏ (@livrosemrabisco) em Jun 6, 2017 às 12:10 PDT

O Segredo de Clarice Lispector (G R Á T I S)

Salvem aí! Somente amanhã, e-book grátis na #amazon Os fãs de Clarice vão adorar! E pra quem não conhece a autora, é uma ótima oportunidade pra entrar em um universo não diretamente ou totalmente ligado a ela, mas com uma história envolvente do início ao fim. Vou deixar a sinopse aqui e amanhã tento trazer a resenha pra vocês 😍 A história de Clarice Lispector que ninguém jamais contou. Afinal, por que a autora brasileira era conhecida como A Grande Bruxa da Literatura Brasileira? Que espécie de vínculo Clarice teria estabelecido com a feitiçaria? Por que seu próprio amigo Otto Lara Resende advertia alguns leitores para tomarem cuidado com Clarice, alegando não se tratava apenas de literatura, mas de bruxaria? “O 7 era meu número secreto e cabalístico”. Há 7 notas com as quais podem ser compostas “todas as músicas que existem e que existirão”; e há uma recorrência de “adições teosóficas”, números que podem ser somados para revelar uma quantia mágica, Eu vos afianço que 1978 será o verdadeiro ano cabalístico. Portanto, mandei lustrar os instantes do tempo, rebrilhar as estrelas, lavar a lua com leite, e o sol com ouro líquido. Cada ano que se inicia, começo eu a viver outra vida.” – E, muito embora ela tenha morrido apenas algumas semanas antes de começar o então ano cabalístico, sem dúvida alguma, todos esses hábitos ritualísticos, esclareceram a verdadeira razão pela qual – aceitou com presteza e entusiasmo – o inusitado convite do ocultista colombiano, Bruxo Simón, para participar como palestrante – do 1º Congresso Mundial de Bruxaria organizado por ele. #osegredodeclaricelispector #claricelispector #marcusdeminco #livronacional #gratis #livrogratuito #amazonbrasil

Uma publicação compartilhada por Livro Sem Rabisco 📖❤✏ (@livrosemrabisco) em Jun 5, 2017 às 4:27 PDT