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312 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1973
Lord, how I’ve woolgathered lately. Only Jesus understands and pardons, only He who went through everything like us, Jesus, Jesus, how I love You! I’m going to play a record in your honor, I offer music just like Abel offered the lamb, of course, a lamb is much more important, but Jesus knows I have a horror of blood, my offerings will have to be musical ones. Jimi Hendrix? Listen, my beloved, listen to this last little tune he composed before he died, he died of drugs, poor thing, they all die of drugs, but hear it and I know you’ll lower Your hand in blessing upon his sweat-stained, dusty Afro hair, dear Jimi!…
I see Lião as a mother, very fat and very happy, smiling rather ironically at her guerrilla past, the follies of youth, the follies of youth! Ana Clara, extremely made-up and affected, lying about her age and all the rest, her hands always clenched, she’s the hand-clenching variety of liar. Getting drunk in private. Oh, what I learned from her. I don’t drink but I could write a thesis on alcoholism and drugs. I never had a man and yet I know the arts and blunders of making love.
She glimpsed in the corner of the mirror the small surprise snapshot that Sister Clotilde had taken of them in front of the gate: She was between Ana Clara and Lia, all three laughing a sunburned laugh. “Don’t squint, Ana Clara, and Lorena, stop making faces, you’re making a face!” A pyramid. The poet H.H. had described it: “Inside the prism, the base, the vertex of its three continuous pyramids,” she recited, lowering her eyes to her own reflected image.
"Palavras triviais mas é no trivial que está o trágico."