Clarice whispers that even the dirtiest desire carries, deep down, an immense longing to simply be alive. Macabéa doesn't ask permission to exist, she simply exists, small and vehement. And we, so tired of ourselves, still dream of sinking into the mud to wake up. With tenderness and quiet guilt, I continue reading. 📖 The Hour of the Star
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ruisergiocp I love the detail.