To write often means remembering what never existed. So how can I know what has never existed? Like this: as if I were remembering. By an effort of memory, as if I had never been born. I was never born. I have never lived. But I remember, and remembering is like an open wound.
I must not forget, I thought, that I have been happy, that I am being happier than one can be. But I forget, I’ve always forgotten.
– Clarice Lispector, Near to the Wild Heart