30 Hilda Hilst quotes that demonstrate her visceral writing

Willingness to give no meaning to things, words and life itself. As is life in reality without meaning.

Of these everyday nothings that consume the best part of us, I wanted to tell you about the burden when we get old, about disappearing, about this thing that doesn’t exist, but is raw, is alive: time.

May this love not blind me or follow me. And never notice myself.

My house is the guardian of my body and protector of all my burnings.

Some scholars in science have found that the larger the gut, the more mystical the individual. And who more mystical than God? Great Intestine, pray for us.

How I like this time, to stop the flow of some lives.

Look at me again. Less haughtily and more attentive.

Affliction of loving you, if it moves you. And being water, love, wanting to be earth.

Turquoise and silver time, my hate-love, lord of my life. Remember us. In blue. In the light of charity.

Who are you? I asked desire. Answered: lava. Then powder. Then nothing.

‘Cause there’s desire in me, it’s all shimmer.

Contemplate your living that runs, listen to your gold from within. It’s another yellow one I’m talking about.

I sew infinity over the chest.

My measure? Love. And your mouth on mine undeserved.

What a pain of hugs. What a pain of transparency. And null gestures, melted portraits, tape photos.

In every corner of the house, vehement evidence of your face.

Desire, that of the flesh, doesn’t make me afraid.

I walked through houses and landscapes, looking for myself, my face of yours.

I crossed the sun, touched the wall inside my friends.

I looked for light and love. Human, watch out. As one who seeks the mouth in the confines of thirst.

To know oneself as belonging is to have nothing else. It’s having everything too. It’s like having the river, the one that flows into the infinite waters of an endless stream of nobody.

As if you allowed me everything else, I photograph myself in iron gates.

Vast feelings have no name.

Glued to your mouth my disorder. My vast want.

I love you, even if it fulminates you or if a punch in my face makes me less bone and more truth.

Passion is the thick artery gushing voluptuousness and illusion, it is the mouth that pronounces the world, purple on your layer of emotions, scarlet on your life, passion is that open of your chest, and also your desert.