The Passion According To Gh Quotes

The world's continual breathing is what we hear and call silence.

And I want to be held down. I don't know what to do with the horrifying freedom that can destroy me.

What I want is to live of that initial and primordial something that was what made some things reach the point of aspiring to be human.

The mystery of human destiny is that we are fated, but that we have the freedom to fulfill or not fulfill our fate: realization of our fated destiny depends on us. While inhuman beings like the cockroach realize the entire cycle without going astray because they make no choices.

Holding someone's hand was always my idea of joy. Often before falling asleep - in that small struggle not to lose consciousness and enter the greater world - often, before having the courage to go toward the greatness of sleep, I pretend that someone is holding my hand and I go, go toward the enormous absence of form that is sleep. And when even then I can't find the courage, then I dream.

I' is merely one of the world's instantaneous spasms.

Reality prior to my language exists as an unthinkable thought. . . . life precedes love, bodily matter precedes the body, and one day in its turn language shall have preceded possession of silence.

I don't want beauty, I want identity.

In the world there exists no aesthetic plane, not even the aesthetic plane of goodness.

Perder-se é um achar-se perigoso.

I'm so frightened that I shall be able to accept the notion that I have lost myself only if I imagine that someone is holding my hand.

I, who called love my hope for love.

Real life is so secret that not even I, who am dying of it, have been given the password, I am dying without knowing of what.

Never again shall I understand anything I say. Since how could I speak without the word lying for me? How could I speak except timidly like this: life just is for me. Life just is for me, and I don't understand what I'm saying. And so I adore it.

A note exists between two notes of music, between two facts exists a fact, between two grains of sand no matter how close together there exists an interval of space, a sense that exists between senses — in the interstices of primordial matter is the line of mystery and fire that is the breathing of the world, and the continual breathing of the world is what we hear and call silence.

Depersonalization like the deposing of useless individuality— the loss of everything that can be lost, while still being. To take away from yourself little by little, with an effort so attentive that no pain is felt, to take away from yourself like one who gets free of her own skim, her own characteristics. Everything that characterizes me is just the way I am most easily viewed by others and end up being superficially recognizable to myself.

Reality is the raw material, language is the way I go in search of it - and the way I do not find it. But it is from searching and not finding that what I did not know was born, and which I instantly recognise. Language is my human effort. My destiny is to search and my destiny is to return empty-handed. But - I return with the unsayable. The unsayable can only be given to me through the failure of my language. Only when the construction fails, can I obtain what I could not achieve.

Estou tão assustada que só poderei aceitar que me perdi se imaginar que alguém me está dando a mão.

Dá-me a tua mão desconhecida, que a vida está me doendo, e não sei como falar – a realidade é delicada demais, só a realidade é delicada, minha irrealidade e minha imaginação são mais pesadas.

Would it be simplistic to think the moral problem with regards to others consists in behaving as one ought to, and the moral problem with regards to oneself is managing to feel what one ought to?

Life was taking its vengeance on me, and that vengeance consisted merely in coming back, nothing more. Every case of madness involves something coming back. People who are possessed are not possessed by something that just comes but instead by something that comes back. Sometimes life comes back. If in me everything crumbled before that power, it is not because that power was itself necessarily an overwhelming one: it in fact had only to come, since it had already become too full-flowing a force to be controlled or contained - when it appeared it overran everything. And then, like after a flood, there floated a wardrobe, a person, a loose window, three suitcases. And that seemed like Hell to me, that destruction of layers and layers of human archaeology.

—————— I’m searching, I’m searching. I’m trying to understand. Trying to give what I’ve lived to somebody else and I don’t know to whom, but I don’t want to keep what I lived. I don’t know what to do with what I lived, I’m afraid of that profound disorder. I don’t trust what happened to me. Did something happen to me that I, because I didn’t know how to live it, lived as something else? That’s what I’d like to call disorganization, and I’d have the confidence to venture on, because I would know where to return afterward: to the previous organization. I’d rather call it disorganization because I don’t want to confirm myself in what I lived — in the confirmation of me I would lose the world as I had it, and I know I don’t have the fortitude for another.

Oh, don't pull your hand away from me, I've promised myself that maybe by the end of this impossible narrative I shall understand, oh maybe it will be on Hell's road that I shall be able to find what we need—but don't pull your hand away, even though I now know that the finding has to come on the road of what we are, if I can succeed in not sinking completely into what we are.

...things are very delicate. People tread upon them with too many human feet, with too many sentiments. Only the delicacy of innocence or only the delicacy of the initiate senses its almost nonexistent taste. Before, I needed seasoning for everything, and in that way I skipped over the thing and tasted the taste of the seasoning.

I shall never be able to understand it, but there must be someone who can. And I shall have to create that someone who can inside myself.

her short stories read like perfect songs.

And my fear, too, was different now: not the fear of someone who is still about to go in but the so much greater fear of someone who has gone in.

Sou: o que vi.

And giving myself over with the confidence of belonging to the unknown. For I can pray only to what I do not know. And I can love only the unknown evidence of things and can add myself only to what I do not know. Only that is a real giving of oneself.

I am the cockroach, I am my leg, I am my hair, I am the section of brightest light on the wall plaster—I am every Hellish piece of myself—life is so pervasive in me that if they divide me in pieces like a lizard, the pieces will keep on shaking and writhing. I am the silence etched on a wall, and the most ancient butterfly flutters in and looks at me: just the same as always. From birth to death is what I call human in myself, and I shall never actually die. But this is not eternity, it is condemnation. How opulent this silence is. It is the accumulation of centuries. It is the silence of the cockroach looking. The world looks at itself in me. Everything looks at everything, everything experiences the other; in this desert things know things.

I am going to create what happened to me. Only because living isn't tellable. Living isn't livable. I shall have to create upon life. And without lying. Yes to creation, no to lying. Creation isn't imagination, it's running the huge risk of coming face to face with reality.

Se eu me confirmar e me considerar verdadeira, estarei perdida porque não saberei onde engastar meu novo modo de ser - se eu for adiante nas minhas visões fragmentárias, o mundo inteiro terá que se transformar para eu caber nele.

Oh, but to reach silence, what a huge effort of voice. My voice is the way I go seek reality; reality prior to my language exists as an unthinkable thought, but I was and am fatefully impelled to have to know what thought thinks. Reality precedes the voice that seeks it, but like the earth precedes the tree, but like the world precedes the man, but like the sea precedes the view of the sea, life precedes love, bodily matter precedes the body, and one day in its turn language shall have preceded possession of silence. - Clarice Lispector, The Passion According to G.H.

I had reached nothingness, and the nothingness was live and moist.

My old life was necessary to me because it was precisely its error that made me take up imagining a hope that, without the life that I led, I wouldn't have known.

Se não tivesse sido eu, eu não saberia, e tendo sido eu, eu soube.

Toda compreensão súbita é finalmente a revelação de uma aguda incompreensão. Todo momento de achar é um perder-se a si próprio.

Ouve, por eu ter mergulhado no abismo é que estou começando a amar o abismo de que sou feita.

I've always liked putting things in their places. I think it's my only true calling. By ordering things I create and understand at the same time ... Ordering is finding the best form.

I'm blinder than before. I did see, I really did. I was terrified by the raw truth of a world whose greatest horror is that it is so alive that for me to admit that I am as alive as it is - and my most hideous discovery is that I am as alive as it is - I shall have to raise my consciousness of life outside to so high a point that it would amount to a crime against my personal life.

Ah, meu amor, não tenhas medo da carência: ela é o nosso destino maior. O amor é tão mais fatal do que eu havia pensado, o amor é tão inerente quanto a própria carência, e nós somos garantidos por uma necessidade que se renovará continuamente. O amor já está, está sempre. Falta apenas o golpe da graça - que se chama paixão.

But I’m afraid to begin composing in order to be understood by the imaginary someone, I’m afraid to start to “make” a meaning, with the same tame madness that till yesterday was my healthy way of fitting into a system. Will I need the courage to use an unprotected heart and keep talking to the nothing and the no one? as a child thinks about the nothing. And run the risk of being crushed by chance.

Ignorance of the law of irreducibility was no excuse. I could no longer excuse myself with the claim that I didn't know the law -- for knowledge of self and of the world is the law that, even though unattainable, cannot be broken, and no one can excuse himself by saying that he doesn't know it. . . . The renewed originality of the sin is this: I have to carry out my unknowing, I shall be sinning originally against life.

I shall need to courage to do what I'm about to do: speak. And risk the enormous surprise I shall feel at the poverty of the spoken thing. As soon as it's out of my mouth, I'll have to add: that's not it, that's not it! But I cannot be afraid of being ridiculous, I always preferred less to more also out of fear of the ridiculous: because there's also the shattering of modesty. I'm putting off having to speak to myself. Out of fear? And because I don't have a word to say. I don't have a word to say. So why don't I shut up? But if I do not force out the word muteness will swallow me forever in waves.

Life just is for me, and I don’t understand what I’m saying. And so I adore it. ——————

I'm going to start my exercise in courage, living isn't courage, knowing that you're living, that's courage.

¿Qué soy? Soy: estar de pie ante un espanto. Soy: lo que he visto. No entiendo y temo entender, la materia del mundo me espanta, con sus planetas y sus cucarachas

O erro é um dos meus modos fatais de trabalho.

Night is our latent state. And it is so moist that plants are born. In houses the lights go out in order to hear the crickets more clearly, and so the grasshoppers can walk atop the leaves almost without touching them, the leaves, the leaves, the leaves—in the night the soft anxiety is transmitted through the hollow of the air, the void is a means of transport.

Nostalgia is not for the God who is missing to us, it is a nostalgia for ourselves, for we do not sustain ourselves; we miss our impossible grandeur - my unreachable nowness is my paradise lost.

Real life is so secret that not even I, who am dying of it, have been given the password, I am dying without knowing of what. And the secret is such that only if the mission is finally carried out do I, all of a sudden, see that I was born entrusted with it - all of life is a secret mission.

Eu tenho à medida que designo – e este é o esplendor de se ter uma linguagem . Mas eu tenho muito mais à medida que não consigo designar. A realidade é a matéria-prima, a linguagem é o modo como vou buscá-la – e como não acho. Mas é do buscar e não achar que nasce o que eu não conhecia, e que instantaneamente reconheço. A linguagem é o meu esforço humano. Por destino tenho que ir buscar e por destino volto com as mãos vazias. Mas – volto com o indizível . O indizível só me poderá ser dado através do fracasso de minha linguagem. Só quando falha a construção, é que obtenho o que ela não conseguiu.

I'm stalling. I know that everything I say is just to put it off-to put off the moment when I'll have to start talking, knowing that there is nothing more for me to say. I'm putting off my silence. Have I been putting off silence for my whole life? but now, in my disparagement of the word, perhaps I'll finally be able to start talking." (14)

My life had been as continuous as death. Life is so continuous that we divide it into stages and call one of them death. I had always been in life, it mattered little that it was not I properly speaking, not that thing that I customarily call "I." I had always been in life.

Depersonalization as the great objectification of oneself. The greatest exteriorization one can reach. Whoever gets to oneself through depersonalization shall recognize the other in any disguise: the first step in relation to the other is finding inside oneself the man of all men. Every woman is the woman of all women, every man is the man of all men, and each of them could appear wherever man is judged. But only in immanence, because only a few reach the point of, in us, recognizing themselves. And then, by the simple presence of their existence, revealing ours.

Como, pois, inaugurar agora em mim o pensamento? E talvez só o pensamento me salvasse, tenho medo da paixão.

When living comes to pass, one wonders: but was that it? And the answer is: that is not only it, that is exactly it.

E nunca antes eu me havia deixado levar, a menos que soubesse para o quê.

Que não se acorde quem está todo ausente, quem está absorto está sentindo o pesos das coisas.

Como se explica que o meu maior medo seja exatamente o de ir vivendo o que for sendo?

Now I understand what a trial is. Trial: it means that life is trying me. But trial: means that I too am trying. And trying can become an ever more insatiable thirst.

Perhaps I now knew that I would never be equal to life myself, but that my life was equal to life. I would never reach my root, but my root did exist.

Ultrapassar a dor é a pior crueldade

I always liked to arrange things. I guess it’s my only real vocation. By putting things in order, I create and understand at the same time.

My expectations closed the world to me.

I lost something that was essential to me, and that no longer is. I no longer need it, as if I’d lost a third leg that up till then made it impossible for me to walk but that turned me into a stable tripod. I lost that third leg. And I went back to being a person I never was. I went back to having something I never had: just two legs. I know I can only walk with two legs. But I feel the useless absence of that third leg and it scares me, it was the leg that made me something findable by myself, and without even having to look for myself.

I want the material of things. Humanity is drenched with humanization, as if that were necessary; and that false humanization trips up man and trips up his humanity. A thing exists that is fuller, deafer, deeper, less good, less bad, less pretty. Yet that thing too runs the risk, in our coarse hands, of becoming transformed into "purity", our hands that are coarse and full of words.

when art is good it is because it touched upon the inexpressive, the worst art is expressive, that art which trangresses the piece of iron and the piece of glass, and the smile, and the scream.

Never, until then, had life happened to me by day. Never in sunlight. Only in my nights did the world slowly revolve. Only that, whatever happened in the dark of night itself, would also happen at the same time in my own entrails, and my dark wasn't differentiated from the dark outside, and in the morning, when I opened my eyes, the world was still a surface: the secret life of the night soon reduced in my mouth to the taste of a nightmare that disappears. but now life was happening by day. undeniable and to be seen. unless I averted my eyes. and I could still avert my eyes.

Life, my love, is a great seduction in which all that exists seduces. That room that was deserted and for that reason primally alive. I had reached the nothing, and the nothing was living and moist.

My world today is raw, it is a world of great vital difficulty. Because, more than a star, today I want the thick and black root of the stars, I want the source that always seems dirty, and is dirty, and that is always incomprehensible. It is with pain that I bid farewell even to the beauty of a child - I want the adult who is more primitive and ugly and drier and more difficult, and who became a child-seed that cannot be broken between the teeth.

...E nós sabemos Deus. E o que precisamos Dele, extraímos. (Não sei o que chamo de Deus, mas assim pode ser chamado.) Se só sabemos muito pouco de Deus, é porque precisamos pouco: só temos Dele o que fatalmente nos basta, só temos de Deus o que cabe em nós. (A nostalgia não é do Deus que nos falta, é a nostalgia de nós mesmos que não somos bastante; sentimos falta de nossa grandeza impossível - minha atualidade inalcançável é o meu paraíso perdido.)

The last time I came down from the enchanted saddle, my human sadness was so great that I swore never to again. The ride, however, continues on in me. I converse, I clean the house, I smile, but I know that the ride is within me.

It isn't for us that cows' milk comes forth, but we drink it. Flowers weren't made for us to look at or for us to smell, and we look at them and smell them. The Milky Way doesn't exist for us to know if its existence, but we know.

I am the priestess of a secret that I no longer know. And I serve out of blissful ignorance. I found out something I was unable to understand, my lips became sealed, and I retained only the incomprehensible fragments of a ritual.

And He not only allows but needs to be used, used is a way of being understood. (In all religions God demands to be loved.) For us to have, all we need is to need. To need is always the supreme moment. Just as the most daring happiness between a man and a woman comes when needing becomes so great that it is felt in agony and wonder: without you I will be unable to live. Love's revelation is a revelation of lacking—blessed be the poor of spirit for the sundering realm of life is theirs.

se eu gritasse acordaria milhares de seres gritantes que iniciariam pelos telhados um coro de gritos e horror. Se eu gritasse desencadearia a existência - a existência de quê? a existência do mundo. Com reverência eu temia a existência do mundo para mim.

An eye looked over my life. I probably called that eye sometimes "truth", sometimes morality, sometimes human law, sometimes "God", sometimes "myself". For the most part I lived inside a mirror. Two minutes after I was born I had already lost my beginnings.

Ne olduğumu bilmediğimden, "olmamak" gerçeğe en yakın olduğum yerdi: en azından madalyonun öteki yüzü kontrolümde: en azından "-mamak"a sahiptim, tersime sahiptim. O zaman benim için neyin iyi olduğunu bilmiyordum; benim için kötü olana da böylece ısınmış oldum.

Até então eu nunca fora dona de meus poderes - poderes que eu não entendia nem queria entender, mas a vida em mim os havia retido para que um dia enfim desabrochasse essa matéria desconhecida e feliz e inconsciente que era finalmente: eu! eu, o que quer que seja.

I remembered you, when I kissed your man face, slowly, slowly kissed it, and when the time came to kiss your eyes—I remembered that then I had tasted the salt in my mouth, and that the salt of tears in your eyes was my love for you. But, what bound me most of all in a fright of love, had been, in the depth of the depths of the salt, your saltless and innocent and childish substance: with my kiss your deepest insipid life was given to me, and kissing your face was the saltless and busy patient work of love, it was woman weaving a man, just as you had woven me, neutral crafting of life.

We shall be inhuman - as humankind's greatest conquest. To be is to be beyond the human. To be a human being doesn't do it, to be human has been a constraint. The unknown awaits us, but I sense that that unknown is a totalization and will be the true humanization we long for. Am I speaking of death? no, of life.

Ainda que eu seja mais uma ninguém a vagar sem rosto pelas rodas de livros, pelas prateleiras, tenho a sensação de ser uma penetra. Tanta coisa escrita, tanta gente escrevendo. Por que eu escrevo? O que eu tenho a dizer que já não tenha sido dito de milhares de maneiras diferentes? A quem interessa o meu corpo de letras?

The world had reclaimed its own reality, and, just like after a catastrophe, my culture had ended: I was merely a historical fact. Everything in me had been reclaimed by the beginning of time and by my own beginning. I had passed on to a first, primary plane, I was in the silence of the winds and in the age of tin and copper - at the first age of life.

It’s not a story that leads the reader to philosophical thoughts. And it’s not a philosophical treatise that needs a story to convey them. Instead, it is a vivifying experience that leads a person to the most ambitious philosophical discoveries. An experience transformed into literary art, in which harmony and disorder are the price of the revelation. A

The room was the opposite of what I'd created in my home, the opposite of the soft beauty I'd made from my talent for arrangement, my talent for living, the opposite of my serene irony, of my sweet and absentminded irony: it was a violation of my quotation marks, the quotation marks that made me a citation of myself. The room was the portrait of an empty stomach.

Everything could be fiercely summed up in never emitting a first scream—a first scream unleashes all the others, the first scream at birth unleashes a life, if I screamed I would awaken thousands of screaming beings who would loose upon the rooftops a chorus of screams and horror. If I screamed I would unleash the existence—the the existence of what? the existence of the world.

And solitude is not needing. Not needing leaves a person alone, all alone. Oh, needing doesn't isolate a person, things need things: it's enough to see a chick walking to see that its destiny will be what lack will make of it, its destiny is to join, like drops of mercury cling to other drops of mercury, even though, like all drops of mercury, it has a complete and rounded existence in itself.

And I shall not wander “from thought to thought,” but from mood to mood. We shall be inhuman — as the loftiest conquest of man. Being is being beyond human. Being man does not work, being man has been a constraint. The unknown awaits us, but I feel that this unknown is a totalization and will be the true humanization for which we longed. Am I speaking of death? no, of life. It is not a state of happiness, it is a state of contact.

This book is like any other book. But I would be happy if it were only read by people whose souls are already formed. Those who know that the approach, of whatever it may be, happens gradually and painstakingly — even passing through the opposite of what it approaches. They who, only they, will slowly come to understand that this book takes nothing from no one. To me, for example, the character G. H. gave bit by bit a difficult joy; but it is called joy. C.

But this is not eternity, it is condemnation. How opulent this silence is. It is the accumulation of centuries. It is the silence of a cockroach looking. The world looks at itself in me. Everything looks at everything, everything experiences the other; in this desert things know things. Things know things as much as this… this something that I shall call pardon, if I wish to save myself within the human plan. It is pardon in itself. Pardon is one of the attributes of living matter.

Mas tenho medo do que é novo e tenho medo de viver o que não entendo quero sempre ter a garantia de pelo menos estar pensando que entendo, não sei me entregar à desorientação. Como é que se explica que o meu maior medo seja exatamente em relação: a ser? e no entanto não há outro caminho. Como se explica que o meu maior medo seja exatamente o de ir vivendo o que for sendo? como é que se explica que eu não tolere ver, só porque a vida não é o que eu pensava e sim outra como se antes eu tivesse sabido o que era! Por que é que ver é uma tal desorganização?

- Dá-me a tua mão, não me abandones, juro que também eu não queria: eu também vivia bem, eu era uma mulher de quem se pode dizer "vida e amores de G.H.". Não posso pôr em palavras qual era o sistema, mas eu vivia num sistema. Era como se eu me organizasse dentro do fato de ter dor de estômago porque, se eu não a tivesse mais, também perderia a maravilhosa esperança de me livrar um dia da dor de estômago: minha vida antiga me era necessária porque era exatamente o seu mal que me fazia usufruir da imaginação de uma esperança que, sem essa vida que eu levava, eu não conheceria.

Acum o să-ți povestesc cum am intrat în inexpresivul care a fost întotdeauna căutarea mea oarbă și secretă. Cum am intrat între ceea ce există între numărul unu și numărul doi, cum am văzut linia de mister și foc, care e o linie ascunsă. Între două note muzicale există o notă, între două fapte există un fapt, între două fire de nisip, oricât de apropiate ar fi unul de celălalt, există un interval în spațiu, există un simț care se află între simț; în interstițiile materiei principale se află linia de mister și foc care este respirația lumii, și respirația continuă a lumii este ceea ce auzim și denumim tăcere.

Enfim, enfim quebrara-se o meu invólucro, e sem limite eu era. Por não ser, eu era. Até o fim daquilo que eu não era, eu era. O que não sou eu, eu sou. Tudo estará em mim, se eu não for; pois “eu” é apenas um dos espasmos instantâneos do mundo. Minha vida não tem sentido apenas humano, é muito maior — é tão maior que, em relação ao humano, não tem sentido. Da organização geral que era maior que eu, eu só havia até então percebido os fragmentos. Mas agora, eu era muito menos que humana — e só realizaria o meu destino especificamente humano se me entregasse, como estava me entregando, ao que já não era eu, ao que já é inumano.

Estou procurando, estou procurando. Estou tentando entender. Tentando dar a alguém o que vivi e não sei a quem, mas não quero ficar com o que vivi. Não sei o que fazer do que vivi, tenho medo dessa desorganização profunda. Não confio no que me aconteceu. Aconteceu-me alguma coisa que eu, pelo fato de não a saber como viver, vivi uma outra? A isso quereria chamar desorganização, e teria a segurança de me aventurar, porque saberia depois para onde voltar: para a organização anterior. A isso prefiro chamar desorganização pois não quero me confirmar no que vivi - na confirmação de mim eu perderia o mundo como eu o tinha, e sei que não tenho capacidade para outro.

Perdi alguma coisa que me era essencial, e que já não me é mais. Não me é necessária, assim como se eu tivesse perdido uma terceira perna que até entorno me impossibilitava de andar mas que fazia de mim um tripé estável. Essa terceira perna eu perdi. E voltei a ser uma pessoa que nunca fui. Voltei a ter o que nunca tive: apenas as duas pernas. Sei que momento com duas pernas é que posso caminhar. Mas a ausência inútil da terceira perna me faz falta e me assusta, era ela que fazia de mim uma coisa encontrável por mim mesma, e sem sequer precisar me procurar. Estou desorganizada porque perdi o que não precisava? (…) É difícil perder-se. É tão difícil que provavelmente arrumarei depressa um modo de me achar, mesmo que achar-me seja de novo a mentira de que vivo. Até agora achar-me era já ter uma ideia de pessoa e nela me engastar: nessa pessoa organizada eu me encarnava, e nem mesmo sentia o grande esfoço de construção que era viver. (…) Mas e agora? estarei mais livre? (…) Se tiver coragem, eu me deixarei continuar perdida. Mas tenho medo do que é novo e tenho medo de viver o que não entendo - quero sempre ter a garantia de pelo menos estar pensando que entendo, não sei me entregar à desorientação (…) Talvez desilusão seja o medo de não pertencer mais a um sistema. No entanto se deveria dizer assim: ela está muito feliz porque finalmente foi desiludido. O que eu era antes não era bom. Mas era desse não-bom que eu havia organizado o melhor - a esperança.

I lost something that was essential to me, and that no longer is. I no longer need it, as if I’d lost a third leg that up until then made it impossible for me to walk but that turned me into a stable tripod… I know I can only walk with two legs. But I feel the useless absence of that third leg and it scares me, it was the leg that made me something findable by myself, and without even having to look for myself.

Ik had de moed niet om geen belofte meer te zijn en bleef mezelf beloven, als een volwassene die de moed niet heeft om in te zien dat hij volwassen is en doorgaat zichzelf rijpheid te beloven.

Ik had de moet niet om geen belofte meer te zijn en bleef mezelf beloven, als een volwassene die de moed niet heeft om in te zien dat hij volwassen is en doorgaat zichzelf rijpheid te beloven.