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4.02 AVERAGE
4.02 AVERAGE
challenging
emotional
reflective
tense
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
N/A
Strong character development:
N/A
Loveable characters:
Yes
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
No
The Misfortunes of Sofia : the surrendering of one’s painful existence to another in the hope that it shall be rendered a love that the owner is incapable of giving. Hoping that by that nature, life becomes durable living for someone else’s cause. But Sofia was frightened by the very thing she had wanted, it scared her so much she was afraid of proceeding further. Remarkable story focusing on the innocence of femininity and seeking identity in the raging storm of human existence.
“it was much too soon for me to see so much. It was much too soon for me to see how life is born. Life being born was much more bloody than dying. Dying is uninterrupted. But to see inert matter slowly trying to raise itself like a great living corpse—to see hope, filled me with fear, to see life filled me with nausea. Too much was being asked of my courage just because I was courageous, too much was being asked of my strength just because I was strong.”
“I could not decide which part of me I wanted, but I could not accept all of me; having been born was to be full of errors that needed correcting.”
The Egg and The Chicken: The egg comes before the chicken, our essence comes before us and will always guide us or forcefully take our hand to destinations we know nothing about. Those of us that are aware of this egg that exists within us, we are agents. We want to protect this egg, we sometimes try not to decipher its origins because to want to know more is to evidently know less. The story possess some terrifying existential musings written beautifully, confronting the confusion that is of existence and its agents, identity and alienation, and there were also matters of suicide involved that were told poetically.
“My mirror no longer reflects a face which can be called mine. Either I am an agent or this is truly betrayal.”
“the day is our salt, and we are the salt of the day, living is quite tolerable, living occupies and distracts, living excites laughter.”
“There was another agent who did not even need to be eliminated: he slowly consumed himself in rebellion, a rebellion which gripped him when he discovered that the handful of instructions he had received included no explanation.”
“We are those who refrain from destroying, only to be destroyed ourselves.”
The Evolution of Myopia: This part mostly centres around perception and validation. The boy wants to be perceived a certain way thus he carries himself in a manner that is to impress others. A pseudo act. Upon meeting his cousin he begins to see that she’s unmoved by his pretence and performative nature, so he’s taken aback, realising that she doesn’t care for his acts that aren’t true to his own self he begins to see things for what they are himself, his near sightedness becomes a thing of the past.
“For the first time, he, who was a creature given to moderation, for the first time, he felt himself attracted to the immoderate: an attraction for the impossible extreme. In a word, for the impossible. And for the first time he experienced passion.”
The second part really does kick off quicker, Clarice opens up to her personal world. Sharing her criticism and appreciation for certain artists and their respective art, her writing methods, observations, and philosophical ideas as well as her experiences. Sometimes written in an aphoristic style.
The Woman Burned At The Stake and The Harmonious Angels: A very much beautiful short story about a woman that is to be burned for committing the sin of infidelity. There at the place of her death is the people, the guards, the priest, her lover and husband, and the invisible angels - all watching, awaiting her death. To be burned for passionately sinning, to be burned for spreading the burning flame that lies within her heart. Throughout the entire procedure only good was spoken of the woman, from her lover and her husband. An abundantly rich prose that does not discard Clarice’s usual fragmented and poetic style. I think this was by far my favourite story, everything about it was beautiful.
“Lord, grant me the grace to sin. The freedom from temptation which you bestowed on me is too onerous a burden. Where is the water and the fire through which I have never passed? Lord, grant me the grace to sin. This candle which I have embodied and lit in Your holy name, has always burned in the light, yet I have seen nothing. But let hope open the gates of Your violent heaven: I now perceive that, if you did not destine me to be a burning torch, at least you have destined me to set the torch alight.”
Wrath: To be consumed by wrath; that which is the polar opposite of passion. The desire to cleanse one’s heart of hatred and to welcome love into their being, to acknowledge one’s crimes before acknowledging those of others. Thus all that man can do is plead towards a source outside of himself for a way, because he also believes that wanting a direct hand from God would be to taint the very pure image of God.
“My clumsy and pitiful efforts have gained me neither heaven nor earth, and I am possessed by rage. Ah, if only for one moment I might understand that this rage is directed at my own crimes and not at those of others, then this rage would be transformed into flowers in my hands; into flowers, into flowers, into delicate things, into love.”
The arrangement of these stories, that of which I cannot decipher as to whether or not it was intentional or random, but the first story being that of a coming of age and the last one being the death of a criminal, I find it quite beautiful. Her nauseating and mesmerising writing style that leaves you almost crying and disoriented is something I’ll never not appreciate. She considers writing as something that resembles an animal or a plant, something that you just have to let be and have it guide you, have it evoke your being and not the other way around.
I rewatched her 1977 interview that was recorded months before her passing and she spoke about the sort of people that can read her work, and so she said that in order to read her, one doesn’t necessarily need intelligence, but rather the ability to feel.
The Foreign Legion shows her deep concern with the central problems of existence and individual identity. Conflicts abound between human ideals and actions, between imaginings and reality, between faith and logic.
“If I were to give a title to my life it would be: in search of my own thing” - C.L
emotional
funny
reflective
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
N/A
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Clarice Lispector (1920 –1977) – World-class author from Brazil, who experienced remarkable success with the publication of her first novel at age 23. One of the most celebrated of Latin America writers, internationally acclaimed for her experimental, innovative short stories and novels.
The stories in this collection are a prime example of her experimental, highly imaginative writing. For example, we encounter a narrator who appreciates her daughter telling her she looks like a marmoset, a basset hound who has a stronger character than a human, a friendship kept alive by two friends agreeing never to see one another again, and an eerie tale rotating through five different versions of a woman mixing a solution to turn cockroaches into petrified statues. However, there is one story in particular I will never forget and it is this story below I’ve made the focus of my review. Spoiler alert: my analysis is of the complete story, from beginning to end.
THE SOLUTION
Hidden Danger: Right from the start, Clarice Lispector injects a hefty dose of tension: the main character, a young lady by the name of Almira, had grown too fat and she has strong, unsettling feelings about being fat. Indeed, the whole psychology of obesity, how being obese can completely shift one’s self-identity and sense of self-worth - many are the number of obese people who refuse to leave the relative safety of their home for days or weeks or even months at a time.
Friendship, One: Alice is Almira’s best friend, but there’s an issue: the less friendship Alice displays toward Almira, the fatter Almira grows. Oh, my. This is not a good sign. Unfortunately, relying on another person to shape our identity (no pun intended) is all too common in our modern world and such reliance is compounded when food and eating are so directly linked to that relationship.
Friendship, Two: Almira is all eagerness; she never hides her eagerness, it shows all over her oval, velvety face and her shiny nose; same goes for the way she feels toward food, by far her most immediate and direct contact with the world. With all that fat and all that eagerness, the other typists in their department at work have always been puzzled why Alice puts up with Almira and how these two always seem to do things at the same time, like leaving the office and catching the bus, Almira forever looking after Alice. Small, delicate Alice, in turn, remains distant, letting herself be adored by Almira. Nowadays we have a term for this type of relationship: codependency. Another sign that bodes trouble.
Friendship, Three: In an attempt to please Alice, Almira will frequently say things like how she loves a particular TV show, but Alice doesn’t give Almira the satisfaction she craves. Poor Almira is in a quandary, always needing to please, always needing satisfaction and, on top of this, she has such a delicate nature: she’s fat but delicate, so delicate she loses sleep over things like not having chosen the proper word. In such times of anxiety, after a sleepless night of tossing and turning, a piece of yummy chocolate can suddenly turn bitter in her mouth. Chocolate turning bitter in Almira’s mouth? Now for a fat person, that’s delicate!
Telling Words: As readers, we’re told the day it happened, Alicia sped off for work still munching on a piece of bread. The author’s sparse words, a powerful, direct foreshadowing of an event that will change Almira’s and Alice’s relationship forever. Whenever a master storyteller like Raymond Carver, Jorge Luis Borges, Julio Cortázar or, in this case, Clarice Lispector, utilize such words as ‘the day it happened,’ I sit up and brace myself for what’s to come.
The Special Treat: At the office, Alicia doesn’t see Alice at her desk. Something is up, for sure. Later that morning, Alice finally shows up with bloodshot eyes, not wanting to speak or answer any of Alicia’s anxious questions. Serious upset – typing away, Alice was nearly shedding tears over her typewriter. When it is time to break for lunch Alicia pleads for Alice to have lunch with her, her treat.
The Rage: We read how it’s exactly during their lunchtime meal that the episode transpired, a more laser-sharp foreshadowing, for sure. Their conversation over lunch has Almira repeatedly asking: Why late to the office? What’s with the bloodshot eyes? Sad, doleful, glum, Alice scarcely mumbles a few words. Almira won’t let up, as she stuffs her mouth, she keeps pressing Alice for answers. Alice explodes, in a rage: You fatso! Can’t you leave me the hell alone? Almira chokes on her food, attempts to voice some words but can’t. Alice continues: You are a nuisance and blabbermouth! So, you want to know. Well, I’ll tell you: Zequinha left for Porto Alegre and he ain’t coming back. Are you satisfied now, fatso?
The Snap: Almira snaps. She takes her fork and stabs Alice in the neck. The next day people read in the newspaper how everyone in the restaurant rose to their feet but the fat woman just sat there, starring at the ground, not even casting her eyes on all the blood.
Aftermath, One: Alice goes to the emergency room and when she leaves, her neck in bandages, her eyes are still huge, round, bulging as if in the grip of some unspeakable horrific vision. The police arrest Almira on the spot. People in the know speak of how there was always something off between Almira and Alice. Some other people speak of how Almira’s grandmother was always a strange woman. Making these types of connections would be the usual reaction to an outbreak of seemingly random violence.
Of course, connections and implicit accusations of one stripe or another could be make about the relationship between any two people. After all, we are human with four million years of human and prehuman evolution in our genes, an evolution where aggression and outbursts of violence were ongoing – think of the fear and need to defend oneself at night when attacked by a predator such as a leopard or tiger. All this to say, snapping out is a very real possibility for all of us – it’s simply a matter of having our buttons pushed in just the right (or wrong) ways.
Aftermath, Two: As it turns out, once in prison, although occasionally tinged with sadness, on the whole Almira is quite cheerful along with being agreeable. At long last Almira has companions in her fellow female prison inmates. Ah, friendship! Almira even gets along well with the prison guards who occasionally slip her a chocolate bar as if Almira was an elephant in the circus. Ouch, Clarice! Not exactly a flattering metaphor.
Coda: I wanted to focus on this one story as a way of sharing a taste of the power of Clarice Lispector’s storytelling. Of course, I paraphrased. To appreciate the full impact of the author’s writing, you will have to read for yourself. And how about the title of this story for a stroke of irony?
Clarice Lispector - a typewriter and a smoke. Move over Jorge Luis Borges and Gabriel García Márquez, this lady is ready to write some serious fiction.
livraço. prefiro a Clarice quando ela é menos misteriosa, "o ovo e a galinha" foi dureza de ler no metrô 06:30 da manhã. preciso dar uma segunda chance depois. tirando esse, quase todos são sensacionais, com umas frases que vem "do nada" pra te desmontar.
emotional
inspiring
reflective
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
N/A
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Complicated
Initially envy, then anger, draped me. Anger at the notion that I had not been introduced sooner. Robbed of the fact that I could’ve read this so long ago. Anger at the boom which bangs in the mind & echoes through the heart. Where are her tributary busts? Why is she not in some auspicious canon? Where has the label mastermind escaped to that it should not be engraved in every place her name is mentioned? Genius. If I have ever come across such an entity, let it be known that one resides here, in this place, in her name. Transcendent, the word is flung about ad nauseam & yet almost absent is her name in such classifications. Am I hypnotized by folly or are so many hearts blind to the divine word. A strong brew of romanticism with clarity. It wakes me up. This new world. This new language. I am in awe. Each line littered with aphorisms as if an omnipotent being researching the inner confines & the outer atmospheres of this world of tight quarters was explored. She digs stealthily through the writhing organs of life & extracts the fine contingencies which lie their beating without the knowledge of the host. Rarely do I crumble in awe of the talents of many writers. This is such an occasion. An infatuation has been built. So few times have I experienced a writer of this caliber. Innovative eclectic subject matter. Her original form. Unique voice. Extreme intellectualism. She delves far beyond the superficialities of her characters & gets to the heart of their psychological makeup in this fashion the reader can almost hear & feel the minds & hearts of her characters pulse against your fingertips & far into the depths of your ears. They tremble as perfect examples of imperfection compiled richly of all the inadequacies humanity has to offer. Displaying an exuberant range. I am enamored, intoxicated, bewitched. I surrender. I am both mesmerized & furious. She has me swaying from polar opposites like Salieri in the inaccurate Amadeus. Swooning in euphoria to crumbling under the weight of my contempt. Her voice slices as a shining beacon through the cacophony of books & authors which bombard the modern reader. In a world which I believe focuses too much on winners & losers, Lispector clearly rises above many other to prove both author & reader as winners, if not champions of highest treasures. Her superiority can be divided into contributing halves that spew over the typical hundred percentile threshold. I give her envy. I give her worship. Indeed I have not been as mesmerized or as envious since the days long ago when I first picked up a writhing Rimbaud. I have not experienced such introspection & accuracy at divulging the intricacies of the human animal as since I became acquainted with Camus. I give her all the adulation a man can give to a fellow being. A being whose heights I seek to touch. It is quite the feat for me to describe with accuracy the type of genius encapsulated in this woman. It has been without a doubt one of the greatest literary experiences of my life.
It took me a year to get through this (relatively small) collection.
A year.
I mean, sometimes I misplaced it, yeah, but it's dense, it's no easy thing to just flip along and read. I'll be honest. I still had like 15 pages left but I was so tired of it.
I like Lispector a lot. I read Hour of the Star and fell in love. And I thought the first half of this collection was more entertaining than the second, bt by now I hardly remember it. I was glad I got a used copy; there were some insightful notes in the margins. I think I would've done better going through this collection in a class setting where I was forced to sit and analyze things.
Lispector has a magnificent way with words, I think I just prefer her novel structures.
A year.
I mean, sometimes I misplaced it, yeah, but it's dense, it's no easy thing to just flip along and read. I'll be honest. I still had like 15 pages left but I was so tired of it.
I like Lispector a lot. I read Hour of the Star and fell in love. And I thought the first half of this collection was more entertaining than the second, bt by now I hardly remember it. I was glad I got a used copy; there were some insightful notes in the margins. I think I would've done better going through this collection in a class setting where I was forced to sit and analyze things.
Lispector has a magnificent way with words, I think I just prefer her novel structures.
Gracias a esa librera del stand de Corregidor que me sugirió arrancar con Clarice por acá antes de La hora de la estrella. Te amo Clarice.