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4.1 AVERAGE
4.1 AVERAGE
challenging
reflective
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
challenging
mysterious
reflective
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Complicated
reflective
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
No
Ah, Vogon literature at its most mediocre.
Ah, if only I’d known that you were going to blather on for five hours, G. H., I would have cleaned the shit out of not just your maid’s room, but Giovanni’s room, Marvin’s room, Strangelove’s war room, Fincher’s panic room, and ah, maybe even your whole apartment on top just to save you the soliloquy.
Ah, or like Tony S. said: "G. H. and I, we had our problems with the ancient plasma of the God. But I never should have razzed her about eating cockroach. This whole book could have been averted. Cockroach and quasi-philosophy brought us to this."
Ah, or in G. H.’s own words: "I am not understanding whatever it is I'm saying, never! never again shall I understand anything I say.... Life just is for me, and I don’t understand what I’m saying." You can say that again, G. H., you can say that again. Ah.
Or, ah, "but don’t try to understand me, just keep me company." I just did. Unfortunately. Ah, to my dismay.
Ah, "warm me up with your guesses about me, understand me because I am not understanding me." G. H., ah, I feel that you have very high expectations of me. And haven’t you just told me not try to understand you?
"And, later, could I understand myself afterward? I don’t know."
Ah, go home, G. H., you’re drunk.
Ah, if only I’d known that you were going to blather on for five hours, G. H., I would have cleaned the shit out of not just your maid’s room, but Giovanni’s room, Marvin’s room, Strangelove’s war room, Fincher’s panic room, and ah, maybe even your whole apartment on top just to save you the soliloquy.
Ah, or like Tony S. said: "G. H. and I, we had our problems with the ancient plasma of the God. But I never should have razzed her about eating cockroach. This whole book could have been averted. Cockroach and quasi-philosophy brought us to this."
Ah, or in G. H.’s own words: "I am not understanding whatever it is I'm saying, never! never again shall I understand anything I say.... Life just is for me, and I don’t understand what I’m saying." You can say that again, G. H., you can say that again. Ah.
Or, ah, "but don’t try to understand me, just keep me company." I just did. Unfortunately. Ah, to my dismay.
Ah, "warm me up with your guesses about me, understand me because I am not understanding me." G. H., ah, I feel that you have very high expectations of me. And haven’t you just told me not try to understand you?
"And, later, could I understand myself afterward? I don’t know."
Ah, go home, G. H., you’re drunk.
challenging
hopeful
inspiring
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
N/A
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
I was enjoying the first ~24 pages, but once we got to the cockroach I got a bit lost.
This feels like if you could be inside someone’s dream watching from the perspective of a fly on the wall
challenging
inspiring
mysterious
reflective
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
Yes
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
p. 99, 109, 119, 141, 156, 167, 186-187, 197, 203, 232, 234, 242, 247
‘God has the power of impersonality.’
This book, to me, is a muffled symphony. Not performed to a void, though it spoke of nothingness, but to a tunnel. To a crystal where the color of the symphony refracted, revealing a kaleidoscope amidst the monochrome.
In G.H., the neutrality of killing a cockroach was but the tip of a revelation other aspects of her life had been building up to. (These aspects gradually unfolded, as if suggesting fragility and/or the possible violence it took to convey and receive.) It was a tasteless revelation, a version of catharsis that was more subdued than relief. A thoughtful documentation of the first sob of a baby and the first howl of the one that saw, in wide scope that was without scope, for the first time.
Then began the dismantling of the self, as was the dismantling of the human tongue. All dissipated to tender neutrality:
'I had for you the same tedium that I feel on holidays.'
Each word she dropped (like ‘Hell’ or ‘Hellish,’ even ‘God’) later flowed like an ostinato: repeated after a refrain or so, yet with some variations in pitches. Hell became a personal hell, to one beyond oneself, then back again to its shell. The expanse to which she stretched a blip mimicked the big bang or a star collapsing into a black hole, engulfing minute heavenly bodies like a blink.
So, what other praise can be said about Lispector that hasn’t been uttered or felt? Or her translators? Without a doubt, she possessed an unearthly and graceful genius.
The formless was given jiggly molding in this ‘most tranquil delirium,’ and there is no critique for me to be given, only palms wide open for the Gospel-like form of a woman’s existentialism, stretching far beyond womanhood itself and the bounds of the original sin.
This book, to me, is a muffled symphony. Not performed to a void, though it spoke of nothingness, but to a tunnel. To a crystal where the color of the symphony refracted, revealing a kaleidoscope amidst the monochrome.
In G.H., the neutrality of killing a cockroach was but the tip of a revelation other aspects of her life had been building up to. (These aspects gradually unfolded, as if suggesting fragility and/or the possible violence it took to convey and receive.) It was a tasteless revelation, a version of catharsis that was more subdued than relief. A thoughtful documentation of the first sob of a baby and the first howl of the one that saw, in wide scope that was without scope, for the first time.
Then began the dismantling of the self, as was the dismantling of the human tongue. All dissipated to tender neutrality:
'I had for you the same tedium that I feel on holidays.'
Each word she dropped (like ‘Hell’ or ‘Hellish,’ even ‘God’) later flowed like an ostinato: repeated after a refrain or so, yet with some variations in pitches. Hell became a personal hell, to one beyond oneself, then back again to its shell. The expanse to which she stretched a blip mimicked the big bang or a star collapsing into a black hole, engulfing minute heavenly bodies like a blink.
So, what other praise can be said about Lispector that hasn’t been uttered or felt? Or her translators? Without a doubt, she possessed an unearthly and graceful genius.
The formless was given jiggly molding in this ‘most tranquil delirium,’ and there is no critique for me to be given, only palms wide open for the Gospel-like form of a woman’s existentialism, stretching far beyond womanhood itself and the bounds of the original sin.
So much promise at the start of the book- but I ended up not really connected with the languid, drawn-out writing style that only vaguely made sense. Not much happens in this book, mostly just these long ruminations. G.H’s coming-to-consciousness is interesting, but I felt bored from the lack of actual plot.