A review by nathansnook
Água Viva by Clarice Lispector

5.0

READING VLOG

Mirrors, ants, and chrysanthemums. Oysters, too.

Once again, Lispector has snapped me into a waking dream, one about birth, about the thresholds that bridge birth to the actual state of living.

I'll be honest, in some parts, I felt Lispector's amateurish self paw at the strict dictation that is her supreme self. As if I would've enjoyed this a lot more if I was younger. But as soon as I read it aloud, amonst the branches that shook golden leaves from the loose grips of ginko trees, I began to tear up. I was immediately reminded of a shroom moment I had with myself in the mirror last winter. It felt long-distance, this relationship between me and my reflection in the expanses and limitations of that mirror. I saw my face, the pores, the cold eyes that stared back with tears that dripped of teenage salt and sorrow. I was reminded of the multiple times I've been born through this very short life that has felt way too damn long.

Lispector's meditation reminds me of Plath's voice in