A review by strideout
Água Viva by Clarice Lispector

Did not finish book. Stopped at 35%.

No plot, no problem. But this just had nothing I could latch onto. The words washed over me leaving no residue or trace. I could look back at the page or paragraph I just read and not find a single distinguishing landmark to tell me I had just walked that path. The only trail being a grown over spoor that I’m always standing just off of. The book is like a painting, I can see that, but reading it was like tracking dry brushstrokes on a blank canvas. I can respect that work is being done, a new path tread, but try as I might, I just couldn’t see it.