A review by paul_viaf
Foreign Legion by Clarice Lispector

5.0

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.