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idilreads 's review for:
The Passion According to G.H.
by Clarice Lispector
I picked this book because Clarice Lispector is everywhere on Bookstagram, and the premise hooked me—a privileged woman spirals into existential chaos after encountering a cockroach in her maid’s room. I expected something like Kafka’s Metamorphosis: eerie, symbolic, but with a thread of narrative. Turns out, I was very wrong.
What Didn’t Work for Me:
No Dialogue, All Monologue
The entire book is a stream-of-consciousness inner ramble. Zero dialogue. Zero breaks. Just G.H. dissecting her crumbling psyche in one relentless breath. If you thrive on plot or character interactions, this isn’t it.
I Got Lost—Constantly
I love philosophical books, but here, every paragraph felt like wading through fog. Even right after finishing, I couldn’t summarize what I’d read. Good books make me forget the page number; this one made me forget the point.
It’s Not You, It’s Me
I’ll admit: this book needs the right reader. Someone who vibes with poetic abstraction, who doesn’t mind a 200-page existential scream. That’s just not my style.
What I Did Appreciate:
The Raw Honesty: G.H.’s relentless self-questioning is impressive. Lispector forces you to stare into the void—no flinching.
Its Reputation: I get why it’s a masterpiece. It’s just not my kind of masterpiece.
Final Thoughts:
Respect to Lispector, but this wasn’t my gateway into her work. I’ll try her more plot-driven books next. If you love meditative, chaotic introspection (think Beckett or Woolf), give it a shot. If you need structure? Proceed with caution.
What Didn’t Work for Me:
No Dialogue, All Monologue
The entire book is a stream-of-consciousness inner ramble. Zero dialogue. Zero breaks. Just G.H. dissecting her crumbling psyche in one relentless breath. If you thrive on plot or character interactions, this isn’t it.
I Got Lost—Constantly
I love philosophical books, but here, every paragraph felt like wading through fog. Even right after finishing, I couldn’t summarize what I’d read. Good books make me forget the page number; this one made me forget the point.
It’s Not You, It’s Me
I’ll admit: this book needs the right reader. Someone who vibes with poetic abstraction, who doesn’t mind a 200-page existential scream. That’s just not my style.
What I Did Appreciate:
The Raw Honesty: G.H.’s relentless self-questioning is impressive. Lispector forces you to stare into the void—no flinching.
Its Reputation: I get why it’s a masterpiece. It’s just not my kind of masterpiece.
Final Thoughts:
Respect to Lispector, but this wasn’t my gateway into her work. I’ll try her more plot-driven books next. If you love meditative, chaotic introspection (think Beckett or Woolf), give it a shot. If you need structure? Proceed with caution.