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A review by thewhimsicalowl
The Chandelier by Clarice Lispector
4.0
"Now came the coffee, a little bread with butter and she was alone. She wasn't feeling unhappy. Especially she was feeling a haughty and cold sensation that nobody could take from her everything she'd lived; she was paying a certain intimate and dark attention to whatever was happening and then later, perhaps impossible to remember, would nonetheless be a part of her history" (231).
This one floats between four and five stars for me. It wasn't the narrative I wanted to read, but it was perhaps the one I needed at this time. I took my copy with me to Italy, and now it's a little worse for wear, though I think the creases and dogeared pages (gasp!) add a little character.
I couldn't sleep well last night because I kept thinking of the ~Great Gatsbyesque~ ending to this novel. How could it have ended this way? But then, upon looking back at Lispector's brilliant literary scaffolding, how could it not?
This is the tale of Virginia, a sculptor, a girl from the Farm, a sister, a daughter, caught between being a child and a woman. Lispector practically invented prose, so, yes, of course it's going to be a stunning and immersive experience. She's also a master of human nature, and that's perhaps what saved this novel for me, despite it delving less into philosophy than her others. She establishes an authorial dance between us pitying Virginia, disliking her, and also fiercely relating to her. There is something in her lostness that arises as uncannily universal.
This one floats between four and five stars for me. It wasn't the narrative I wanted to read, but it was perhaps the one I needed at this time. I took my copy with me to Italy, and now it's a little worse for wear, though I think the creases and dogeared pages (gasp!) add a little character.
I couldn't sleep well last night because I kept thinking of the ~Great Gatsbyesque~ ending to this novel. How could it have ended this way? But then, upon looking back at Lispector's brilliant literary scaffolding, how could it not?
This is the tale of Virginia, a sculptor, a girl from the Farm, a sister, a daughter, caught between being a child and a woman. Lispector practically invented prose, so, yes, of course it's going to be a stunning and immersive experience. She's also a master of human nature, and that's perhaps what saved this novel for me, despite it delving less into philosophy than her others. She establishes an authorial dance between us pitying Virginia, disliking her, and also fiercely relating to her. There is something in her lostness that arises as uncannily universal.