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效邪褋 蟹褨褉泻懈
袨褋褌邪薪薪褨泄 褉芯屑邪薪 袣谢邪褉褨褋械 袥褨褋锌械泻褌芯褉 褋锌褉邪胁械写谢懈胁芯 胁胁邪卸邪褞褌褜 胁褨薪褑械屑 褌胁芯褉褔芯褋褌褨 芯写薪褨褦褩 蟹 薪邪泄胁褨写芯屑褨褕懈褏 锌懈褋褜屑械薪薪懈褑褜 袥邪褌懈薪褋褜泻芯褩 袗屑械褉懈泻懈. 袧褨斜懈 褔邪褉褨胁薪懈屑懈 薪芯卸懈褑褟屑懈 锌懈褋褜屑械薪薪懈褑褟 胁褨写褋褨泻邪褦 胁褨写 褔懈褌邪褔邪 (锌械胁薪邪 褉褨褔 - 褍锌械褉械写卸械薪芯谐芯) 写褍屑泻懈 锌褉芯 蟹谢懈写薪褨, 褋褌褉邪褏, 谢褞斜芯胁 褨 褋屑械褉褌褜. 袉 胁芯写薪芯褔邪褋 屑邪泄褋褌械褉薪芯 锌褉芯胁芯写懈褌褜 泄芯谐芯 褌邪褦屑薪懈褑褟屑懈 卸懈褌褌褟, 蟹邪谢懈褕邪褞褔懈 写械褋褜 谐谢懈斜芯泻芯 褍 写褍褕褨 薪邪写褨褞 薪邪 褖邪褋褌褟.
袪芯屑邪薪 褋泻谢邪写邪褦褌褜褋褟 蟹 泻芯褉芯褌泻懈褏 褎褉邪谐屑械薪褌褨胁, 褖芯 褩褏 袥褨褋锌械泻褌芯褉 褌邪 褩褩 褋械泻褉械褌邪褉泻邪 袨谢褜谐邪 袘芯褉械谢谢褨 褉械褌械谢褜薪芯 蟹斜懈褉邪谢懈 胁锌褉芯写芯胁卸 褌褉懈胁邪谢芯谐芯 褔邪褋褍. 袣谢邪褉褨褋械 褖械 薪械 蟹薪邪谢邪 褌芯写褨, 褖芯 锌芯屑懈褉邪褦, 褨 褌芯屑褍 薪褨泻褍写懈 薪械 锌芯褋锌褨褕邪谢邪, 褏芯褔邪 褌械泻褋褌 褋锌芯胁薪械薪懈泄 锌械褉械写褔褍褌褌褟屑 斜谢懈蟹褜泻芯褩 褋屑械褉褌褨.
袪芯屑邪薪 斜褍谢芯 胁锌械褉褕械 芯锌褍斜谢褨泻芯胁邪薪芯 1977褉., 蟹邪 写胁邪 屑褨褋褟褑褨 写芯 褋屑械褉褌褨 邪胁褌芯褉泻懈. 校 1986褉. 褎褨谢褜屑, 蟹薪褟褌懈泄 蟹邪 褉芯屑邪薪芯屑, 芯褌褉懈屑邪胁 锌褉懈蟹 芦小褉褨斜薪懈泄 胁械写屑褨写褜禄 薪邪 袘械褉谢褨薪褋褜泻芯屑褍 屑褨卸薪邪褉芯写薪芯屑褍 泻褨薪芯褎械褋褌懈胁邪谢褨 鈥� 蟹邪 泻褉邪褖褍 卸褨薪芯褔褍 褉芯谢褜.
"袘褉邪蟹懈谢褜褋褜泻懈泄 小褎褨薪泻褋. ... 笑械 斜褍谢邪 斜芯谐懈薪褟, 胁芯薪邪 薪邪泄胁懈蟹薪邪褔薪褨褕邪 锌懈褋褜屑械薪薪懈褑褟 斜褉邪蟹懈谢褜褋褜泻芯褩 谢褨褌械褉邪褌褍褉懈." - 袥芯褉褉褨 袦褍褉, NY Review of Books.
芦袘褍写褜褌械 芯斜械褉械卸薪褨 蟹 袣谢邪褉褨褋械, 鈥� 蟹邪褋褌械褉褨谐 泻邪薪邪写褋褜泻褍 锌懈褋褜屑械薪薪懈褑褞 袣谢械褉 袙邪褉械薪, 写芯褋谢褨写薪懈褑褞 卸懈褌褌褦褌胁芯褉褔芯褋褌褨 斜褉邪蟹懈谢褜褋褜泻芯褩 谢械谐械薪写懈, 写邪胁薪褨泄 写褉褍谐 袥褨褋锌械泻褌芯褉, 袨褌褌芯 袥邪褉邪 袪械蟹械薪写械. 鈥� 笑械 薪械 谢褨褌械褉邪褌褍褉邪. 笑械 褔邪褉芯写褨泄褋褌胁芯禄.
袪芯屑邪薪 褋泻谢邪写邪褦褌褜褋褟 蟹 泻芯褉芯褌泻懈褏 褎褉邪谐屑械薪褌褨胁, 褖芯 褩褏 袥褨褋锌械泻褌芯褉 褌邪 褩褩 褋械泻褉械褌邪褉泻邪 袨谢褜谐邪 袘芯褉械谢谢褨 褉械褌械谢褜薪芯 蟹斜懈褉邪谢懈 胁锌褉芯写芯胁卸 褌褉懈胁邪谢芯谐芯 褔邪褋褍. 袣谢邪褉褨褋械 褖械 薪械 蟹薪邪谢邪 褌芯写褨, 褖芯 锌芯屑懈褉邪褦, 褨 褌芯屑褍 薪褨泻褍写懈 薪械 锌芯褋锌褨褕邪谢邪, 褏芯褔邪 褌械泻褋褌 褋锌芯胁薪械薪懈泄 锌械褉械写褔褍褌褌褟屑 斜谢懈蟹褜泻芯褩 褋屑械褉褌褨.
袪芯屑邪薪 斜褍谢芯 胁锌械褉褕械 芯锌褍斜谢褨泻芯胁邪薪芯 1977褉., 蟹邪 写胁邪 屑褨褋褟褑褨 写芯 褋屑械褉褌褨 邪胁褌芯褉泻懈. 校 1986褉. 褎褨谢褜屑, 蟹薪褟褌懈泄 蟹邪 褉芯屑邪薪芯屑, 芯褌褉懈屑邪胁 锌褉懈蟹 芦小褉褨斜薪懈泄 胁械写屑褨写褜禄 薪邪 袘械褉谢褨薪褋褜泻芯屑褍 屑褨卸薪邪褉芯写薪芯屑褍 泻褨薪芯褎械褋褌懈胁邪谢褨 鈥� 蟹邪 泻褉邪褖褍 卸褨薪芯褔褍 褉芯谢褜.
"袘褉邪蟹懈谢褜褋褜泻懈泄 小褎褨薪泻褋. ... 笑械 斜褍谢邪 斜芯谐懈薪褟, 胁芯薪邪 薪邪泄胁懈蟹薪邪褔薪褨褕邪 锌懈褋褜屑械薪薪懈褑褟 斜褉邪蟹懈谢褜褋褜泻芯褩 谢褨褌械褉邪褌褍褉懈." - 袥芯褉褉褨 袦褍褉, NY Review of Books.
芦袘褍写褜褌械 芯斜械褉械卸薪褨 蟹 袣谢邪褉褨褋械, 鈥� 蟹邪褋褌械褉褨谐 泻邪薪邪写褋褜泻褍 锌懈褋褜屑械薪薪懈褑褞 袣谢械褉 袙邪褉械薪, 写芯褋谢褨写薪懈褑褞 卸懈褌褌褦褌胁芯褉褔芯褋褌褨 斜褉邪蟹懈谢褜褋褜泻芯褩 谢械谐械薪写懈, 写邪胁薪褨泄 写褉褍谐 袥褨褋锌械泻褌芯褉, 袨褌褌芯 袥邪褉邪 袪械蟹械薪写械. 鈥� 笑械 薪械 谢褨褌械褉邪褌褍褉邪. 笑械 褔邪褉芯写褨泄褋褌胁芯禄.
108 pages, Hardcover
First published October 26, 1977
1,983 people are currently reading
75.6k people want to read
About the author
Clarice Lispector
235听books6,960听followersClarice Lispector was a Brazilian writer. Acclaimed internationally for her innovative novels and short stories, she was also a journalist. Born to a Jewish family in Podolia in Western Ukraine, she was brought to Brazil as an infant, amidst the disasters engulfing her native land following the First World War.
She grew up in northeastern Brazil, where her mother died when she was nine. The family moved to Rio de Janeiro when she was in her teens. While in law school in Rio she began publishing her first journalistic work and short stories, catapulting to fame at age 23 with the publication of her first novel, 'Near to the Wild Heart' (Perto do Cora莽茫o Selvagem), written as an interior monologue in a style and language that was considered revolutionary in Brazil.
She left Brazil in 1944, following her marriage to a Brazilian diplomat, and spent the next decade and a half in Europe and the United States. Upon return to Rio de Janeiro in 1959, she began producing her most famous works, including the stories of Family Ties (La莽os de Fam铆lia), the great mystic novel The Passion According to G.H. (A Paix茫o Segundo G.H.), and the novel many consider to be her masterpiece, 脕gua Viva. Injured in an accident in 1966, she spent the last decade of her life in frequent pain, steadily writing and publishing novels and stories until her premature death in 1977.
She has been the subject of numerous books and references to her, and her works are common in Brazilian literature and music. Several of her works have been turned into films, one being 'Hour of the Star' and she was the subject of a recent biography, Why This World, by Benjamin Moser.
She grew up in northeastern Brazil, where her mother died when she was nine. The family moved to Rio de Janeiro when she was in her teens. While in law school in Rio she began publishing her first journalistic work and short stories, catapulting to fame at age 23 with the publication of her first novel, 'Near to the Wild Heart' (Perto do Cora莽茫o Selvagem), written as an interior monologue in a style and language that was considered revolutionary in Brazil.
She left Brazil in 1944, following her marriage to a Brazilian diplomat, and spent the next decade and a half in Europe and the United States. Upon return to Rio de Janeiro in 1959, she began producing her most famous works, including the stories of Family Ties (La莽os de Fam铆lia), the great mystic novel The Passion According to G.H. (A Paix茫o Segundo G.H.), and the novel many consider to be her masterpiece, 脕gua Viva. Injured in an accident in 1966, she spent the last decade of her life in frequent pain, steadily writing and publishing novels and stories until her premature death in 1977.
She has been the subject of numerous books and references to her, and her works are common in Brazilian literature and music. Several of her works have been turned into films, one being 'Hour of the Star' and she was the subject of a recent biography, Why This World, by Benjamin Moser.
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December 10, 2023
鈥淚n the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.鈥� John 1:1
The personality of the narrator remains a mystery but his wish to mock Saint John the Evangelist is evident:
So the raconteur creates a gospel of the utter nonentity鈥�
There is a girl but her life is an opposite of any living鈥� And her existence is an antithesis of any divinity鈥�
Some lives are like shooting stars 鈥� just a momentary flash and everything vanishes without a trace.
The personality of the narrator remains a mystery but his wish to mock Saint John the Evangelist is evident:
All the world began with a yes. One molecule said yes to another molecule and life was born. But before prehistory there was the prehistory of prehistory and there was the never and there was the yes. It was ever so. I don鈥檛 know why, but I do know that the universe never began.
So the raconteur creates a gospel of the utter nonentity鈥�
She thought she鈥檇 incur serious punishment and even risk dying if she took too much pleasure in life. So she protected herself from death by living less, consuming so little of her life that she鈥檇 never run out. This savings gave her a little security since you can鈥檛 fall farther than the ground. Did she feel she was living for nothing? I鈥檓 not sure, but I don鈥檛 think so. Only once did she ask a tragic question: who am I? It frightened her so much that she completely stopped thinking.
There is a girl but her life is an opposite of any living鈥� And her existence is an antithesis of any divinity鈥�
鈥� You know what else I learned? They said you should be glad to be alive. So I am. I also heard a pretty song, I even cried.
Some lives are like shooting stars 鈥� just a momentary flash and everything vanishes without a trace.
December 5, 2019
What a delightful surprise!
I didn鈥檛 know anything about Clarice Lispector when I picked up this slim novel, and started reading. She had me in her dedication already, starting with the (ir)reverent sentence:
"I dedicate this thing here to old Schumann and his sweet Clara who today alas are bones."
Nothing drags me into a story like such an opening. What can I expect? Irony, sarcasm, cultural reflections on music, a novel - or a 鈥渢hing鈥� of some other definition? Absolutely brilliant! One short sentence, a universe of questions. A light tone, indicating deeper thoughts. A sense of humour, and respect for cultural achievements and human connections...
I then make the acquaintance of one of the most eccentric narrators I have ever met, who claims to tell the story of a young woman, but is more concerned with himself and his ultimate reasons for writing. The process of telling the story is immediately the main focus:
鈥淢ake no mistake, I only achieve simplicity with enormous effort.鈥�
For the reader however, the simplicity is not necessarily evident. On the contrary, the narrator moves around, slowly, in circles, offering bits and pieces:
鈥淭he story, I determine - with false free will - will have around seven characters and I am obviously one of the more important.鈥�
In contradiction to his self-proclaimed importance, he also announces that his main task is to describe a young girl in a simple manner:
鈥淚 humbly limit myself - without trumpeting my humility for then it wouldn鈥檛 be humble - I limit myself to telling of the lame adventures of a girl in a city that鈥檚 entirely against her.鈥�
This, of course, makes me laugh out loud at its brilliant silliness, and the narrator catapults himself into the realm of Uriah Heep, making the very 鈥榰mble servant of look like a dilettante.
The narrator is physically engaged in the act of writing, it makes him suffer and feel frustration, especially since his main character is so annoying. This brings to mind other stories where characters and narrators struggle with each other, most notably Martin Amis鈥� , where it is the other way around: one of the characters being frustrated with the narrator鈥檚 lack of drive. Muriel Spark staged a determined female main character, who forced the narrator to tag along with her while taking herself. It also recalls Pirandello鈥檚 wonderful play Sei personaggi in cerca d'autore, where the connection between narrator and characters has yet to be established in a kind of job interview.
As a reflection on storytelling and the intricate net of relationships between authors, narrators, characters and readers, this is an outstanding masterpiece. I could quote every single page. It is also an impressive account of the different layers of human identity, and of how we establish what we are and why. It goes to the root of the monstrosity of the human condition, asking if we are normal, or misfits:
鈥淲ho has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?鈥�
And it clarifies the needs of the creative, thinking person, picking up Virginia Woolf鈥檚 idea from :
鈥淪he had a room all to herself. She could hardly believe that all this space was hers. And not a word was heard. So she danced in an act of absolute courage, since her aunt couldn鈥檛 hear her. She danced and twirled because being alone made her: f-r-e-e!鈥�
It explores the question of truth, belief and reality. Sometimes lies are more decent and well-mannered than truth. Sometimes things exist only because we believe in them, and sometimes we ask forgiveness of beings we know do not exist, and we are forgiven!
As a plot, this book is made of nothing. But that hardly matters at all. It is full of life!
I didn鈥檛 know anything about Clarice Lispector when I picked up this slim novel, and started reading. She had me in her dedication already, starting with the (ir)reverent sentence:
"I dedicate this thing here to old Schumann and his sweet Clara who today alas are bones."
Nothing drags me into a story like such an opening. What can I expect? Irony, sarcasm, cultural reflections on music, a novel - or a 鈥渢hing鈥� of some other definition? Absolutely brilliant! One short sentence, a universe of questions. A light tone, indicating deeper thoughts. A sense of humour, and respect for cultural achievements and human connections...
I then make the acquaintance of one of the most eccentric narrators I have ever met, who claims to tell the story of a young woman, but is more concerned with himself and his ultimate reasons for writing. The process of telling the story is immediately the main focus:
鈥淢ake no mistake, I only achieve simplicity with enormous effort.鈥�
For the reader however, the simplicity is not necessarily evident. On the contrary, the narrator moves around, slowly, in circles, offering bits and pieces:
鈥淭he story, I determine - with false free will - will have around seven characters and I am obviously one of the more important.鈥�
In contradiction to his self-proclaimed importance, he also announces that his main task is to describe a young girl in a simple manner:
鈥淚 humbly limit myself - without trumpeting my humility for then it wouldn鈥檛 be humble - I limit myself to telling of the lame adventures of a girl in a city that鈥檚 entirely against her.鈥�
This, of course, makes me laugh out loud at its brilliant silliness, and the narrator catapults himself into the realm of Uriah Heep, making the very 鈥榰mble servant of look like a dilettante.
The narrator is physically engaged in the act of writing, it makes him suffer and feel frustration, especially since his main character is so annoying. This brings to mind other stories where characters and narrators struggle with each other, most notably Martin Amis鈥� , where it is the other way around: one of the characters being frustrated with the narrator鈥檚 lack of drive. Muriel Spark staged a determined female main character, who forced the narrator to tag along with her while taking herself. It also recalls Pirandello鈥檚 wonderful play Sei personaggi in cerca d'autore, where the connection between narrator and characters has yet to be established in a kind of job interview.
As a reflection on storytelling and the intricate net of relationships between authors, narrators, characters and readers, this is an outstanding masterpiece. I could quote every single page. It is also an impressive account of the different layers of human identity, and of how we establish what we are and why. It goes to the root of the monstrosity of the human condition, asking if we are normal, or misfits:
鈥淲ho has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?鈥�
And it clarifies the needs of the creative, thinking person, picking up Virginia Woolf鈥檚 idea from :
鈥淪he had a room all to herself. She could hardly believe that all this space was hers. And not a word was heard. So she danced in an act of absolute courage, since her aunt couldn鈥檛 hear her. She danced and twirled because being alone made her: f-r-e-e!鈥�
It explores the question of truth, belief and reality. Sometimes lies are more decent and well-mannered than truth. Sometimes things exist only because we believe in them, and sometimes we ask forgiveness of beings we know do not exist, and we are forgiven!
As a plot, this book is made of nothing. But that hardly matters at all. It is full of life!
May 12, 2025
As long as I have questions and no answers I鈥檒l keep on writing.
Books, what are they for? Why do we read them? For Kafka, books were 鈥渢he axe for the frozen sea within us鈥�; Carl Sagan held them as 鈥減roof that humans are capable of working magic鈥�. We say that particular arrangement and assortment of words create a world whose roots are hidden in the imagination of the author. Fiction per se, though is about things which may not exist in real world however it is very much about writing truth- to understand that truth is not in what happens but in what it tells us about who we are. In a sense, as Neil Gaiman says fiction is lie which tells truth.
And what about the responsibility of an author? Should he state things as they are, if that the case then we would have not been reading so many 鈥榞reat鈥� authors. However, isn鈥檛 it so that essentially everyone is writing the same thing, as Borges used to maintain. Why people keep on writing then and more importantly why we are reading them, individually and separately. George Orwell wrote that 鈥榦ne would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand鈥�. An author may have an obligation, which is to not to freeze language, or to pretend it is a dead thing that must be revered, but to use it as a living thing, that flows, that borrows words, that allows meanings and pronunciations to change with time. Perhaps, that鈥檚 how the different art movements have graduated over the years and probably that鈥檚 why we have seen plethora of 'great' authors, and we still witnessing it, and perhaps would be seeing it in future too. And probably that鈥檚 how we have been privileged to come across authors such as Laszlo Krasznahorkai who write page long sentences but still they are so beautiful and pleasant to the readers鈥� eyes or Jose Saramago who bended the rule of punctuation and narrative shift, as I'm witnessing his abilities in Blindness, or Samuel Beckett who, I feel, was so talented that he outdone himself especially in How it is which follows only one rule that there are no rules.
There have been authors in the history of the literature, who have bent every rule of the literature, language and the raw charm associated with it keeps us on toes and every time we find such authors, the childish satisfaction we get amazes us. Clarice Lispector could be easily placed at the top of the list having authors who changed the writing, the way it is being written. She was once labeled as the most non-literary author to step into literary realm. However, she was self-taught who had primitive powers like a painter has and artful knowledge about tone of the narrative, language, dialogue which shows that she was in fact deeply literary. She wrote the way no one has written before, somewhat like Borges did- truly original and astoundingly fresh. She was deeply mystified by the world and uncomfortable with the life itself, as indeed with narrative, we observe it in Hour of the Star too.
Though The Hour of the Star published shortly before her death, but she was really at the top of her prowess right through the end of her wherein we see with bewilderment that her literary gifts and idiosyncrasies merged and folded in a densely self-conscious, self-reflective narrative, which like the prose of Blanchot handles the odd pleasures of storytelling. As the narrative moves forward, in the process the story of Macab茅a unfolds (but that was never the main motive), she is a woman so unfortunate that as Lispector told an interviewer, "was so poor that all she ate were hot dogs". Lispector, however, made it clear that this was "not the story, though. The story is about a crushed innocence, about an anonymous misery." The story is unusual, to say the least, in its very nature, starts with an exploding declaration about search for identity for narrator as well for the author. It reminds me of Maurice Blanchot since the story is about negating the narrative itself to reveal true existence of it, truly self- reflective, as Blanchot used to do with his narratives.
For at the hour of death a person becomes a shining movie star, it鈥檚 everyone鈥檚 moment of glory and it鈥檚 when as it choral chanting you hear the whooshing shrieks.
The book follows tale of a woman from the state of Alagoas in the north-east of Brazil 鈥� the Lispectors first lived there when they came to the country 鈥� who then goes to live in Rio de Janeiro, as Clarice did. We read this intriguing fable through the observant eyes of Rodrigo S.M., the narrator of the story. The narrator uses his powerful position in delivering the plot, including a form of intrusive narration in which the narrator speaks directly to the reader. It is perhaps most striking feature about this book, other than its unique protagonist, its intriguing metafictional structure, wherein you, the readers, are active participants, as forced by the narrator though subtly. It is a multi-faceted narrative which not only concerns itself with the life of the protagonist, but also the life of her creator, her god, her author. It would be na茂ve to say that story is autobiographical; rather it is an exploration of self that is sometimes glimpsed, but barely known.
That girl didn鈥檛 know she was what she was, just as a dog doesn鈥檛 know it鈥檚 a dog. So she didn鈥檛 feel unhappy. The only thing she wanted was to live. She didn鈥檛 know for what, she didn鈥檛 ask questions. Maybe she thought there was a little bitty glory in living. She thought people had to be happy. So she was. Before her birth was she an idea? Before her birth was she dead? And after her birth she would die? What a thin slice of watermelon.
The book is written with unparalleled precision in which each sentence seems to be condensed with meditation of a pure artist as those sentences constitute the consternation and disquietness of the narrator as well as they stand alone for aphorisms. It is like a treatise about universe which is self-initiated and self-regulatory, omnipresent and ever soliciting authenticity of your existence. The narrative is ever alive which has an existence of its own and uses both protagonist and the reader to convey itself. But it鈥檚 not just narrative, it鈥檚 about all primitive life that breathes, breathes. The narrator too is self-created. He is capable of awkward asides, over-confidence in his own method, pure fear in the face of the power and powerlessness of the worlds, and then sudden passages of soaring beauty and stark definition.
Just as I鈥檓 writing at the very same time I鈥檓 being read.
We find that the unreliable narrator is not strong enough to mend the fate of the protagonist, he could not do anything to help her. His voice moves form the darkest wondering about existence of God to almost comic wandering around in his character; he is watching her, listening to her and then standing back. But there are times when the narrator forgets himself, as Beckett often does, and finds something too interesting or too grotesquely funny to be bothered about questioning its role in the narrative, its truth or its fictiveness. Perhaps, he is also identifying himself and realizing his true existence through his protagonist.
Forgive me but I鈥檓 going to keep talking about me who am unknown to myself, and as I write I鈥檓 a bit surprised because I discover I have a destiny. Who hasn鈥檛 ever wondered: amd I a monster or this is what it means to be a person?
Throughout the story we are being on our toes, as we have been pulled into narrative, time and again, by the omnipotent, strange narrator but only to realize that we are still readers and could not really intrude into the narrative. The narrative moves from a deep awareness about the tragedy of being alive to a sly allowance for the fact that existence is a comedy, which me reminds of Kafka as he used to put his characters in seemingly contradictory absurd situations wherein every probable move by them put out misery and comedy of their existence. The protagonist of the story sees her annihilation as some sort of unfulfilled existence which lingers somewhere between life and death wherein the soul could not be freed from existential curse even after death.
I鈥檒l myself so bad when I die
The Hour of the Star is a great work of endless interrogation wherein the author, the narrator, the protagonist and the reader (i.e. you) are interrogated by ever changing and unreliable narrative that bangs along and promises no tidy conclusion. While the narrator in The Hour of the Star reveals to the audience his wish to ensure the novel's simplicity (in terms of writing) and stray from philosophical tangents, in reality the story is marked by complicated existentialist notions of identity. The author often reflects on his conscious effort to do so. As the novel unfolds, it becomes apparent that this quest for identity is as much about Macab茅a's search for self as it is the narrator's own. Notions of being, who we are and who we aren't, and the struggle to finding meaning are all touched upon. In fact, the book looks to be incomplete to an un-initiated eye since it leaves so many questions unanswered. But this is exactly how it has been written- to question, the very existence of everything, even that of the narrative or text itself which is being written about it; the book (and its narrative) is truly existential in nature.
Like every writer, I am clearly tempted to use succulent terms: I have at my command magnificent adjectives, robust nouns, and verbs so agile that they glide through the atmosphere as they move into action. For surely words are actions? Yet I have no intention of adorning the word, for were I to touch the girl's bread, that bread would turn to gold鈥攁nd the girl 鈥� would be unable to bite into it, and consequently die of hunger.
Books, what are they for? Why do we read them? For Kafka, books were 鈥渢he axe for the frozen sea within us鈥�; Carl Sagan held them as 鈥減roof that humans are capable of working magic鈥�. We say that particular arrangement and assortment of words create a world whose roots are hidden in the imagination of the author. Fiction per se, though is about things which may not exist in real world however it is very much about writing truth- to understand that truth is not in what happens but in what it tells us about who we are. In a sense, as Neil Gaiman says fiction is lie which tells truth.
And what about the responsibility of an author? Should he state things as they are, if that the case then we would have not been reading so many 鈥榞reat鈥� authors. However, isn鈥檛 it so that essentially everyone is writing the same thing, as Borges used to maintain. Why people keep on writing then and more importantly why we are reading them, individually and separately. George Orwell wrote that 鈥榦ne would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand鈥�. An author may have an obligation, which is to not to freeze language, or to pretend it is a dead thing that must be revered, but to use it as a living thing, that flows, that borrows words, that allows meanings and pronunciations to change with time. Perhaps, that鈥檚 how the different art movements have graduated over the years and probably that鈥檚 why we have seen plethora of 'great' authors, and we still witnessing it, and perhaps would be seeing it in future too. And probably that鈥檚 how we have been privileged to come across authors such as Laszlo Krasznahorkai who write page long sentences but still they are so beautiful and pleasant to the readers鈥� eyes or Jose Saramago who bended the rule of punctuation and narrative shift, as I'm witnessing his abilities in Blindness, or Samuel Beckett who, I feel, was so talented that he outdone himself especially in How it is which follows only one rule that there are no rules.
There have been authors in the history of the literature, who have bent every rule of the literature, language and the raw charm associated with it keeps us on toes and every time we find such authors, the childish satisfaction we get amazes us. Clarice Lispector could be easily placed at the top of the list having authors who changed the writing, the way it is being written. She was once labeled as the most non-literary author to step into literary realm. However, she was self-taught who had primitive powers like a painter has and artful knowledge about tone of the narrative, language, dialogue which shows that she was in fact deeply literary. She wrote the way no one has written before, somewhat like Borges did- truly original and astoundingly fresh. She was deeply mystified by the world and uncomfortable with the life itself, as indeed with narrative, we observe it in Hour of the Star too.
Though The Hour of the Star published shortly before her death, but she was really at the top of her prowess right through the end of her wherein we see with bewilderment that her literary gifts and idiosyncrasies merged and folded in a densely self-conscious, self-reflective narrative, which like the prose of Blanchot handles the odd pleasures of storytelling. As the narrative moves forward, in the process the story of Macab茅a unfolds (but that was never the main motive), she is a woman so unfortunate that as Lispector told an interviewer, "was so poor that all she ate were hot dogs". Lispector, however, made it clear that this was "not the story, though. The story is about a crushed innocence, about an anonymous misery." The story is unusual, to say the least, in its very nature, starts with an exploding declaration about search for identity for narrator as well for the author. It reminds me of Maurice Blanchot since the story is about negating the narrative itself to reveal true existence of it, truly self- reflective, as Blanchot used to do with his narratives.
For at the hour of death a person becomes a shining movie star, it鈥檚 everyone鈥檚 moment of glory and it鈥檚 when as it choral chanting you hear the whooshing shrieks.
The book follows tale of a woman from the state of Alagoas in the north-east of Brazil 鈥� the Lispectors first lived there when they came to the country 鈥� who then goes to live in Rio de Janeiro, as Clarice did. We read this intriguing fable through the observant eyes of Rodrigo S.M., the narrator of the story. The narrator uses his powerful position in delivering the plot, including a form of intrusive narration in which the narrator speaks directly to the reader. It is perhaps most striking feature about this book, other than its unique protagonist, its intriguing metafictional structure, wherein you, the readers, are active participants, as forced by the narrator though subtly. It is a multi-faceted narrative which not only concerns itself with the life of the protagonist, but also the life of her creator, her god, her author. It would be na茂ve to say that story is autobiographical; rather it is an exploration of self that is sometimes glimpsed, but barely known.
That girl didn鈥檛 know she was what she was, just as a dog doesn鈥檛 know it鈥檚 a dog. So she didn鈥檛 feel unhappy. The only thing she wanted was to live. She didn鈥檛 know for what, she didn鈥檛 ask questions. Maybe she thought there was a little bitty glory in living. She thought people had to be happy. So she was. Before her birth was she an idea? Before her birth was she dead? And after her birth she would die? What a thin slice of watermelon.
The book is written with unparalleled precision in which each sentence seems to be condensed with meditation of a pure artist as those sentences constitute the consternation and disquietness of the narrator as well as they stand alone for aphorisms. It is like a treatise about universe which is self-initiated and self-regulatory, omnipresent and ever soliciting authenticity of your existence. The narrative is ever alive which has an existence of its own and uses both protagonist and the reader to convey itself. But it鈥檚 not just narrative, it鈥檚 about all primitive life that breathes, breathes. The narrator too is self-created. He is capable of awkward asides, over-confidence in his own method, pure fear in the face of the power and powerlessness of the worlds, and then sudden passages of soaring beauty and stark definition.
Just as I鈥檓 writing at the very same time I鈥檓 being read.
We find that the unreliable narrator is not strong enough to mend the fate of the protagonist, he could not do anything to help her. His voice moves form the darkest wondering about existence of God to almost comic wandering around in his character; he is watching her, listening to her and then standing back. But there are times when the narrator forgets himself, as Beckett often does, and finds something too interesting or too grotesquely funny to be bothered about questioning its role in the narrative, its truth or its fictiveness. Perhaps, he is also identifying himself and realizing his true existence through his protagonist.
Forgive me but I鈥檓 going to keep talking about me who am unknown to myself, and as I write I鈥檓 a bit surprised because I discover I have a destiny. Who hasn鈥檛 ever wondered: amd I a monster or this is what it means to be a person?
Throughout the story we are being on our toes, as we have been pulled into narrative, time and again, by the omnipotent, strange narrator but only to realize that we are still readers and could not really intrude into the narrative. The narrative moves from a deep awareness about the tragedy of being alive to a sly allowance for the fact that existence is a comedy, which me reminds of Kafka as he used to put his characters in seemingly contradictory absurd situations wherein every probable move by them put out misery and comedy of their existence. The protagonist of the story sees her annihilation as some sort of unfulfilled existence which lingers somewhere between life and death wherein the soul could not be freed from existential curse even after death.
I鈥檒l myself so bad when I die
The Hour of the Star is a great work of endless interrogation wherein the author, the narrator, the protagonist and the reader (i.e. you) are interrogated by ever changing and unreliable narrative that bangs along and promises no tidy conclusion. While the narrator in The Hour of the Star reveals to the audience his wish to ensure the novel's simplicity (in terms of writing) and stray from philosophical tangents, in reality the story is marked by complicated existentialist notions of identity. The author often reflects on his conscious effort to do so. As the novel unfolds, it becomes apparent that this quest for identity is as much about Macab茅a's search for self as it is the narrator's own. Notions of being, who we are and who we aren't, and the struggle to finding meaning are all touched upon. In fact, the book looks to be incomplete to an un-initiated eye since it leaves so many questions unanswered. But this is exactly how it has been written- to question, the very existence of everything, even that of the narrative or text itself which is being written about it; the book (and its narrative) is truly existential in nature.
Like every writer, I am clearly tempted to use succulent terms: I have at my command magnificent adjectives, robust nouns, and verbs so agile that they glide through the atmosphere as they move into action. For surely words are actions? Yet I have no intention of adorning the word, for were I to touch the girl's bread, that bread would turn to gold鈥攁nd the girl 鈥� would be unable to bite into it, and consequently die of hunger.
June 30, 2021
I returned to Clarice Lispector in the hopes of finding an appreciation for her that I missed in The Passion According to G.H., which confounded and tortured me in its nonsensical, philosophical maze. I hoped to redeem my less-than-stellar opinion of her by reading this, her last work.
Sadly, even in the first few paragraphs, I was sighing. Clarice! For fuck's sake... Clarice, as it turns out, is still Clarice.
And by that I mean, Clarice is a brilliant wackadoodle whose utter originality sets her in a class on her own. It is her signature, her snowflake, her own 148 pointed star. You will either love her, or not.
She's so slippery to read. I find nothingness in paragraphs that slide by, and I get this erroneous feeling that I could skip pages and not miss anything. That I could get to the end of her work with my eyes closed and be none the wiser. And then I read lines like this:
All the world began with a yes.
Thinking is an act. Feeling is a fact.
I write because I'm desperate and I'm tired, I can no longer bear the routine of being me and if not for the always novelty that is writing, I would die symbolically every day.
And I feel an admiration for her, even if she is so far away from me that I cannot touch her, in all her glorious nothingness.
I read somewhere that Clarice Lispector was not well read. She was like an innocent in the literary world, untainted by other books. She didn't know what it was to be 'kafka-esque' or compare herself with thinkers like Camus or Woolf. She came to her typewriter with a lack of self-consciousness, a purity, that is quite wonderful.
So when I approach this novelette, with its eccentric narrator who goes on (and on, and on) for about 1/4 of the time about simply the telling of the story without actually telling anything at all, when I listen to absurd dialogue punctuated with deep philosophical statements, when I follow the life of a character that I really don't know and about whom I feel more confusion than curiosity, when I am frustrated and bored with the relentless esoteric intensity, and get the sense that this writer was in love with her own mind more than anything else... I pause, and think - thank goodness for her, this unicorn of the written word, who brought herself to her art, whether you like it or not.
Sadly, even in the first few paragraphs, I was sighing. Clarice! For fuck's sake... Clarice, as it turns out, is still Clarice.
And by that I mean, Clarice is a brilliant wackadoodle whose utter originality sets her in a class on her own. It is her signature, her snowflake, her own 148 pointed star. You will either love her, or not.
She's so slippery to read. I find nothingness in paragraphs that slide by, and I get this erroneous feeling that I could skip pages and not miss anything. That I could get to the end of her work with my eyes closed and be none the wiser. And then I read lines like this:
All the world began with a yes.
Thinking is an act. Feeling is a fact.
I write because I'm desperate and I'm tired, I can no longer bear the routine of being me and if not for the always novelty that is writing, I would die symbolically every day.
And I feel an admiration for her, even if she is so far away from me that I cannot touch her, in all her glorious nothingness.
I read somewhere that Clarice Lispector was not well read. She was like an innocent in the literary world, untainted by other books. She didn't know what it was to be 'kafka-esque' or compare herself with thinkers like Camus or Woolf. She came to her typewriter with a lack of self-consciousness, a purity, that is quite wonderful.
So when I approach this novelette, with its eccentric narrator who goes on (and on, and on) for about 1/4 of the time about simply the telling of the story without actually telling anything at all, when I listen to absurd dialogue punctuated with deep philosophical statements, when I follow the life of a character that I really don't know and about whom I feel more confusion than curiosity, when I am frustrated and bored with the relentless esoteric intensity, and get the sense that this writer was in love with her own mind more than anything else... I pause, and think - thank goodness for her, this unicorn of the written word, who brought herself to her art, whether you like it or not.
February 19, 2021
鈥淲ho has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?鈥�
Clarice Lispector's The Hour of the Star is ostensibly about a young woman, Macabea, in Rio de Janeiro who has been crushed by poverty. However, the novel is even more revealing of the narrator who chooses to write about her. The narrator tells you why he's chosen to follow Macabea, something about her habits (she loves Coca Cola and wants to be like Marilyn Monroe) and her occupation (she is a typist, but not very good one). This leads you to believe the story is about Macabea. However, the more interesting subject is the narrator himself, his own position in Brazilian society as well as his speculative musings. Lispector casts off authorial privilege as the narrator wonders whether Macabea knows who she is, or whether he (the narrator) is imposing an identity on her. Enjoyed this! I'd like to read more Brazilain authors so suggestions are very welcome! Even for those who might not have an interest in Brazil, this is a quirky but engaging read! 4.5 stars
Clarice Lispector's The Hour of the Star is ostensibly about a young woman, Macabea, in Rio de Janeiro who has been crushed by poverty. However, the novel is even more revealing of the narrator who chooses to write about her. The narrator tells you why he's chosen to follow Macabea, something about her habits (she loves Coca Cola and wants to be like Marilyn Monroe) and her occupation (she is a typist, but not very good one). This leads you to believe the story is about Macabea. However, the more interesting subject is the narrator himself, his own position in Brazilian society as well as his speculative musings. Lispector casts off authorial privilege as the narrator wonders whether Macabea knows who she is, or whether he (the narrator) is imposing an identity on her. Enjoyed this! I'd like to read more Brazilain authors so suggestions are very welcome! Even for those who might not have an interest in Brazil, this is a quirky but engaging read! 4.5 stars
November 26, 2023
Poor Macab茅a, a girl who has been dealt such bad cards by life. There isn't a lot of traditional plot. It's simply the story of this young woman. She never knew her parents who died of typhoid when she was two. She was raised by a stern aunt who had no real interest in her or affection for her. As a girl she would kiss the wall to get a kind of substitute affection.
This is a typical book by Lispector in the sense that it consists of intense inner monologues and streams of consciousness by her characters, but in this book, a novella of 90 pages, these features are in fairly short passages.
The book is a meta-novel in the sense that the narrator is a supposed author (a male) who is writing the book about our anti-heroine and her hard nondescript life. The fictional author explains to the reader why he is writing the novel and discusses the literary choices he makes in this story as he goes along. In the afterword we are told that Lispector frequently explored her creative process during the narration as she does in this book. Since it鈥檚 a novella, I guess we can call it a 鈥榤eta-novella.鈥�
At various times we hear Macab茅a called 'simple-witted' and 'inept for living.' 鈥溾€� she did not think about God, nor did God think about her.鈥�
The girl works as a low-paid typist and lives in a rooming house with four other young women in the Rio slums. Her typing skills are poor and she is under threat of dismissal. She has no friends and hardly any interaction even with the women she lives with.
No one ever gave her a gift in her life. She owns no warm clothing and shivers in thin clothes in winter. She is often called ugly. She is skinny, perhaps anorexic. She doesn't bathe frequently and smells. She seldom eats anything besides hotdogs and Coca-Cola. She does not know what spaghetti is. She doesn't know how to use cosmetics and she can't afford them anyway.
鈥溾€nd yet it was in her nature to be happy.鈥� She is thrilled to borrow some instant coffee and boiling water from the landlord.
We are told several times that the girl is originally from northeast Brazil. People there live hardscrabble lives, and in the past, sometimes starved. That is the poorest part of Brazil and almost everyone from that region is of mixed race. All these things are mentioned several times in the novel. 鈥淭ruly she seems to have been conceived from some vague notion in the minds of her starving parents.鈥�
The author (Lispector) was born in that region and when she wrote this book near the end of her life we are told she started making trips back to the area because she was overcome with nostalgia for where she grew up. (Not that her family was among those starving: her family sent her to college and law school.) Many of the young girls from that area became prostitutes in the big Brazilian cities.
The author鈥檚 brilliant writing shows throughout the book. You could take many philosophical nuggets that the author gives us as one-liners in the book and make them into wall posters or something that you might post on Facebook. Some examples:
鈥淗appiness? I have never come across a more foolish word, invented by all those unfortunate girls from northeastern Brazil.鈥�
鈥淓verything in the world began with a yes.鈥�
鈥淚 only achieve simplicity with enormous effort.鈥�
鈥淪o long as I have questions to which there are no answers, I shall go on writing.鈥�
鈥淗ow does one start at the beginning, if things happen before they actually happen?鈥�
In an afterword, the translator discusses various meanings we can ascribe to the book. I lean toward it being about the psychological consequences of poverty aggravated by perverse twists of fortune. Hour of the Star was good, but I liked her better, so I gave it a 鈥�4.鈥�
In 1943 the author burst onto the literary stage in Brazil at the age of 23 with the publication of her first novel, . It won Brazil鈥檚 most prestigious literary award. I reviewed that one and have it in my favorites.
Lispector was born in 1920 in Ukraine to Jewish parents but came to Brazil as an infant. One critic called her 鈥渢he most important Jewish writer since Kafka.鈥� She died from cancer in 1977 when she was only 57.
Top photo of favelas of Brazil from panoramas.pitt.edu
Street Market, Rua do Lavradio, painting by Jader on novica.com
The author from irishtimes.com
[Edited for typos 4/21/23, 11/26/23]
This is a typical book by Lispector in the sense that it consists of intense inner monologues and streams of consciousness by her characters, but in this book, a novella of 90 pages, these features are in fairly short passages.
The book is a meta-novel in the sense that the narrator is a supposed author (a male) who is writing the book about our anti-heroine and her hard nondescript life. The fictional author explains to the reader why he is writing the novel and discusses the literary choices he makes in this story as he goes along. In the afterword we are told that Lispector frequently explored her creative process during the narration as she does in this book. Since it鈥檚 a novella, I guess we can call it a 鈥榤eta-novella.鈥�
At various times we hear Macab茅a called 'simple-witted' and 'inept for living.' 鈥溾€� she did not think about God, nor did God think about her.鈥�
The girl works as a low-paid typist and lives in a rooming house with four other young women in the Rio slums. Her typing skills are poor and she is under threat of dismissal. She has no friends and hardly any interaction even with the women she lives with.
No one ever gave her a gift in her life. She owns no warm clothing and shivers in thin clothes in winter. She is often called ugly. She is skinny, perhaps anorexic. She doesn't bathe frequently and smells. She seldom eats anything besides hotdogs and Coca-Cola. She does not know what spaghetti is. She doesn't know how to use cosmetics and she can't afford them anyway.
鈥溾€nd yet it was in her nature to be happy.鈥� She is thrilled to borrow some instant coffee and boiling water from the landlord.
We are told several times that the girl is originally from northeast Brazil. People there live hardscrabble lives, and in the past, sometimes starved. That is the poorest part of Brazil and almost everyone from that region is of mixed race. All these things are mentioned several times in the novel. 鈥淭ruly she seems to have been conceived from some vague notion in the minds of her starving parents.鈥�
The author (Lispector) was born in that region and when she wrote this book near the end of her life we are told she started making trips back to the area because she was overcome with nostalgia for where she grew up. (Not that her family was among those starving: her family sent her to college and law school.) Many of the young girls from that area became prostitutes in the big Brazilian cities.
The author鈥檚 brilliant writing shows throughout the book. You could take many philosophical nuggets that the author gives us as one-liners in the book and make them into wall posters or something that you might post on Facebook. Some examples:
鈥淗appiness? I have never come across a more foolish word, invented by all those unfortunate girls from northeastern Brazil.鈥�
鈥淓verything in the world began with a yes.鈥�
鈥淚 only achieve simplicity with enormous effort.鈥�
鈥淪o long as I have questions to which there are no answers, I shall go on writing.鈥�
鈥淗ow does one start at the beginning, if things happen before they actually happen?鈥�
In an afterword, the translator discusses various meanings we can ascribe to the book. I lean toward it being about the psychological consequences of poverty aggravated by perverse twists of fortune. Hour of the Star was good, but I liked her better, so I gave it a 鈥�4.鈥�
In 1943 the author burst onto the literary stage in Brazil at the age of 23 with the publication of her first novel, . It won Brazil鈥檚 most prestigious literary award. I reviewed that one and have it in my favorites.
Lispector was born in 1920 in Ukraine to Jewish parents but came to Brazil as an infant. One critic called her 鈥渢he most important Jewish writer since Kafka.鈥� She died from cancer in 1977 when she was only 57.
Top photo of favelas of Brazil from panoramas.pitt.edu
Street Market, Rua do Lavradio, painting by Jader on novica.com
The author from irishtimes.com
[Edited for typos 4/21/23, 11/26/23]
May 27, 2021
Como me ha encantado el relato sobre esta Amelie nordestina sin encanto alguno llamada Macabea. 驴Ninguno? Bueno, digamos que uno raro.
Y qu茅 decir de Macabea, con ese nombre que parece una 鈥渆nfermedad de la piel鈥�, que solo a trav茅s de otros sabe de la desdicha de su propia vida, 鈥渢an tonta que a veces sonr铆e a los dem谩s en la calle鈥�, maltratada, ridiculizada, invisible, sin voz, sin grito, 鈥渜ue deber铆a haberse quedado en el sert茫o de Alagoas con su vestido de algod贸n y sin nada de mecanograf铆a鈥濃€� un maravilloso personaje que 鈥渘o sabe m谩s que llover鈥�, como un d铆a le suelta a bocajarro, en uno de esos di谩logos crueles, vac铆os, tristes y esperp茅nticos que manten铆a con su 煤nico amante, el que ni siquiera lleg贸 a serlo: Ol铆mpico de Jes煤s, otro nordestino, otro hijo del lumpen, pero con alma de trepa y diente de oro.
Que m谩s decir, querida Clarice, que para ser alguien que desconf铆a tanto de las palabras, no puedo sino rendirme a tu portentosa sabidur铆a en mezclarlas y en conseguir un novel贸n de tan solo 88 p谩ginas y sin 鈥渓agrimear tonter铆as鈥�.
"Hay los que tienen. Y hay los que no tienen. Es muy simple: la muchacha no ten铆a."Una historia melodram谩tica-rom谩ntica-par贸dica acerca de una v铆ctima de todos, un relato sobre alguien 鈥渢an insignificante como una idiota. S贸lo que no lo era.鈥�, a la que el narrador, tercer protagonista de la novela y que se siente obligado a escribir la historia, quiere satisfacer con 鈥渆l derecho al grito鈥� que la propia antihero铆na se queda muy lejos de ejercer. Y este dejar constancia de una de esas personas que nunca dejan constancia, y de las que nunca nadie se preocupa por dejar constancia, est谩 escrito con un particular铆simo estilo que hace verdaderamente grande a la novela.
鈥溾€� capt茅 el esp铆ritu de la lengua y as铆, a veces, la forma forja un contenido.鈥�Este narrador, que escribe porque no tiene otra cosa que hacer en el mundo y con la esperanza de que ello lo aleje de s铆 mismo, consigue que me deleite y emocione incluso con p谩rrafos que no entiendo (aunque permanece en m铆 la peque帽ita sospecha de que quiz谩s s铆, siempre prefiero la comprensi贸n que proviene de la emoci贸n y as铆 poder decir con el narrador aquello de que 鈥淟o definible ya me cansa. Prefiero la verdad que hay en el presagio.鈥�). Un narrador que envidia el vac铆o que representa Macabea porque 鈥淓l vac铆o tiene el valor de lo pleno y se asemeja a ello鈥�, y que, sin embargo, se incomoda y hasta se enfurece por la falta de reacci贸n de Macabea. Quiz谩 le recuerda demasiado a s铆 mismo.
Y qu茅 decir de Macabea, con ese nombre que parece una 鈥渆nfermedad de la piel鈥�, que solo a trav茅s de otros sabe de la desdicha de su propia vida, 鈥渢an tonta que a veces sonr铆e a los dem谩s en la calle鈥�, maltratada, ridiculizada, invisible, sin voz, sin grito, 鈥渜ue deber铆a haberse quedado en el sert茫o de Alagoas con su vestido de algod贸n y sin nada de mecanograf铆a鈥濃€� un maravilloso personaje que 鈥渘o sabe m谩s que llover鈥�, como un d铆a le suelta a bocajarro, en uno de esos di谩logos crueles, vac铆os, tristes y esperp茅nticos que manten铆a con su 煤nico amante, el que ni siquiera lleg贸 a serlo: Ol铆mpico de Jes煤s, otro nordestino, otro hijo del lumpen, pero con alma de trepa y diente de oro.
Que m谩s decir, querida Clarice, que para ser alguien que desconf铆a tanto de las palabras, no puedo sino rendirme a tu portentosa sabidur铆a en mezclarlas y en conseguir un novel贸n de tan solo 88 p谩ginas y sin 鈥渓agrimear tonter铆as鈥�.
December 19, 2019
The Lispector Calls
The Hour of the Star transcends genre. How, with utter fluidity, does an apparently conventional narrative transform itself into the author's introspective confessional? And when does that slip into narcissistic myopia which then becomes therapeutic technique? Before it develops simultaneously into a romance, a feminist tract, and a pointed sociological commentary? All in 90 pages?
Clarice Lispector is difficult to keep up with simply because she writes the simplest prose with undoubtedly the highest ratio of thought to word on the planet. It takes time to digest. One can open to any page to find a dozen arresting examples:
"... The truth is always some inner power without explanation..."
"... Remember that, no matter what I write, my basic material is the word which combines with other words to form phrases and [from which] there emanates a secret meaning that exceeds both words and phrases."
"... God belongs to those who succeed in pinning him down.... Why is there so much God? At the expense of men."
"... what is fully mature is very close to rotting."
"... Death is an encounter with self."
The reader is bounced on her sea of prose like a survivor from a wrecked civilisation. With more pensees per page than Pascal, meatier aphorisms than Montaigne, contradictions and reversals to challenge the Bible, and offbeat observations to rival Borges, Poe and Kafka, if you like your fiction and your thinking densely packaged, you cannot go wrong with Lispector.
The Hour of the Star transcends genre. How, with utter fluidity, does an apparently conventional narrative transform itself into the author's introspective confessional? And when does that slip into narcissistic myopia which then becomes therapeutic technique? Before it develops simultaneously into a romance, a feminist tract, and a pointed sociological commentary? All in 90 pages?
Clarice Lispector is difficult to keep up with simply because she writes the simplest prose with undoubtedly the highest ratio of thought to word on the planet. It takes time to digest. One can open to any page to find a dozen arresting examples:
"... The truth is always some inner power without explanation..."
"... Remember that, no matter what I write, my basic material is the word which combines with other words to form phrases and [from which] there emanates a secret meaning that exceeds both words and phrases."
"... God belongs to those who succeed in pinning him down.... Why is there so much God? At the expense of men."
"... what is fully mature is very close to rotting."
"... Death is an encounter with self."
The reader is bounced on her sea of prose like a survivor from a wrecked civilisation. With more pensees per page than Pascal, meatier aphorisms than Montaigne, contradictions and reversals to challenge the Bible, and offbeat observations to rival Borges, Poe and Kafka, if you like your fiction and your thinking densely packaged, you cannot go wrong with Lispector.
March 12, 2024
In this remarkable novella Clarice Lispector uses an intricate narrative structure in order to represent a peculiar state of mind, something I found utterly refreshing. That mind belongs to Rodrigo, a well-off and cultured man, struggles to tell the story of Macab茅a, an unhygienic, sickly, unlovable, completely forgettable person, and an altogether unideal typist living in the slums of Rio de Janeiro. She is taken almost directly from stereotype. What Lispector does with her however, is investigate the psychological consequences of poverty.
Macabea鈥檚 ignorance does not spare her from fear or loneliness but perversely it does leave her prepared for the misery that confounds in her in a way. Within Macabea is some resilience and a will to survive. Not with the pomp and thrust of the privileged. Although Rodrigo claims he's the only person who could love Macab茅a - if only because she's the subject of his narrative - he really tells her story as a way to thwart his own weariness and isolation. Lispector employs odd sentence fragments and erratic grammatical choices to highlight the importance of imagination as a means for her characters to liberate themselves from their banal existences. Through Rodrigo's narrative, Lispector artfully ponders the fate of her characters, and their fears and desires, set against a harsh and unforgiving cityscape.
Despite the narrators protestation of emotional detachment, we see a man wailing endlessly for the disaster that is Macabea. He may state things that are unthinkable, but his passion for her plight shines through every one of his words. Despite this, the narrative comes at us from within the narrator, we see the story wriggling out of him. He creates a relationship with between himself and Macabea, between reason and instinct, knowledge and innocence, the imagination and reality. One of the most incredible aspects of Clarice Lispector's style is her ability to work from abstracts. She does not launch from a firm platform. She is able to work from emotion to give credence to the most ludicrous of Macabea鈥檚 summations about her day. We are convinced by both the narrator's perspective and by Macabea鈥檚. The book deals with the enormity of the human condition, a philosophical subject far beyond the reach of Macabea鈥檚 ability to grasp, and yet Macabea is able to experience her own resonance. Mostly with the simple question - Who am I?
Lispector herself defined her book as one 鈥榤ade without words...a mute photograph...a silence...a question鈥�. And I can see what she is getting at. The tale of Macab茅a can be read at different levels and lends itself to various interpretations. The book鈥檚 subtle interplay of fiction and philosophy sums up Lispector鈥檚 unique talent as a writer and her lasting influence on the contemporary world.
Startlingly original The Hour of the Star trips up our concept of the novel. What a story is expected to do. How characters act. Why writers write. Why readers read. It's an experience to savour. Bewildering as it was brilliant, magical as it was bleak, touching as it was discomforting. It was like being taken through a labyrinth of emotion. It seemed at every turn a different mindset was waiting. The outside world simply didn't exist whilst I was fully engaged within it's pages. I found it so mesmerizing I actually read it again this morning (obviously it helped being under 100 pages).
January 14, 2025
A to Z around the world personal challenge - B is for Brazil
As you can see, my challenge is progressing badly together with my reading in general. Due to life I did not have the time or the mood to read anything for the past 2-3 weeks and I also made a swift disappearance from here. I hope I'm back to reading and to GR but I can't be sure.
I finished The Hour of The Star three weeks ago and I waited for the inspiration to hit me so I can write a meaningful review. As that did not happen a few mumbling words will have to do.
When I first started this novella I was sure I was going to hate it. I don't really like pretentious writers who do their best to sound complicated and confuse the reader. However, as I progressed, I discovered that I warmed up to the author and the writing.
鈥淎ll the world began with a yes. One molecule said yes to another molecule and life was born. But before prehistory there was the prehistory of the prehistory and there was the never and there was the yes. It was ever so. I don鈥檛 know why, but I do know that the universe never began.
Make no mistake, I only achieve simplicity with enormous effort.鈥�
As you can see, even the writer/narrator tells us she has problems with simplicity. What we have here is a "wordy" and philosophical narrator who sets out to tell the story of a poor girl from North of Brasil but while doing so talks a lot more about himself, his reason for writing and the struggle to create a story. In the narrators's own words: 鈥淭he story, I determine - with false free will - will have around seven characters and I am obviously one of the more important.鈥� this statement is contrary to his goal in the novel which is to tell the story of the girl as humbly as possible. It is almost comical how the narrator starts to write about the girl then comes back to his struggles as writer and back to the story.
There is no plot to be found here, not really, but I found myself sucked in and looking forward to see where the narrator takes me. it was different reading experience.
As you can see, my challenge is progressing badly together with my reading in general. Due to life I did not have the time or the mood to read anything for the past 2-3 weeks and I also made a swift disappearance from here. I hope I'm back to reading and to GR but I can't be sure.
I finished The Hour of The Star three weeks ago and I waited for the inspiration to hit me so I can write a meaningful review. As that did not happen a few mumbling words will have to do.
When I first started this novella I was sure I was going to hate it. I don't really like pretentious writers who do their best to sound complicated and confuse the reader. However, as I progressed, I discovered that I warmed up to the author and the writing.
鈥淎ll the world began with a yes. One molecule said yes to another molecule and life was born. But before prehistory there was the prehistory of the prehistory and there was the never and there was the yes. It was ever so. I don鈥檛 know why, but I do know that the universe never began.
Make no mistake, I only achieve simplicity with enormous effort.鈥�
As you can see, even the writer/narrator tells us she has problems with simplicity. What we have here is a "wordy" and philosophical narrator who sets out to tell the story of a poor girl from North of Brasil but while doing so talks a lot more about himself, his reason for writing and the struggle to create a story. In the narrators's own words: 鈥淭he story, I determine - with false free will - will have around seven characters and I am obviously one of the more important.鈥� this statement is contrary to his goal in the novel which is to tell the story of the girl as humbly as possible. It is almost comical how the narrator starts to write about the girl then comes back to his struggles as writer and back to the story.
There is no plot to be found here, not really, but I found myself sucked in and looking forward to see where the narrator takes me. it was different reading experience.
June 30, 2021
No matter how odd Clarice Lispector's prose sounds in translation, it sounds just as unusual in the original--Benjamin Moser
If Professor Trelawney, the Divination professor over at Hogwarts, had ever written a novel, I'm pretty sure it would have read exactly like this one.
For those of you who aren't familiar with the Divination teacher at Hogwarts, she's a faculty member that the headmaster keeps on staff, despite her nonsensical speech and dubious syllabus. Unbeknownst to Sybill Trelawney, she has the occasional power of true prophecy, and therein lies her value.
It goes a little like this, with Professor Trelawney:
Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah, PROPHECY!
Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah, PROPHECY!
You may be wondering why I'm blathering on about a character from Harry Potter, but if, by any chance, you've read the series, and you have also read this novel, I don't think you'll be at all surprised by my comparison.
The real author of this novella from 1977, Clarice Lispector, looked like this:
And, though I know very little about her, I can tell you that she must have been at least one part feral, one part prophet and one part genius.
With this book, it went a little something like:
Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah, I write because I have nothing else to do in the world: I was left over and there is no place for me. . .
Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah, I'll miss myself so bad when I die.
This novella intrigued me, bored me, and broke my heart, too.
Reading this story is like making out with drywall.
If Professor Trelawney, the Divination professor over at Hogwarts, had ever written a novel, I'm pretty sure it would have read exactly like this one.
For those of you who aren't familiar with the Divination teacher at Hogwarts, she's a faculty member that the headmaster keeps on staff, despite her nonsensical speech and dubious syllabus. Unbeknownst to Sybill Trelawney, she has the occasional power of true prophecy, and therein lies her value.
It goes a little like this, with Professor Trelawney:
Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah, PROPHECY!
Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah, PROPHECY!
You may be wondering why I'm blathering on about a character from Harry Potter, but if, by any chance, you've read the series, and you have also read this novel, I don't think you'll be at all surprised by my comparison.
The real author of this novella from 1977, Clarice Lispector, looked like this:
And, though I know very little about her, I can tell you that she must have been at least one part feral, one part prophet and one part genius.
With this book, it went a little something like:
Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah, I write because I have nothing else to do in the world: I was left over and there is no place for me. . .
Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah, I'll miss myself so bad when I die.
This novella intrigued me, bored me, and broke my heart, too.
Reading this story is like making out with drywall.
October 31, 2017
芦螙蔚蟽蟿伪委谓蠅 蟿慰 蟽蠋渭伪 纬喂伪 谓伪 尉蔚魏喂谓萎蟽蠅, 蟿蟻委尾慰谓蟿伪蟼 魏维胃蔚 蟿蠈蟽慰 蟿伪 蠂苇蟻喂伪 蟿慰 苇谓伪 蟽蟿慰 维位位慰 纬喂伪 谓伪 蟺维蟻蠅 魏慰蠀蟻维纬喂慰禄
螠蔚 伪蠀蟿维 蟿伪 位蠈纬喂伪 尉蔚魏喂谓维蔚喂 蟿畏谓 喂蟽蟿慰蟻委伪 慰 巍慰谓蟿蟻委纬慰 危. 螠.
螘委谓伪喂 慰 蟽蠀纬纬蟻伪蠁苇伪蟼-未畏渭喂慰蠉蟻纬畏渭伪 蟿畏蟼
螝位伪蟻委蟽蔚 螞喂蟽蟺苇魏蟿慰蟻 魏伪喂 渭苇蟽伪 伪蟺慰 蟿伪 位蠈纬喂伪 蟿慰蠀, 蟿喂蟼 蟽魏苇蠄蔚喂蟼 蟿慰蠀, 蟿伪 蟽蠀谓伪喂蟽胃萎渭伪蟿伪 蟿慰蠀, 渭伪胃伪委谓慰蠀渭蔚 蟿畏谓 蟿蟻伪纬喂魏维 蟿蟻蠀蠁蔚蟻萎 喂蟽蟿慰蟻委伪 蟿畏蟼 芦螐蟻伪蟼 蟿慰蠀 螒蟽蟿蔚蟻喂慰蠉禄.
危蟿畏谓 慰蠀蟽委伪 畏 螞喂蟽蟺苇魏蟿慰蟻 伪蟺慰 蟽蔚尾伪蟽渭蠈, 位蔚蟺蟿蠈蟿畏蟿伪 魏伪喂 伪蟺苇蟻伪谓蟿畏 伪纬维蟺畏 纬喂鈥櫸毕呄勏� 蟿慰 伪蟽蟿蔚蟻维魏喂 蟺慰蠀 位维渭蟺蔚喂 渭苇蟽伪 蟽蟿慰 尾喂尾位喂慰 蟿畏蟼, 蟽蠀谓未苇蔚蟿伪喂 蟺谓蔚蠀渭伪蟿喂魏维 渭蔚 苇谓伪谓 维谓未蟻伪 蟽蠀纬纬蟻伪蠁苇伪 蟺慰蠀 蔚委谓伪喂 畏 委未喂伪.
螠伪 渭苇蟽伪 伪蟺慰 蟿畏谓 伪谓未蟻喂魏萎 蔚蟺喂谓慰畏渭苇谓畏 蠀蟺蠈蟽蟿伪蟽畏 蟿慰蠀 蟽蠀纬纬蟻伪蠁苇伪 蟺慰蠀 渭伪蟼 伪蠁畏纬蔚委蟿伪喂 蟿畏谓 喂蟽蟿慰蟻委伪 蠀蟺维蟻蠂蔚喂 渭喂伪 喂蔚蟻萎 伪蟺慰蟽蟿慰位萎. 螣 维谓未蟻伪蟼 蟽蠀纬纬蟻伪蠁苇伪蟼 (螞喂蟽蟺苇魏蟿慰蟻) 蔚委谓伪喂 蟺喂慰 魏伪蟿维位位畏位慰蟼 纬喂伪 谓伪 伪纬伪蟺萎蟽蔚喂 蟺慰位蠉 魏伪喂 谓伪 蟽蔚尾伪蟽蟿蔚委 蟿畏谓 畏蟻蠅委未伪 蟺慰蠀 未畏渭喂慰蠀蟻纬蔚委. 螡伪 蟿伪蠀蟿喂蟽蟿蔚委 渭伪味委 蟿畏蟼, 谓伪 蟺慰谓苇蟽蔚喂,谓伪 渭慰谓维蟽蔚喂,谓伪 蠁蟿蠅蠂蠉谓蔚喂, 谓伪 伪蟺慰蟽蠀蟻胃蔚委, 谓伪 蟺蔚胃维谓蔚喂.
芦螡伪 渭畏谓 尉蔚蠂谓维渭蔚 蟺蠅蟼 畏 未慰渭萎 蟿慰蠀 伪蟿蠈渭慰蠀 未蔚谓 蔚委谓伪喂 慰蟻伪蟿萎 渭伪 蟿畏 纬谓蠅蟻委味慰蠀渭蔚. 螢苇蟻蠅 蟺慰位位维 蟺慰蠀 未蔚谓 蟿伪 苇蠂蠅 未蔚喂. 螝喂 蔚蟽蔚委蟼 蟿慰 委未喂慰. 螖蔚谓 纬委谓蔚蟿伪喂 谓伪 未慰胃慰蠉谓 蟺蔚喂蟽蟿萎蟻喂伪 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏蟼 纬喂鈥� 伪蠀蟿蠈 蟺慰蠀 蔚委谓伪喂 蟺喂慰 伪位畏胃喂谓蠈, 蟿慰 慰蠀蟽喂蠋未蔚蟼 蔚委谓伪喂 谓伪 蟺喂蟽蟿蔚蠉蔚喂蟼. 螡伪 蟺喂蟽蟿蔚蠉蔚喂蟼 魏位伪委纬慰谓蟿伪蟼禄
螝伪喂 苇蟿蟽喂, 伪蟺慰魏伪胃伪蟻渭苇谓慰蟼, 苇蠂慰谓蟿伪蟼 伪蟺伪蟻谓畏胃蔚委 魏维胃蔚 伪蟺蠈位伪蠀蟽畏 魏伪喂 味蠋谓蟿伪蟼 蟽蔚 渭喂伪 伪魏蟻伪委伪 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓畏 魏伪蟿维蟽蟿伪蟽畏 蠂蠅蟻委蟼 苇位蔚慰蟼 渭蟺慰蟻蔚委 谓伪 蟿伪蠀蟿喂蟽蟿蔚委 渭蔚 蟿慰 伪蟽蟿蔚蟻维魏喂.
螠蔚 伪蠀蟿蠈 蟿慰 伪蟽蟿蔚蟻维魏喂 蟺慰蠀 蟽蟿畏谓 伪蟺苇蟻伪谓蟿慰蟽蠉谓畏 蟿畏蟼 谓蠉蠂蟿伪蟼 萎蟿伪谓 蟿蠈蟽慰 伪蟽萎渭伪谓蟿慰, 苇渭慰喂伪味蔚 渭蔚 伪蟻伪蠂谓慰蠉位伪 萎 渭蔚 渭喂魏蟻慰蟽魏慰蟺喂魏蠈 蟺位伪蟽渭伪蟿维魏喂, 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓慰.
螠伪 蟽蟿畏谓 苇谓谓慰喂伪 蟿慰蠀 胃伪谓维蟿慰蠀 蟺伪委蟻谓蔚喂 蟿蔚蟻维蟽蟿喂蔚蟼 未喂伪蟽蟿维蟽蔚喂蟼 魏伪喂 渭蔚纬维位畏 蟽蟺慰蠀未伪喂蠈蟿畏蟿伪. 螒蟺慰 蟿畏 蟽魏慰蟺喂维 蟿蠅谓 维蟽蟿蟻蠅谓 蠁伪喂谓蠈蟿伪谓 蟿蠈蟽慰 蟽畏渭伪谓蟿喂魏萎 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏 蠈蟽慰 慰蟺慰喂慰蟽未萎蟺慰蟿蔚 蟽畏渭伪谓蟿喂魏蠈蟼 畏 伪蟽萎渭伪谓蟿慰蟼 蟽蟿畏 纬畏 渭伪蟼.
螒蠀蟿蠈 蟿慰 伪蟽萎渭伪谓蟿慰,未喂维蠁伪谓慰 魏伪喂 伪未喂蠈蟻伪蟿慰 蟺位维蟽渭伪 慰谓慰渭维味蔚蟿伪喂 螠伪魏魏伪渭蟺苇伪. 韦慰 尾喂尾位委慰 伪蠀蟿蠈 蟺慰蠀 纬蟻维蠁蟿畏魏蔚 纬喂伪 蟿畏 螠伪魏魏伪渭蟺苇伪 未蔚委蠂谓蔚喂 渭喂魏蟻蠈 魏伪喂 位蔚蟺蟿蠈, 喂蟽蠂谓蠈 魏伪喂 伪谓维位伪蠁蟻慰.
螠伪 蔚委谓伪喂 苇谓伪 魏蔚委渭蔚谓慰 蟽伪谓 尾慰蠀尾蠈蟼 蠄伪位渭蠈蟼 蔚蟺喂魏萎未蔚喂慰蟼, 蟽伪谓 魏蠉魏谓蔚喂慰 维蟽渭伪 蟽蟿慰 胃维谓伪蟿慰. 螘委谓伪喂 苇谓伪 伪蟺慰 蟿伪 渭蔚纬维位伪 尾喂尾位委伪 蟿慰蠀 魏蠈蟽渭慰蠀.
螚 螠伪魏魏伪渭蟺苇伪 萎蟿伪谓 渭喂伪 魏慰蟺苇位伪 蟺慰蠀
芦蠁蠀位伪纬蠈蟿伪谓 伪蟺鈥� 蟿慰谓 胃维谓伪蟿慰 味蠋谓蟿伪蟼 位蔚喂蠄维, 尉慰未蔚蠉慰谓蟿伪蟼 位委纬慰 伪蟺蠈 蟿畏 味蠅萎 蟿畏蟼 纬喂伪 谓伪 渭畏谓 蟿蔚位蔚喂蠋蟽蔚喂禄.
螣蟻蠁伪谓萎 伪蟺慰 渭蠅蟻维魏喂, 渭蔚纬伪位蠅渭苇谓畏 伪蟺慰 渭喂伪 胃蔚委伪 蟺慰蠀 畏 蟺喂慰 苇谓蟿慰谓畏 伪谓维渭谓畏蟽畏 蟺慰蠀 蟿畏蟼 维蠁畏蟽蔚 萎蟿伪谓 蟿伪 未蠀谓伪蟿维 蠂蟿蠀蟺萎渭伪蟿伪 蟽蟿慰 魏蔚蠁维位喂.
螠蔚位蠈未蟻伪渭伪; 螌蠂喂.
螕慰位纬慰胃维蟼 伪谓维纬谓蠅蟽畏蟼. 螜魏蔚蟽委伪, 胃位委蠄畏 魏伪喂 蟽蠀渭蟺蠈谓慰喂伪 纬喂伪 蟿喂蟼 蠄蠀蠂苇蟼 蟺慰蠀 魏伪蟿慰喂魏慰蠉谓 蟽蔚 蟽蠋渭伪蟿伪 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺蠅谓 蟺慰蠀 伪蟺蔚蠀蠂蠈渭伪蟽蟿蔚 蟺蟻慰蟽蔚蠀蠂蠈渭蔚谓慰喂 谓伪 渭畏谓 蔚委谓伪喂 蟺慰蟿苇 蟿伪 未喂魏维 渭伪蟼. 韦慰 未喂魏蠈 渭慰蠀, 蟿慰 未喂魏蠈 蟽慰蠀, 蟿慰蠀 蟺伪喂未喂慰蠉 蟽慰蠀, 蟿慰蠀 伪纬伪蟺畏渭苇谓慰蠀 蟽慰蠀.
唯蠀蠂苇蟼 蟺慰蠀 蟺蔚蟻喂蟽蟽蔚蠉慰蠀谓 魏伪喂 未蔚谓 蠀蟺维蟻蠂蔚喂 渭苇蟻慰蟼 纬喂鈥櫸毕呄勎� 蟺维谓蠅 蟽蟿畏 纬畏.
螉蟽蠅蟼 蟿伪 伪蟽蟿苇蟻喂伪 蟽蟿慰谓 慰蠀蟻伪谓蠈 谓伪 未蔚委尉慰蠀谓 渭蔚纬伪位蠉蟿蔚蟻畏 蟽蠀渭蟺蠈谓慰喂伪 魏伪喂 魏伪蟿伪谓蠈畏蟽畏. 螡伪 位蠀蟿蟻蠋谓慰蠀谓, 谓伪 蔚尉慰渭慰喂蠋谓慰蠀谓 蟿伪 蟺维谓蟿伪 蟺蔚胃伪委谓慰谓蟿伪蟼, 蔚谓蠋 蠁蠋蟿喂味伪谓 蠈蟽慰 味慰蠉蟽伪谓 蟿慰 渭蠀蟽蟿萎蟻喂慰 蟿畏蟼 螒谓维蟽蟿伪蟽畏蟼 蟿慰蠀蟼.
螚 螠伪魏魏伪渭蟺苇伪 位慰喂蟺蠈谓,
渭喂伪 蟺伪蟻胃苇谓伪 蟺慰蠀 尾蟻慰渭慰蠉蟽蔚 喂未蟻蠋蟿伪, 渭喂伪 渭蔚蟽伪喂蠅谓喂魏萎 蠁喂纬慰蠉蟻伪 渭蔚 魏蠀蟻蟿慰蠉蟼 蠋渭慰蠀蟼, 尾伪渭渭苇谓伪 魏蠈魏魏喂谓伪 谓蠉蠂喂伪 渭伪 蠁伪纬蠅渭苇谓伪 蟿蠈蟽慰 蠈蟽慰 谓伪 蠁伪委谓蔚蟿伪喂 畏 渭伪蠀蟻委位伪 伪蟺慰 魏维蟿蠅.
螠喂伪 纬蠀谓伪委魏伪 蟿蠈蟽慰 伪蟽萎渭伪谓蟿畏 蟺慰蠀 蟺蟻慰魏伪位蔚委 蔚谓未喂伪蠁苇蟻慰谓. 韦委蟺慰蟿伪 蔚蟺维谓蠅 蟿畏蟼 未蔚 胃蠉渭喂味蔚 蟿畏 胃畏位蠀魏萎 蟿畏蟼 蠁蠉蟽畏. 螣喂 蠅慰胃萎魏蔚蟼 蟿畏蟼 蟽伪谓 谓蔚蟻蠈尾蟻伪蟽蟿慰 渭伪谓喂蟿维蟻喂 谓蔚魏蟻苇蟼, 蟺维渭蠁蟿蠅蠂畏, 蟺蔚喂谓伪蟽渭苇谓畏, 蟽魏蔚位蔚蟿蠅渭苇谓畏 魏伪喂 喂未喂伪委蟿蔚蟻畏.
螖蔚谓 纬谓蠅蟻委味蔚喂 蟺慰喂伪 蔚委谓伪喂, 蟿喂 胃苇位蔚喂, 纬喂伪蟿委 味蔚喂.
螤伪蟻蠈位伪 伪蠀蟿维 未蔚谓 蔚委谓伪喂 胃位喂渭渭苇谓畏 魏伪喂 苇蠂蔚喂 渭喂伪 伪蟺蟻慰蟽未喂蠈蟻喂蟽蟿畏 未蠀谓伪渭喂魏萎. 螠喂伪 胃苇位畏蟽畏 谓伪 谓喂魏萎蟽蔚喂 蟿畏谓 伪蟺蠈蟻蟻喂蠄畏 伪蠁慰蠉 未蔚谓 伪谓萎魏蔚 蟽蔚 魏伪谓苇谓伪谓,慰蠉蟿蔚 蟽蟿慰谓 委未喂慰 蟿畏蟼 蟿慰谓 蔚伪蠀蟿蠈.
芦螚 螠伪魏魏伪渭蟺苇伪, 尉苇蠂伪蟽伪 谓伪 蟺蠅, 蔚委蠂蔚 渭喂伪 未蠀蟽蟿蠀蠂委伪: 萎蟿伪谓 伪喂蟽胃畏蟽喂伪魏萎. 螤蠋蟼 纬委谓蔚蟿伪喂 蟽蝿苇谓伪 蟿蠈蟽慰 蟽伪蟻伪魏慰蠁伪纬蠅渭苇谓慰 蟽蠋渭伪 蠈蟺蠅蟼 蟿慰 未喂魏蠈 蟿畏蟼 谓伪 蠂蠅蟻维 蟿蠈蟽畏 位伪纬谓蔚委伪, 蔚谓 伪纬谓慰委伪 蟿畏蟼; 螠蠀蟽蟿萎蟻喂慰.禄
螣位慰渭蠈谓伪蠂畏 魏伪喂 尉蔚蠂伪蟽渭苇谓畏 伪蟺慰味畏蟿维 伪蟺蔚纬谓蠅蟽渭苇谓伪 蔚位蔚蠀胃蔚蟻委伪.
螝伪蟿维纬蔚蟿伪喂 伪蟺慰 蟿慰 螡慰蟻谓蟿苇蟽蟿蔚, 蠈蟺慰蠀 渭蔚纬维位蠅蟽蔚 ( 渭喂伪 维胃位喂伪 蟺蔚蟻喂慰蠂萎 蟿畏蟼 螔蟻伪味喂位委伪蟼).
螠蔚 蟿畏 芦蟽蟺位伪蠂谓喂魏萎禄 胃蔚委伪 渭蔚蟿伪魏慰渭委味蔚喂 蟽蟿慰 巍委慰 魏伪喂 渭蔚蟿维 蟿慰 胃维谓伪蟿慰 蟿畏蟼, 蔚蟻纬维味蔚蟿伪喂 蠅蟼 未伪魏蟿蠀位慰纬蟻维蠁慰蟼,蔚谓蠋 蟽蠀纬魏伪蟿慰喂魏蔚委 渭蔚 维位位蔚蟼 蟿苇蟽蟽蔚蟻喂蟼 魏慰蟺苇位蔚蟼 蟽蟿畏 渭蔚纬维位畏 蟺蠈位畏.
螤喂蟽蟿蔚蠉蔚喂 蟺蠅蟼 蔚委谓伪喂 伪胃维谓伪蟿畏 魏伪喂 味蔚喂 魏维胃蔚 蟽蟿喂纬渭萎 渭蔚 苇谓蟿慰谓畏 蟽蠀谓伪委蟽胃畏蟽畏 魏伪喂 伪谓蟿委蟽蠀渭尾伪蟿喂魏蠈蟿畏蟿伪 渭苇蟽伪 蟽蟿畏谓 蟺位萎蟻畏 未蠀蟽蟿蠀蠂委伪 蟿畏蟼.
螚 芦螐蟻伪 蟿慰蠀 伪蟽蟿蔚蟻喂慰蠉禄 渭喂伪 尾慰蠀尾萎 魏伪喂 未蠉蟽魏慰位畏 喂蟽蟿慰蟻委伪.
螠喂伪 维蠂蟻慰谓畏 蠋蟻伪 蟺慰蠀 魏喂谓蔚委 蟿畏 味蠅萎 蟺蟻慰蟼 蟿慰 胃维谓伪蟿慰.
螠慰谓蠈未蟻慰渭慰蟼. 螆蟿蟽喂 魏喂 伪位位喂蠋蟼.
螠蟺慰蟻蔚委 蠈渭蠅蟼 谓伪 渭伪蟼 未蔚委尉蔚喂 尉蔚魏维胃伪蟻伪 蟿畏谓 蟿伪蟺蔚喂谓蠈蟿畏蟿伪 蠅蟼 蠂伪蟻维, 蟿畏谓 伪蟺蠈位蠀蟿畏 蠁蟿蠋蠂蔚喂伪 蠅蟼 胃畏蟽伪蠀蟻蠈, 蟿慰谓 蟺蠈谓慰 蠅蟼 蔚蠀蟿蠀蠂委伪, 蟿慰 魏位维渭伪 蠅蟼 蠂维未喂 蟺伪蟻畏纬慰蟻喂维蟼, 蟿慰 蠂蠅蟻喂蟽渭蠈 蠅蟼 苇谓蠅蟽畏 魏伪喂 蟿慰 胃维谓伪蟿慰 蠅蟼 味蠅萎.
芦螘委谓伪喂 蟿蠈蟽慰 蠅蟻伪委慰 蟿慰 谓伪 味蔚喂蟼, 未蔚谓 蔚委谓伪喂;禄.
鉁炼湪馃挮馃専馃挮馃専馃挮馃専馃挮馃専馃挮馃専馃挮馃専馃挮馃専
螝伪位萎 伪谓维纬谓蠅蟽畏.
螤慰位位慰蠉蟼 伪蟽蟺伪蟽渭慰蠉蟼.
螠蔚 伪蠀蟿维 蟿伪 位蠈纬喂伪 尉蔚魏喂谓维蔚喂 蟿畏谓 喂蟽蟿慰蟻委伪 慰 巍慰谓蟿蟻委纬慰 危. 螠.
螘委谓伪喂 慰 蟽蠀纬纬蟻伪蠁苇伪蟼-未畏渭喂慰蠉蟻纬畏渭伪 蟿畏蟼
螝位伪蟻委蟽蔚 螞喂蟽蟺苇魏蟿慰蟻 魏伪喂 渭苇蟽伪 伪蟺慰 蟿伪 位蠈纬喂伪 蟿慰蠀, 蟿喂蟼 蟽魏苇蠄蔚喂蟼 蟿慰蠀, 蟿伪 蟽蠀谓伪喂蟽胃萎渭伪蟿伪 蟿慰蠀, 渭伪胃伪委谓慰蠀渭蔚 蟿畏谓 蟿蟻伪纬喂魏维 蟿蟻蠀蠁蔚蟻萎 喂蟽蟿慰蟻委伪 蟿畏蟼 芦螐蟻伪蟼 蟿慰蠀 螒蟽蟿蔚蟻喂慰蠉禄.
危蟿畏谓 慰蠀蟽委伪 畏 螞喂蟽蟺苇魏蟿慰蟻 伪蟺慰 蟽蔚尾伪蟽渭蠈, 位蔚蟺蟿蠈蟿畏蟿伪 魏伪喂 伪蟺苇蟻伪谓蟿畏 伪纬维蟺畏 纬喂鈥櫸毕呄勏� 蟿慰 伪蟽蟿蔚蟻维魏喂 蟺慰蠀 位维渭蟺蔚喂 渭苇蟽伪 蟽蟿慰 尾喂尾位喂慰 蟿畏蟼, 蟽蠀谓未苇蔚蟿伪喂 蟺谓蔚蠀渭伪蟿喂魏维 渭蔚 苇谓伪谓 维谓未蟻伪 蟽蠀纬纬蟻伪蠁苇伪 蟺慰蠀 蔚委谓伪喂 畏 委未喂伪.
螠伪 渭苇蟽伪 伪蟺慰 蟿畏谓 伪谓未蟻喂魏萎 蔚蟺喂谓慰畏渭苇谓畏 蠀蟺蠈蟽蟿伪蟽畏 蟿慰蠀 蟽蠀纬纬蟻伪蠁苇伪 蟺慰蠀 渭伪蟼 伪蠁畏纬蔚委蟿伪喂 蟿畏谓 喂蟽蟿慰蟻委伪 蠀蟺维蟻蠂蔚喂 渭喂伪 喂蔚蟻萎 伪蟺慰蟽蟿慰位萎. 螣 维谓未蟻伪蟼 蟽蠀纬纬蟻伪蠁苇伪蟼 (螞喂蟽蟺苇魏蟿慰蟻) 蔚委谓伪喂 蟺喂慰 魏伪蟿维位位畏位慰蟼 纬喂伪 谓伪 伪纬伪蟺萎蟽蔚喂 蟺慰位蠉 魏伪喂 谓伪 蟽蔚尾伪蟽蟿蔚委 蟿畏谓 畏蟻蠅委未伪 蟺慰蠀 未畏渭喂慰蠀蟻纬蔚委. 螡伪 蟿伪蠀蟿喂蟽蟿蔚委 渭伪味委 蟿畏蟼, 谓伪 蟺慰谓苇蟽蔚喂,谓伪 渭慰谓维蟽蔚喂,谓伪 蠁蟿蠅蠂蠉谓蔚喂, 谓伪 伪蟺慰蟽蠀蟻胃蔚委, 谓伪 蟺蔚胃维谓蔚喂.
芦螡伪 渭畏谓 尉蔚蠂谓维渭蔚 蟺蠅蟼 畏 未慰渭萎 蟿慰蠀 伪蟿蠈渭慰蠀 未蔚谓 蔚委谓伪喂 慰蟻伪蟿萎 渭伪 蟿畏 纬谓蠅蟻委味慰蠀渭蔚. 螢苇蟻蠅 蟺慰位位维 蟺慰蠀 未蔚谓 蟿伪 苇蠂蠅 未蔚喂. 螝喂 蔚蟽蔚委蟼 蟿慰 委未喂慰. 螖蔚谓 纬委谓蔚蟿伪喂 谓伪 未慰胃慰蠉谓 蟺蔚喂蟽蟿萎蟻喂伪 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏蟼 纬喂鈥� 伪蠀蟿蠈 蟺慰蠀 蔚委谓伪喂 蟺喂慰 伪位畏胃喂谓蠈, 蟿慰 慰蠀蟽喂蠋未蔚蟼 蔚委谓伪喂 谓伪 蟺喂蟽蟿蔚蠉蔚喂蟼. 螡伪 蟺喂蟽蟿蔚蠉蔚喂蟼 魏位伪委纬慰谓蟿伪蟼禄
螝伪喂 苇蟿蟽喂, 伪蟺慰魏伪胃伪蟻渭苇谓慰蟼, 苇蠂慰谓蟿伪蟼 伪蟺伪蟻谓畏胃蔚委 魏维胃蔚 伪蟺蠈位伪蠀蟽畏 魏伪喂 味蠋谓蟿伪蟼 蟽蔚 渭喂伪 伪魏蟻伪委伪 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓畏 魏伪蟿维蟽蟿伪蟽畏 蠂蠅蟻委蟼 苇位蔚慰蟼 渭蟺慰蟻蔚委 谓伪 蟿伪蠀蟿喂蟽蟿蔚委 渭蔚 蟿慰 伪蟽蟿蔚蟻维魏喂.
螠蔚 伪蠀蟿蠈 蟿慰 伪蟽蟿蔚蟻维魏喂 蟺慰蠀 蟽蟿畏谓 伪蟺苇蟻伪谓蟿慰蟽蠉谓畏 蟿畏蟼 谓蠉蠂蟿伪蟼 萎蟿伪谓 蟿蠈蟽慰 伪蟽萎渭伪谓蟿慰, 苇渭慰喂伪味蔚 渭蔚 伪蟻伪蠂谓慰蠉位伪 萎 渭蔚 渭喂魏蟻慰蟽魏慰蟺喂魏蠈 蟺位伪蟽渭伪蟿维魏喂, 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓慰.
螠伪 蟽蟿畏谓 苇谓谓慰喂伪 蟿慰蠀 胃伪谓维蟿慰蠀 蟺伪委蟻谓蔚喂 蟿蔚蟻维蟽蟿喂蔚蟼 未喂伪蟽蟿维蟽蔚喂蟼 魏伪喂 渭蔚纬维位畏 蟽蟺慰蠀未伪喂蠈蟿畏蟿伪. 螒蟺慰 蟿畏 蟽魏慰蟺喂维 蟿蠅谓 维蟽蟿蟻蠅谓 蠁伪喂谓蠈蟿伪谓 蟿蠈蟽慰 蟽畏渭伪谓蟿喂魏萎 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏 蠈蟽慰 慰蟺慰喂慰蟽未萎蟺慰蟿蔚 蟽畏渭伪谓蟿喂魏蠈蟼 畏 伪蟽萎渭伪谓蟿慰蟼 蟽蟿畏 纬畏 渭伪蟼.
螒蠀蟿蠈 蟿慰 伪蟽萎渭伪谓蟿慰,未喂维蠁伪谓慰 魏伪喂 伪未喂蠈蟻伪蟿慰 蟺位维蟽渭伪 慰谓慰渭维味蔚蟿伪喂 螠伪魏魏伪渭蟺苇伪. 韦慰 尾喂尾位委慰 伪蠀蟿蠈 蟺慰蠀 纬蟻维蠁蟿畏魏蔚 纬喂伪 蟿畏 螠伪魏魏伪渭蟺苇伪 未蔚委蠂谓蔚喂 渭喂魏蟻蠈 魏伪喂 位蔚蟺蟿蠈, 喂蟽蠂谓蠈 魏伪喂 伪谓维位伪蠁蟻慰.
螠伪 蔚委谓伪喂 苇谓伪 魏蔚委渭蔚谓慰 蟽伪谓 尾慰蠀尾蠈蟼 蠄伪位渭蠈蟼 蔚蟺喂魏萎未蔚喂慰蟼, 蟽伪谓 魏蠉魏谓蔚喂慰 维蟽渭伪 蟽蟿慰 胃维谓伪蟿慰. 螘委谓伪喂 苇谓伪 伪蟺慰 蟿伪 渭蔚纬维位伪 尾喂尾位委伪 蟿慰蠀 魏蠈蟽渭慰蠀.
螚 螠伪魏魏伪渭蟺苇伪 萎蟿伪谓 渭喂伪 魏慰蟺苇位伪 蟺慰蠀
芦蠁蠀位伪纬蠈蟿伪谓 伪蟺鈥� 蟿慰谓 胃维谓伪蟿慰 味蠋谓蟿伪蟼 位蔚喂蠄维, 尉慰未蔚蠉慰谓蟿伪蟼 位委纬慰 伪蟺蠈 蟿畏 味蠅萎 蟿畏蟼 纬喂伪 谓伪 渭畏谓 蟿蔚位蔚喂蠋蟽蔚喂禄.
螣蟻蠁伪谓萎 伪蟺慰 渭蠅蟻维魏喂, 渭蔚纬伪位蠅渭苇谓畏 伪蟺慰 渭喂伪 胃蔚委伪 蟺慰蠀 畏 蟺喂慰 苇谓蟿慰谓畏 伪谓维渭谓畏蟽畏 蟺慰蠀 蟿畏蟼 维蠁畏蟽蔚 萎蟿伪谓 蟿伪 未蠀谓伪蟿维 蠂蟿蠀蟺萎渭伪蟿伪 蟽蟿慰 魏蔚蠁维位喂.
螠蔚位蠈未蟻伪渭伪; 螌蠂喂.
螕慰位纬慰胃维蟼 伪谓维纬谓蠅蟽畏蟼. 螜魏蔚蟽委伪, 胃位委蠄畏 魏伪喂 蟽蠀渭蟺蠈谓慰喂伪 纬喂伪 蟿喂蟼 蠄蠀蠂苇蟼 蟺慰蠀 魏伪蟿慰喂魏慰蠉谓 蟽蔚 蟽蠋渭伪蟿伪 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺蠅谓 蟺慰蠀 伪蟺蔚蠀蠂蠈渭伪蟽蟿蔚 蟺蟻慰蟽蔚蠀蠂蠈渭蔚谓慰喂 谓伪 渭畏谓 蔚委谓伪喂 蟺慰蟿苇 蟿伪 未喂魏维 渭伪蟼. 韦慰 未喂魏蠈 渭慰蠀, 蟿慰 未喂魏蠈 蟽慰蠀, 蟿慰蠀 蟺伪喂未喂慰蠉 蟽慰蠀, 蟿慰蠀 伪纬伪蟺畏渭苇谓慰蠀 蟽慰蠀.
唯蠀蠂苇蟼 蟺慰蠀 蟺蔚蟻喂蟽蟽蔚蠉慰蠀谓 魏伪喂 未蔚谓 蠀蟺维蟻蠂蔚喂 渭苇蟻慰蟼 纬喂鈥櫸毕呄勎� 蟺维谓蠅 蟽蟿畏 纬畏.
螉蟽蠅蟼 蟿伪 伪蟽蟿苇蟻喂伪 蟽蟿慰谓 慰蠀蟻伪谓蠈 谓伪 未蔚委尉慰蠀谓 渭蔚纬伪位蠉蟿蔚蟻畏 蟽蠀渭蟺蠈谓慰喂伪 魏伪喂 魏伪蟿伪谓蠈畏蟽畏. 螡伪 位蠀蟿蟻蠋谓慰蠀谓, 谓伪 蔚尉慰渭慰喂蠋谓慰蠀谓 蟿伪 蟺维谓蟿伪 蟺蔚胃伪委谓慰谓蟿伪蟼, 蔚谓蠋 蠁蠋蟿喂味伪谓 蠈蟽慰 味慰蠉蟽伪谓 蟿慰 渭蠀蟽蟿萎蟻喂慰 蟿畏蟼 螒谓维蟽蟿伪蟽畏蟼 蟿慰蠀蟼.
螚 螠伪魏魏伪渭蟺苇伪 位慰喂蟺蠈谓,
渭喂伪 蟺伪蟻胃苇谓伪 蟺慰蠀 尾蟻慰渭慰蠉蟽蔚 喂未蟻蠋蟿伪, 渭喂伪 渭蔚蟽伪喂蠅谓喂魏萎 蠁喂纬慰蠉蟻伪 渭蔚 魏蠀蟻蟿慰蠉蟼 蠋渭慰蠀蟼, 尾伪渭渭苇谓伪 魏蠈魏魏喂谓伪 谓蠉蠂喂伪 渭伪 蠁伪纬蠅渭苇谓伪 蟿蠈蟽慰 蠈蟽慰 谓伪 蠁伪委谓蔚蟿伪喂 畏 渭伪蠀蟻委位伪 伪蟺慰 魏维蟿蠅.
螠喂伪 纬蠀谓伪委魏伪 蟿蠈蟽慰 伪蟽萎渭伪谓蟿畏 蟺慰蠀 蟺蟻慰魏伪位蔚委 蔚谓未喂伪蠁苇蟻慰谓. 韦委蟺慰蟿伪 蔚蟺维谓蠅 蟿畏蟼 未蔚 胃蠉渭喂味蔚 蟿畏 胃畏位蠀魏萎 蟿畏蟼 蠁蠉蟽畏. 螣喂 蠅慰胃萎魏蔚蟼 蟿畏蟼 蟽伪谓 谓蔚蟻蠈尾蟻伪蟽蟿慰 渭伪谓喂蟿维蟻喂 谓蔚魏蟻苇蟼, 蟺维渭蠁蟿蠅蠂畏, 蟺蔚喂谓伪蟽渭苇谓畏, 蟽魏蔚位蔚蟿蠅渭苇谓畏 魏伪喂 喂未喂伪委蟿蔚蟻畏.
螖蔚谓 纬谓蠅蟻委味蔚喂 蟺慰喂伪 蔚委谓伪喂, 蟿喂 胃苇位蔚喂, 纬喂伪蟿委 味蔚喂.
螤伪蟻蠈位伪 伪蠀蟿维 未蔚谓 蔚委谓伪喂 胃位喂渭渭苇谓畏 魏伪喂 苇蠂蔚喂 渭喂伪 伪蟺蟻慰蟽未喂蠈蟻喂蟽蟿畏 未蠀谓伪渭喂魏萎. 螠喂伪 胃苇位畏蟽畏 谓伪 谓喂魏萎蟽蔚喂 蟿畏谓 伪蟺蠈蟻蟻喂蠄畏 伪蠁慰蠉 未蔚谓 伪谓萎魏蔚 蟽蔚 魏伪谓苇谓伪谓,慰蠉蟿蔚 蟽蟿慰谓 委未喂慰 蟿畏蟼 蟿慰谓 蔚伪蠀蟿蠈.
芦螚 螠伪魏魏伪渭蟺苇伪, 尉苇蠂伪蟽伪 谓伪 蟺蠅, 蔚委蠂蔚 渭喂伪 未蠀蟽蟿蠀蠂委伪: 萎蟿伪谓 伪喂蟽胃畏蟽喂伪魏萎. 螤蠋蟼 纬委谓蔚蟿伪喂 蟽蝿苇谓伪 蟿蠈蟽慰 蟽伪蟻伪魏慰蠁伪纬蠅渭苇谓慰 蟽蠋渭伪 蠈蟺蠅蟼 蟿慰 未喂魏蠈 蟿畏蟼 谓伪 蠂蠅蟻维 蟿蠈蟽畏 位伪纬谓蔚委伪, 蔚谓 伪纬谓慰委伪 蟿畏蟼; 螠蠀蟽蟿萎蟻喂慰.禄
螣位慰渭蠈谓伪蠂畏 魏伪喂 尉蔚蠂伪蟽渭苇谓畏 伪蟺慰味畏蟿维 伪蟺蔚纬谓蠅蟽渭苇谓伪 蔚位蔚蠀胃蔚蟻委伪.
螝伪蟿维纬蔚蟿伪喂 伪蟺慰 蟿慰 螡慰蟻谓蟿苇蟽蟿蔚, 蠈蟺慰蠀 渭蔚纬维位蠅蟽蔚 ( 渭喂伪 维胃位喂伪 蟺蔚蟻喂慰蠂萎 蟿畏蟼 螔蟻伪味喂位委伪蟼).
螠蔚 蟿畏 芦蟽蟺位伪蠂谓喂魏萎禄 胃蔚委伪 渭蔚蟿伪魏慰渭委味蔚喂 蟽蟿慰 巍委慰 魏伪喂 渭蔚蟿维 蟿慰 胃维谓伪蟿慰 蟿畏蟼, 蔚蟻纬维味蔚蟿伪喂 蠅蟼 未伪魏蟿蠀位慰纬蟻维蠁慰蟼,蔚谓蠋 蟽蠀纬魏伪蟿慰喂魏蔚委 渭蔚 维位位蔚蟼 蟿苇蟽蟽蔚蟻喂蟼 魏慰蟺苇位蔚蟼 蟽蟿畏 渭蔚纬维位畏 蟺蠈位畏.
螤喂蟽蟿蔚蠉蔚喂 蟺蠅蟼 蔚委谓伪喂 伪胃维谓伪蟿畏 魏伪喂 味蔚喂 魏维胃蔚 蟽蟿喂纬渭萎 渭蔚 苇谓蟿慰谓畏 蟽蠀谓伪委蟽胃畏蟽畏 魏伪喂 伪谓蟿委蟽蠀渭尾伪蟿喂魏蠈蟿畏蟿伪 渭苇蟽伪 蟽蟿畏谓 蟺位萎蟻畏 未蠀蟽蟿蠀蠂委伪 蟿畏蟼.
螚 芦螐蟻伪 蟿慰蠀 伪蟽蟿蔚蟻喂慰蠉禄 渭喂伪 尾慰蠀尾萎 魏伪喂 未蠉蟽魏慰位畏 喂蟽蟿慰蟻委伪.
螠喂伪 维蠂蟻慰谓畏 蠋蟻伪 蟺慰蠀 魏喂谓蔚委 蟿畏 味蠅萎 蟺蟻慰蟼 蟿慰 胃维谓伪蟿慰.
螠慰谓蠈未蟻慰渭慰蟼. 螆蟿蟽喂 魏喂 伪位位喂蠋蟼.
螠蟺慰蟻蔚委 蠈渭蠅蟼 谓伪 渭伪蟼 未蔚委尉蔚喂 尉蔚魏维胃伪蟻伪 蟿畏谓 蟿伪蟺蔚喂谓蠈蟿畏蟿伪 蠅蟼 蠂伪蟻维, 蟿畏谓 伪蟺蠈位蠀蟿畏 蠁蟿蠋蠂蔚喂伪 蠅蟼 胃畏蟽伪蠀蟻蠈, 蟿慰谓 蟺蠈谓慰 蠅蟼 蔚蠀蟿蠀蠂委伪, 蟿慰 魏位维渭伪 蠅蟼 蠂维未喂 蟺伪蟻畏纬慰蟻喂维蟼, 蟿慰 蠂蠅蟻喂蟽渭蠈 蠅蟼 苇谓蠅蟽畏 魏伪喂 蟿慰 胃维谓伪蟿慰 蠅蟼 味蠅萎.
芦螘委谓伪喂 蟿蠈蟽慰 蠅蟻伪委慰 蟿慰 谓伪 味蔚喂蟼, 未蔚谓 蔚委谓伪喂;禄.
鉁炼湪馃挮馃専馃挮馃専馃挮馃専馃挮馃専馃挮馃専馃挮馃専馃挮馃専
螝伪位萎 伪谓维纬谓蠅蟽畏.
螤慰位位慰蠉蟼 伪蟽蟺伪蟽渭慰蠉蟼.
September 4, 2017
At times known as the greatest Jewish writer since Kafka, was one of the foremost Brazilian writers of the 20th century. Born Chaya Pinkhasovna, her family emigrated from the Ukraine to Recife, Brazil when young Chaya was a little more than a year old. It was in the northeastern corner of South America's largest country that Lispector found the inspiration for her life's work: writing. is called by many to be her greatest work, published within a year of her death in 1977. Because this novella is an entry in by , I was intrigued to read this unique view on life and death amid the slums of Rio de Janeiro.
Lispector chooses to make Brazilian poverty, still a hot button issue today, as the focus of her last novel. In the opening pages, it is unclear who the novel's main protagonist is, but after an opening stream of consciousness monologue, we meet Macabea, who has come to Rio from Alagoas, close to Lispector's home state of Recife. While the Pinkhasovna family became Americanized almost immediately upon arrival in Brazil, Lispector consequently did not write about Jewish themes; however, as her own mortality loomed, she created a character in Macabea, who was both Jewish and autobiographical. Sharing my own family's Ukrainian origins, the I found the concept of a character based on the Macabees intriguing, and I was able to empathize with Macabea once I got past the surreal opening existential sequence.
Macabea was rejected from childhood. Her parents both passed away, and she was raised by an aunt who resembled an evil stepmother. She deprived Macabea of all joys in life, physically beating to the point of sterility. As soon as Macabea came of age in Alagoas, the aunt wanted to be rid of her and sent her packing to a cramped apartment in the red light slum district of Brazil. One could not help but feel for sorry for this protagonist: she was ugly yet did not realize it, a virgin, too poor to eat much more than Coca Cola and coffee without milk, and only got paid from her boss as an afterthought. Macabea evokes a mixture of Cinderella, an adult Cosette, and Eliza Doolittle before she was rescued from poverty. In a nutshell, Macabea is an ugly duckling of the world with no future as she lives in the slums of Rio, one of the world's most impoverished neighborhoods. It would take a miracle to save this young woman who unfortunately does not realize how horrendous her existence is.
Even the other characters in this novella view Macabea as beyond salvation. Olimpico comes from the same town in northeastern Brazil and befriends her not as a boyfriend, but because he feels sorry for her bleak life. Yet, Macabea is too dim to realize this and pins false hopes on their almost nonexistent relationship. Adding to sorrow is that Macabea naively introduces Olimpico to her sensuous co-worker Gloria and the two immediately become a couple. Each succeeding paragraph adds to Macabea's grief, and one could almost wish that she was better off dead. Interspersed with the prose are many asides in Lispector's own voice as an author. She apologizes to her readers that much of Macabea's story is actually her own and that she has to take breaks from creating these one dimensional characters because she has grown tired of them. Yet, the protagonist and author are one and the same- hailing from Recife, living in pain, fighting off eventual death. As a result I looked past the existentialism and stream of consciousness that I do not usually enjoy to find out if the end result for Macabea was death or the survival reminiscent of her namesake.
is my first forage into the greatest of . For a novella, this story had to be taken in chunks because it was tough to swallow all in one sitting. Knowing that this was published posthumously and written while Lispector was dying of cancer made me empathize all the more with her protagonist Macabea. Despite the writing style that I am usually not fond of, I found this story to hold my attention, if not for the sorrows befalling both the lead protagonist and author. I would be intrigued to read more of Lispector's earlier novels to get a further glimpse at her body of work, one that lead to her inclusion in an anthology of great books written by women.
3.75 stars
Lispector chooses to make Brazilian poverty, still a hot button issue today, as the focus of her last novel. In the opening pages, it is unclear who the novel's main protagonist is, but after an opening stream of consciousness monologue, we meet Macabea, who has come to Rio from Alagoas, close to Lispector's home state of Recife. While the Pinkhasovna family became Americanized almost immediately upon arrival in Brazil, Lispector consequently did not write about Jewish themes; however, as her own mortality loomed, she created a character in Macabea, who was both Jewish and autobiographical. Sharing my own family's Ukrainian origins, the I found the concept of a character based on the Macabees intriguing, and I was able to empathize with Macabea once I got past the surreal opening existential sequence.
Macabea was rejected from childhood. Her parents both passed away, and she was raised by an aunt who resembled an evil stepmother. She deprived Macabea of all joys in life, physically beating to the point of sterility. As soon as Macabea came of age in Alagoas, the aunt wanted to be rid of her and sent her packing to a cramped apartment in the red light slum district of Brazil. One could not help but feel for sorry for this protagonist: she was ugly yet did not realize it, a virgin, too poor to eat much more than Coca Cola and coffee without milk, and only got paid from her boss as an afterthought. Macabea evokes a mixture of Cinderella, an adult Cosette, and Eliza Doolittle before she was rescued from poverty. In a nutshell, Macabea is an ugly duckling of the world with no future as she lives in the slums of Rio, one of the world's most impoverished neighborhoods. It would take a miracle to save this young woman who unfortunately does not realize how horrendous her existence is.
Even the other characters in this novella view Macabea as beyond salvation. Olimpico comes from the same town in northeastern Brazil and befriends her not as a boyfriend, but because he feels sorry for her bleak life. Yet, Macabea is too dim to realize this and pins false hopes on their almost nonexistent relationship. Adding to sorrow is that Macabea naively introduces Olimpico to her sensuous co-worker Gloria and the two immediately become a couple. Each succeeding paragraph adds to Macabea's grief, and one could almost wish that she was better off dead. Interspersed with the prose are many asides in Lispector's own voice as an author. She apologizes to her readers that much of Macabea's story is actually her own and that she has to take breaks from creating these one dimensional characters because she has grown tired of them. Yet, the protagonist and author are one and the same- hailing from Recife, living in pain, fighting off eventual death. As a result I looked past the existentialism and stream of consciousness that I do not usually enjoy to find out if the end result for Macabea was death or the survival reminiscent of her namesake.
is my first forage into the greatest of . For a novella, this story had to be taken in chunks because it was tough to swallow all in one sitting. Knowing that this was published posthumously and written while Lispector was dying of cancer made me empathize all the more with her protagonist Macabea. Despite the writing style that I am usually not fond of, I found this story to hold my attention, if not for the sorrows befalling both the lead protagonist and author. I would be intrigued to read more of Lispector's earlier novels to get a further glimpse at her body of work, one that lead to her inclusion in an anthology of great books written by women.
3.75 stars
Want to read
March 12, 2024entering my clarice lispector era
August 11, 2020
Weird, charged, lyric little novella - very entertaining when it gets going and wonderfully surreal at the beginning, but the two sides don't quite match. Lispector is always surprising, always interesting.
June 24, 2022
丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 丕賱兀禺賷乇丞 賱賱賰丕鬲亘丞 丕賱亘乇丕夭賷賱賷丞 賰賱丕乇賷爻 賱賷爻亘賰鬲賵乇
賳氐 氐睾賷乇 賷孬賷乇 丕賱鬲爻丕丐賱丕鬲 毓賳 丕賱丨賷丕丞, 丕賱賵噩賵丿, 胤亘賷毓丞 丕賱賳賮爻 丕賱丕賳爻丕賳賷丞
賷丨賰賷 丕賱乇丕賵賷 丕賱賰丕鬲亘 毓賳 賮鬲丕丞 亘爻賷胤丞 賵丨賷丕鬲賴丕 丕賱賲賴賲卮丞
賰睾賷乇賴丕 賲賳 丕賱卮禺氐賷丕鬲 丕賱賱丕賲乇卅賷丞 賮賷 丕賱賵丕賯毓 丕賱氐丕禺亘
鬲毓賷卮 丕賱賮賯乇 賵丕賱囟毓賮 賵丕賱禺匕賱丕賳, 賱賰賳 亘丿賵賳 兀丨夭丕賳 賵賱丕 賴賲賵賲
賮賷 毓丕賱賲 賲丨丿賵丿 賱丕 賷鬲爻毓 賵賱丕 賷鬲睾賷乇 廿賱丕 亘丕賱賵氐賵賱 廿賱賶 丕賱賳賴丕賷丞
賵禺賱丕賱 丕賱丨賰賷 鬲鬲丿丕禺賱 卮禺氐賷丞 丕賱乇丕賵賷 丕賱匕賷 賷賯賵賱
" 賲丕 丿丕賲鬲 鬲賱丕丨賯賳賷 丕賱兀爻卅賱丞 賵賱丕 兀噩丿 賱賴丕 兀噩賵亘丞, 爻兀賵丕氐賱 丕賱賰鬲丕亘丞"..
爻乇丿 賲禺鬲賱賮 賵鬲乇噩賲丞 爻賱爻丞 毓賳 丕賱亘乇鬲睾丕賱賷丞 賱賲丕噩丿 丕賱噩亘丕賱賷
賳氐 氐睾賷乇 賷孬賷乇 丕賱鬲爻丕丐賱丕鬲 毓賳 丕賱丨賷丕丞, 丕賱賵噩賵丿, 胤亘賷毓丞 丕賱賳賮爻 丕賱丕賳爻丕賳賷丞
賷丨賰賷 丕賱乇丕賵賷 丕賱賰丕鬲亘 毓賳 賮鬲丕丞 亘爻賷胤丞 賵丨賷丕鬲賴丕 丕賱賲賴賲卮丞
賰睾賷乇賴丕 賲賳 丕賱卮禺氐賷丕鬲 丕賱賱丕賲乇卅賷丞 賮賷 丕賱賵丕賯毓 丕賱氐丕禺亘
鬲毓賷卮 丕賱賮賯乇 賵丕賱囟毓賮 賵丕賱禺匕賱丕賳, 賱賰賳 亘丿賵賳 兀丨夭丕賳 賵賱丕 賴賲賵賲
賮賷 毓丕賱賲 賲丨丿賵丿 賱丕 賷鬲爻毓 賵賱丕 賷鬲睾賷乇 廿賱丕 亘丕賱賵氐賵賱 廿賱賶 丕賱賳賴丕賷丞
賵禺賱丕賱 丕賱丨賰賷 鬲鬲丿丕禺賱 卮禺氐賷丞 丕賱乇丕賵賷 丕賱匕賷 賷賯賵賱
" 賲丕 丿丕賲鬲 鬲賱丕丨賯賳賷 丕賱兀爻卅賱丞 賵賱丕 兀噩丿 賱賴丕 兀噩賵亘丞, 爻兀賵丕氐賱 丕賱賰鬲丕亘丞"..
爻乇丿 賲禺鬲賱賮 賵鬲乇噩賲丞 爻賱爻丞 毓賳 丕賱亘乇鬲睾丕賱賷丞 賱賲丕噩丿 丕賱噩亘丕賱賷
May 23, 2017
"Every once in a while she wandered into the better neighborhoods and gazed at the shop windows glittering with jewels and satin clothes 鈥� just to mortify herself a bit. Because she needed to find herself and suffering a little is a way of finding."
One of these days, I'm going to put out a list of 100 most iconic book characters I have read and Macabea of this little book is going to be one of them. She is beautiful, she is healthy, she is confident, she is clever, she is witty, she is wealthy, she is wise ..... Okay, she is very opposite of all these things. She was a typist who was a terrible dresser, lived on only hot dogs and love coca cola.That is kind of people I like. Her poverty falls short only of her stupidity. But it is because of this stupidity, that she is happy - she doesn't understand how sad and miserable she is. In a world where people are defined those very qualities, she is lacking in, she is a non-entity but she doesn't know it, and that is what keeps her from sadness:
"If she was dumb enough to ask herself 鈥渨ho am I?鈥� she would fall flat on her face. Because 鈥渨ho am I?鈥� creates a need. And how can you satisfy that need? Those who wonder are incomplete."
A person so naive- but why? Why must she be so naive? I think some of us discover ourselves in solitude while others discover themselves among people. Macabea was, unfortunately, one of former group:
鈥淪he had a room all to herself. She could hardly believe that all this space was hers. And not a word was heard. So she danced in an act of absolute courage since her aunt couldn鈥檛 hear her. She danced and twirled because being alone made her: f-r-e-e!鈥�
Unfortunately, because solitude is a luxury of rich, she lives in a slum in a room with women exactly like her. Solitude is a rare lottery, sadness is an unaffordable luxury:
"Sadness was the privilege of the rich, of those who could afford it, of those who had nothing better to do. Sadness was a luxury"
She even finds a boyfriend, a terrible person. The first time they meet it is raining. The second time they meet it is raining again.
"The third time they met 鈥� wouldn鈥檛 you know it was raining? 鈥� the guy, irritated and losing the light varnish of politeness that his stepfather had taught him with great effort, said:
鈥� All you ever do is rain."
The whole story of full of such beautiful moments, even more beautiful writing and funny movements told with dramatic effect of small and big explosions. Frankly, she becomes so adorable by the end that I wish I was a few years older and she a real person, so that I could adopt her. I mean consider this passage:
"Speaking of novelties, the girl one day saw in a corner bar a man so, so, so good-looking that 鈥� that she wanted to have him at home. It would be, like 鈥� like having a big emerald-emerald-emerald in an open jewel box. Untouchable. From the ring she saw he was married. How to marry-marry-marry a being who was only to-to-to be seen, she stammered in her thoughts. She鈥檇 die of embarrassment to eat in front of him because he was good looking beyond any person鈥檚 possible balance."
I really don't know how this book doesn't make it to the lists of best books. Modernism, evocative, thought-provoking, beautiful prose, comic events, amazing character .... what else could you like?
But (explosion!) her story is not written by Lispector itself, it is written by another male character, an author:
"I am absolutely tired of literature; only muteness keeps me company. If I still write it鈥檚 because I have nothing better to do in the world while I wait for death."
Who intends to write her story in the traditional manner which is ironic because he is himself a part of the modern novel - a novel with several titles, and a novel that is also about the act of writing - how a story writes itself, and not only itself but it writes the author too - changing him irrevocably. He begins by deciding that he will stay indifferent to his character but:
"I have to say that the girl isn鈥檛 aware of me, if she was she鈥檇 have someone to pray to and that would mean salvation. But I鈥檓 fully aware of her: through this young person I scream my horror of life. Of this life I love so much."
Did CL too scream horrors of her life through Macabea? She does share Judaism and northeast childhood with her character and she too had worked as a typewriter while with the intermediary author she might have shared thoughts on literature and death (it was her last novel).
More quotes:
"she was happy but how it ached."
"She sat there leaning her head on her shoulder the way a dove gets sad."
"She believed in angels, and because she believed in them, they existed."
July 7, 2020
This made me realise what a remarkable achievement Virginia Woolf's The Waves is because of how it sustains poetic inspiration from beginning to end. Not that this reminds me of The Waves; more it reminded me of the private glimpses she gave us of how she went about composing and structuring her book in her journal. Hour of the Star takes us into the mind of a writer in the act of composition. Lispector shares with us her inspirations along with her doubts. She includes in the narrative stray thoughts and observations that ostensibly have nothing to do with the story. But because this is a book about the act of creation nothing she includes in her narrative is irrelevant. There are some incredibly brilliant passages. There are also some which are less successful. The most baffling component of this novel though is its punctuation. There were times when I felt like I was reading a self-published novel which hadn't been near an editor. I learned in the afterword by the translator that her eccentric punctuation was wholly willed. "To rearrange conventional language". But, to be honest, it didn't have that effect on me. I often enjoy writers who take liberties with conventional punctuation - Toni Morrison immediately springs to mind - but I can't say this about Lispector. More, it seemed like she needed to take an evening class in grammar. 4+ stars.
June 28, 2022
Lately I find myself in the frustrating position (not uncommon among booksellers) of being surrounded by far more books than I can read. Not only are there books in the shop, but in my spare moments at work I browse 欧宝娱乐, Abebooks and my local library system, and so have a constant stream of books passing through my hands, many of which I can do no more than glance at before returning them or putting them away for later. Into this deluge has flowed this novella by Clarice Lispector, a book which I hear tell was scribbled on scraps of paper at intervals of months or years before coalescing into its current form, and which is - on one level - as evanescent and difficult to grasp as this technique suggests, even while being - on another - as direct as a bullet to the heart at ten paces. Imagine that famous Goya painting with the white shirt and the firing squad, but focus on the victim's face until you're so close the ridges in the paint are as important - as moving - as his expression. Ever read the Borges story 'The Secret Miracle'? When the raindrop which has hit Jaromir Hladik's face just as time stopped starts sliding again, that's maybe something like the little self-conscious 'explosions' with which Lispector riddles her narrative. Structurally, strip Beckett's Malone Dies to the bone - the fictional writer who tells the story as much the protagonist as s/he whose story he tells - and you've got a rough outline of The Hour of the Star. I say rough because either this is a book to read two or three times before knowing anything certain about it or my current white-water reading technique is just not up to the task. Whatever the case, this is a hard book to comprehend, coming as it does so directly from a place beyond comprehension, and I presume Lispector made a habit, like Beckett, of gazing intently on things beyond comprehension. Still, it's not a 'difficult' book - not on the level of language, anyway - and reports of the strangeness of its prose have, to my mind, been exaggerated. To me it reads quite naturally, especially in the new translation, and from what few pages I saw of the old translation I suggest forgetting that relic immediately and getting your hands on this one. It's modern, that's for damn sure - I doubt there is much else out there as sleek and arresting and asymmetrical as this. And it's haunting: Lispector speaks through her (male) narrator who speaks through his character Maccabea. I had just read (on the train to and from work, as perhaps readers of the Brazilian newspaper which published them might have read them) Lispector's Chronicas when I started the novella, and consequently had a vivid, if oblique, impression of her in mind as I read this. Unfortunately I don't have a copy of The Hour of the Star with me as I write, but perhaps these lines from one of her Chronicas ('Creating Brasilia') will help suggest the kind of writer she is or can be:
What kind of writer is Clarice Lispector? The rarest kind. The fact that her Chronicas ever made it into a newspaper at all - let alone week after week - is, to this Australian, astonishing. That The Hour of the Star is a bestseller and its author a household name in her own country is even moreso. Judging from what little I've read, Lispector's ruthless stripping away of everything but the visionary/intuitive/paradoxical is unmatched by any prose writer except Beckett, and when and if I ever have the time and resources to do so I will approach her ouevre as I once approached his: piece by piece, in a quiet room in the country with her biography close at hand.
This is a work so elemental it seems hewn from rock, or washed up on the shore in Brasilia from that non-existent sea. If I don't give it a perfect score it's only because I don't yet know if she speaks directly to my heart. But her example, her aesthetic determination, is unsurpassed.
Brasilia is built on the line of the horizon.
When I died, I opened my eyes one day and there was Brasilia.
The two architects who planned Brasilia were not interested in creating something beautiful. That would be too simple; they created their own terror, and left that terror unexplained.
Besides the wind, there is another thing that blows. It can only be recognised in the supernatural rippling of the lake. - Wherever you stand, you have the impression of being on the edge of a dangerous precipice.
Its founders tried to ignore the importance of human beings. The dimensions of the city's buildings were calculated for the heavens.
It is a shore without any sea.
How I should love to set white horses free here in Brasilia. At night, they would become green under the light of the moon - I know what those two men wanted: that slowness and silence which are also my idea of eternity.
Fear has always guided me to the things I love; and because I love, I become afraid.
What kind of writer is Clarice Lispector? The rarest kind. The fact that her Chronicas ever made it into a newspaper at all - let alone week after week - is, to this Australian, astonishing. That The Hour of the Star is a bestseller and its author a household name in her own country is even moreso. Judging from what little I've read, Lispector's ruthless stripping away of everything but the visionary/intuitive/paradoxical is unmatched by any prose writer except Beckett, and when and if I ever have the time and resources to do so I will approach her ouevre as I once approached his: piece by piece, in a quiet room in the country with her biography close at hand.
This is a work so elemental it seems hewn from rock, or washed up on the shore in Brasilia from that non-existent sea. If I don't give it a perfect score it's only because I don't yet know if she speaks directly to my heart. But her example, her aesthetic determination, is unsurpassed.
Clarice Lispector: this woman, our contemporary, a Brazilian woman鈥� it is not books that she gives us, but the act of living saved by books, narratives, constructions that make us step back. And then, through her window-writing, we enter into the frightening beauty of learning how to read: and we pass, through the body, to the other side of the I. To love the truth of what is alive,... to love the origin, to be personally interested in the impersonal, in the animal, in the thing.
(Helene Cixious)
December 20, 2016
鈥淓verything in the world began with a yes. One molecule said yes to another molecule and life was born.鈥�
Thus opens the . Published just before 鈥檚 death, reading it you could wonder if there is little of the intimate Lispector of . However, she betrays herself from the start. If in her first novel it was by its title, here we discover it in her opening lines. However, it goes much deeper than the mere allusion to Joyce. If here we find Lispector more secluded, she is not less truthful to herself.
is a story of abandonment that simultaneously offers solace. When you read the narrator Rodrigo鈥檚 words, that tell the brief and nostalgic tale of Macab茅a, if you sense in Lispector last novel less of the author and more of the characters, that isn't quite true. Macab茅a, a wretched woman who barely has conscience of her own existence, after losing her only link with the world, an old aunt, moves to Rio de Janeiro. There she rents a room, gets a job as typist and spends her hours listening to the radio. She falls in love with Ol铆mpio de Jesus, a metal worker who soon betrays her. Desperate, Macab茅a visits a fortune-teller who predicts a brilliant future for her, not what she expected at all.
Even creating a false author for the story, Lispector is not able to hide behind him. If in small shared past experiences or through concealed truths. So, small glimpses of the author's life emerge. And through Rodrigo's own wonderings, that tell so much and so little. Or through Macab茅a herself. Lispector did indeed visit a fortune-teller when was growing up, as she tells in one of her pieces in her weely newspaper column (Included, I hope, in her great ), where she also tried not to show too much of herself but ended doing just that. So, there is much of the author in The Hour of the Star. The desire to hide, which real death soon would consolidate, ultimately disappointed.
Despite the tragedy you will read about, the story is beautifully told.
"She believed in angels, and, because she believed, they existed.鈥�.And like that, she writes on:
鈥淪o long as I have questions to which there are no answers, I shall go on writing.鈥�
"I swear that this book is made up without words. It is a mute photography. This book is a silence. This book is a question.鈥�(my own free translations from Portuguese.)
For all that, Clarice Lispector is one of my favorite Brazilian authors. I read her last novel many years ago, in Portuguese, and briefly revisited it now. Magnificent, simple and above all sublime!
Highly recommended!
January 3, 2018
"I swear this book is made without words. It is a mute photograph. This book is a silence. This book is a question."
Benjamin Moser's translation of Clarice Lispector's final work is extraordinary. He preserves her unusual word order and her way of bringing new meaning to ordinary words, and the result is an absorbing work that brings the reader right up against existential questions of language and life, questions Lispector was confronting as she completed this novella shortly before her death.
One of the opening paragraphs serves as a manifesto of sorts, about the instability of life and time, the interplay between identity and words, and the impossibility of expressing truth in words:
"As long as I have questions and no answers I鈥檒l keep on writing. How do you start at the beginning, if things happen before they happen? If before the pre-prehistory there were already the apocalyptic monsters? If this story doesn鈥檛 exist now, it will. Thinking is an act. Feeling is a fact. Put the two together 鈥� I am the one writing what I am writing. God is the world. Truth is always an interior and inexplicable contact. My truest life is unrecognizable, extremely interior and there is not a single word that defines it. My heart has emptied itself of every desire and been reduced to its own final or primary beat."
One the most basic level, this is a story, told by a male narrator, of the circumscribed, impoverished life of Macab茅a, a young woman from northeastern Brazil who moves to Rio. She eats little, understands little, experiences little, questions little. Her story is one of loss; in telling it, Lispector confronts her reader with the omnipresence and limitations of our creation of ourselves, of the limitations and instability of language and experience in our self-definition and self-understanding. In exploring this theme, Lispector destabilizes language itself -- referring to someone not noticed by others as "cold coffee," summing up the cycle of life and death as "a thin slice of watermelon." In the book's beginning, the narrator's lyrical language confronts words' limitations by transcending them:
"I am not an intellectual, I write with my body. And what I write is a moist fog. Words are sounds transfused with unequal shadows that intersect, stalactites, lace, transfigured organ music. I hardly dare shout out words at this vibrant and rich, morbid and dark web which has its countertone in the thick bass of pain. Allegro con brio. I鈥檒l try to wrest gold from charcoal."
In the end, language and life are both ephemeral.
Benjamin Moser's translation of Clarice Lispector's final work is extraordinary. He preserves her unusual word order and her way of bringing new meaning to ordinary words, and the result is an absorbing work that brings the reader right up against existential questions of language and life, questions Lispector was confronting as she completed this novella shortly before her death.
One of the opening paragraphs serves as a manifesto of sorts, about the instability of life and time, the interplay between identity and words, and the impossibility of expressing truth in words:
"As long as I have questions and no answers I鈥檒l keep on writing. How do you start at the beginning, if things happen before they happen? If before the pre-prehistory there were already the apocalyptic monsters? If this story doesn鈥檛 exist now, it will. Thinking is an act. Feeling is a fact. Put the two together 鈥� I am the one writing what I am writing. God is the world. Truth is always an interior and inexplicable contact. My truest life is unrecognizable, extremely interior and there is not a single word that defines it. My heart has emptied itself of every desire and been reduced to its own final or primary beat."
One the most basic level, this is a story, told by a male narrator, of the circumscribed, impoverished life of Macab茅a, a young woman from northeastern Brazil who moves to Rio. She eats little, understands little, experiences little, questions little. Her story is one of loss; in telling it, Lispector confronts her reader with the omnipresence and limitations of our creation of ourselves, of the limitations and instability of language and experience in our self-definition and self-understanding. In exploring this theme, Lispector destabilizes language itself -- referring to someone not noticed by others as "cold coffee," summing up the cycle of life and death as "a thin slice of watermelon." In the book's beginning, the narrator's lyrical language confronts words' limitations by transcending them:
"I am not an intellectual, I write with my body. And what I write is a moist fog. Words are sounds transfused with unequal shadows that intersect, stalactites, lace, transfigured organ music. I hardly dare shout out words at this vibrant and rich, morbid and dark web which has its countertone in the thick bass of pain. Allegro con brio. I鈥檒l try to wrest gold from charcoal."
In the end, language and life are both ephemeral.
March 23, 2014
A deceptively short novella with a minimal story which has an underlying philosophical intensity that belies the simple plot. It is the story of Macabea narrated by the rather mysterious Rodrigo SM; he plays a slightly ambiguous role in the story; his asides are amusing and he appears sympathetic. However I suspect he is a rather unreliable and deliberately male narrator.
Macabea has moved to Rio from Northern Brazil and is now alone in the world; strictly brought up by her aunt she is portrayed as one of life鈥檚 casualties who is of little consequence. She is poor and lives in a slum sharing a small flat with work colleagues. Rodrigo describes her as undernourished, ugly (with great frequency), dirty, naive, innocent, unfeeling; wretched. Macabea is free in that she doesn鈥檛 seem to know how unhappy she is. She briefly has a boyfriend, who treats her cruelly and then leaves her for her friend who has more traditional female charms (according to Rodrigo).
The fortune teller at the end of the book tells Macabea she is about to have a wondrous change of fortune; she gets run over by a Mercedes and dies on the street, at last the centre of attention. That鈥檚 not a spoiler; Rodrigo tells you what is going to happen early on in the book and maintains an air of smugness with his sympathy throughout.
This is the first Lispector I have read, and she has a unique style; the prose works well and she creates almost a fairy tale like atmosphere. There are a couple of neat literary devices which link to events and actions and the events of the novel are simple but underlaid with thoughts and reflections on philosophy and writing. It is haunting and I am sure there is a good deal of Lispector in it; a definite city vs country feel; a reflection on the absolute grinding nature of poverty, the problem of identity and how to write about it.
I would also tend to agree with those who see this as something of a feminist manifesto. The principal male character, the boyfriend Olimpico, is totally self obsessed and women in his life are extensions of himself. Then there is Rodrigo; he is the one who narrates Macabea鈥檚 story and gives us all the information about her. How do we know about her unloveliness and ugliness; Rodrigo tells us. All of our judgements about her come from him; this, Lispector is telling us, is how men judge and value women. It is men who decide what beauty and ugliness is. Macabea鈥檚 values and real character are woven into the thread of the narrative, despite the narrator and we are left to judge if she is really ugly and worthless and we are left to think on the injustice of her life.
It really is very well constructed and complex and worth reading.
Macabea has moved to Rio from Northern Brazil and is now alone in the world; strictly brought up by her aunt she is portrayed as one of life鈥檚 casualties who is of little consequence. She is poor and lives in a slum sharing a small flat with work colleagues. Rodrigo describes her as undernourished, ugly (with great frequency), dirty, naive, innocent, unfeeling; wretched. Macabea is free in that she doesn鈥檛 seem to know how unhappy she is. She briefly has a boyfriend, who treats her cruelly and then leaves her for her friend who has more traditional female charms (according to Rodrigo).
The fortune teller at the end of the book tells Macabea she is about to have a wondrous change of fortune; she gets run over by a Mercedes and dies on the street, at last the centre of attention. That鈥檚 not a spoiler; Rodrigo tells you what is going to happen early on in the book and maintains an air of smugness with his sympathy throughout.
This is the first Lispector I have read, and she has a unique style; the prose works well and she creates almost a fairy tale like atmosphere. There are a couple of neat literary devices which link to events and actions and the events of the novel are simple but underlaid with thoughts and reflections on philosophy and writing. It is haunting and I am sure there is a good deal of Lispector in it; a definite city vs country feel; a reflection on the absolute grinding nature of poverty, the problem of identity and how to write about it.
I would also tend to agree with those who see this as something of a feminist manifesto. The principal male character, the boyfriend Olimpico, is totally self obsessed and women in his life are extensions of himself. Then there is Rodrigo; he is the one who narrates Macabea鈥檚 story and gives us all the information about her. How do we know about her unloveliness and ugliness; Rodrigo tells us. All of our judgements about her come from him; this, Lispector is telling us, is how men judge and value women. It is men who decide what beauty and ugliness is. Macabea鈥檚 values and real character are woven into the thread of the narrative, despite the narrator and we are left to judge if she is really ugly and worthless and we are left to think on the injustice of her life.
It really is very well constructed and complex and worth reading.
March 2, 2020
鈥淎 hora da estrela鈥� foi um daqueles livros que comecei a ler com uma expectativa alta 鈥� o que costuma ser arriscado 鈥� e que, ao final, se superou. 脡, antes de mais nada, uma obra que transborda humanidade. O enredo 茅 simples: Macab茅a 茅 uma jovem nascida em Alagoas, 贸rf茫, pobre e que se muda para a cidade grande para trabalhar como datil贸grafa. Logo no in铆cio, Rodrigo SM, o narrador e alter-ego da pr贸pria Clarice, j谩 afirma n茫o 鈥渟er complexo o que escreverei鈥�. Mas apesar de uma hist贸ria simples, a autora constr贸i uma riqu铆ssima, cheia de reflex玫es.
J谩 a personagem 茅 mesmo simples, n茫o s贸 no sentido material, por ser pobre, mas tamb茅m como ser humano. Macab茅a 茅 pura, ing锚nua, sem grandes ambi莽玫es. Macab茅a almeja apenas ser feliz, ainda que n茫o saiba muito bem em que consista a felicidade. E 茅 por meio dessa obra que Clarice 鈥� ou melhor, Rodrigo SM 鈥� d谩 voz ao cidad茫o 鈥渃omum鈥�. D谩 o direito ao grito 脿s 鈥渕ilhares de mo莽as espalhadas pelos croti莽oes, vagas de cama num quarto, atr谩s de balc玫es trabalhando at茅 a estafa鈥�. A escrita de Clarice 茅 muito impactante, sendo, na minha opini茫o, uma das caracter铆sticas respons谩veis por elevar essa obra 脿 categoria dos grandes cl谩ssicos da literatura nacional 鈥� e, at茅 mesmo, mundial. 脡 uma obra carregada de metalinguagem, isto 茅, o narrador se vale do pr贸prio livro para explicar e refletir com o leitor sobre a tarefa de escrever uma hist贸ria. Com esse m茅todo, Clarice consegue aproximar o leitor da narrativa e, por consequ锚ncia, da vida de Macab茅a. No in铆cio, a extrema ingenuidade da personagem pode despertar um certo incomodo em quem l锚 a obra. Mas essa sensa莽茫o 茅 logo substitu铆da por uma compaix茫o, criando um forte la莽o entre o leitor e Macab茅a. Na minha opini茫o, 茅 uma leitura obrigat贸ria!
Tamb茅m recomendo muito essa edi莽茫o que comprei da @editorarocco, com reprodu莽玫es do manuscrito original e textos de apoio que enriquecem ainda mais a leitura.
鈥淥 que escrevo 茅 mais do que inven莽茫o, 茅 minha obriga莽茫o contar sobre essa mo莽a entre milhares delas. E dever meu, nem que seja de pouca arte, o de revelar-lhe a vida. Porque h谩 o direito ao grito. Ent茫o eu grito.鈥�
Nota: 10/10
Mais resenhas em:
J谩 a personagem 茅 mesmo simples, n茫o s贸 no sentido material, por ser pobre, mas tamb茅m como ser humano. Macab茅a 茅 pura, ing锚nua, sem grandes ambi莽玫es. Macab茅a almeja apenas ser feliz, ainda que n茫o saiba muito bem em que consista a felicidade. E 茅 por meio dessa obra que Clarice 鈥� ou melhor, Rodrigo SM 鈥� d谩 voz ao cidad茫o 鈥渃omum鈥�. D谩 o direito ao grito 脿s 鈥渕ilhares de mo莽as espalhadas pelos croti莽oes, vagas de cama num quarto, atr谩s de balc玫es trabalhando at茅 a estafa鈥�. A escrita de Clarice 茅 muito impactante, sendo, na minha opini茫o, uma das caracter铆sticas respons谩veis por elevar essa obra 脿 categoria dos grandes cl谩ssicos da literatura nacional 鈥� e, at茅 mesmo, mundial. 脡 uma obra carregada de metalinguagem, isto 茅, o narrador se vale do pr贸prio livro para explicar e refletir com o leitor sobre a tarefa de escrever uma hist贸ria. Com esse m茅todo, Clarice consegue aproximar o leitor da narrativa e, por consequ锚ncia, da vida de Macab茅a. No in铆cio, a extrema ingenuidade da personagem pode despertar um certo incomodo em quem l锚 a obra. Mas essa sensa莽茫o 茅 logo substitu铆da por uma compaix茫o, criando um forte la莽o entre o leitor e Macab茅a. Na minha opini茫o, 茅 uma leitura obrigat贸ria!
Tamb茅m recomendo muito essa edi莽茫o que comprei da @editorarocco, com reprodu莽玫es do manuscrito original e textos de apoio que enriquecem ainda mais a leitura.
鈥淥 que escrevo 茅 mais do que inven莽茫o, 茅 minha obriga莽茫o contar sobre essa mo莽a entre milhares delas. E dever meu, nem que seja de pouca arte, o de revelar-lhe a vida. Porque h谩 o direito ao grito. Ent茫o eu grito.鈥�
Nota: 10/10
Mais resenhas em:
August 25, 2023
Published two months before the death of its author, this upside-down fairy tale, at the same time that it registers Macab茅a's weak life, composing an exterior, explicit narrative that also questions are ironic and exposes the perplexities of contemporary fiction. Through an author-narrator, Rodrigo SM intends to capture the feeling of perdition of the face of a Northeastern woman seen at random on the street in Rio de Janeiro. This primary life breathes, breathes, breathes.
Tormented by the character that he created but that he does not know completely, the narrator collides, at every moment, with the differences of social class and gender and, particularly, in the possibilities and limitations of language, in the agony of the act of writing and in the word he establishes, reveals and hides.
Tormented by the character that he created but that he does not know completely, the narrator collides, at every moment, with the differences of social class and gender and, particularly, in the possibilities and limitations of language, in the agony of the act of writing and in the word he establishes, reveals and hides.
March 15, 2023
This is a very unique style of writing and I have to say I preferred parts of it to the whole. However I was fascinated by it and it鈥檚 short length allowed me to not get annoyed with the unorthodoxy while reading it.
鈥榃ho has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person
鈥榃ho has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person
February 26, 2016
Sigue mi romance con Clarice, que lleva a帽os y es cada vez mejor. Este es el 煤ltimo libro que public贸 en vida, sali贸, y a los pocos meses muri贸.
Una historia triste, que no sabes si la escribe por una cr铆tica social, o si al describir a un personaje tan desvalido, sola, flaca, "con los ovarios marchitos", que no es consciente de su vida tan desesperada, que no sabe que es infeliz, quiz谩s est谩 hablando de otra cosa, de una tristeza, o algo m谩s profundo.
El narrador es duro, y est谩 intentando hablar solo con acci贸n, como si respondiera a la forma en como siempre habl贸 clarice, mirando hacia adentro.
"Est谩 claro que, como todo escritor, estoy tentado a usar t茅rminos suculentos: conozco adjetivos esplendorosos, carnosos sustantivos y verbos tan elegantes que atraviesan agudos el aire en busca de acci贸n..."
Precioso y duro, no s茅 por qu茅 tarde tanto en llegar a este libro.
Una historia triste, que no sabes si la escribe por una cr铆tica social, o si al describir a un personaje tan desvalido, sola, flaca, "con los ovarios marchitos", que no es consciente de su vida tan desesperada, que no sabe que es infeliz, quiz谩s est谩 hablando de otra cosa, de una tristeza, o algo m谩s profundo.
El narrador es duro, y est谩 intentando hablar solo con acci贸n, como si respondiera a la forma en como siempre habl贸 clarice, mirando hacia adentro.
"Est谩 claro que, como todo escritor, estoy tentado a usar t茅rminos suculentos: conozco adjetivos esplendorosos, carnosos sustantivos y verbos tan elegantes que atraviesan agudos el aire en busca de acci贸n..."
Precioso y duro, no s茅 por qu茅 tarde tanto en llegar a este libro.
January 2, 2016
Interstellar Heap of Dust
Sim.
This is how Clarice Lispector chose to finish her book: with the same word as Joyce did. His famous Yes. But she began with it too. For as she says in her opening line, everything in the world began with a Yes.
And so she unfolds her story. Or lets her male narrator unfold it. Several barriers are thus created between her and us and her story 鈥� his story. And the Hour of the Star, not one of those in heaven, but the Star as a celebrity, is the title for the story of someone who is as notorious as a speck of dust.
The banality of the fable is not matched by the sophistication of the novella. This short fiction reads like an astute laboratory on writing. Defending simplicity of language and reminding that the basic element of writing is the word, Lispector鈥檚 narrator recognizes that writing is an effort in self-knowledge. This is what we then ask. What did she find when building the writing self--when she is writing about another. An object.
The speck of dust is a woman who does not acquire her name, Macab茅a, for several pages. She first is a lassie from the northeast, a nordestina. She was first also a girl with no name. For the first year in her life she was not named, and she preferred to remain unnamed to being incorrectly named and wrongly identified. Ah, identities forged by words.
May be that is why words are tiring and Lispector鈥檚 narrator, afraid of words and literature, seeks silence since writing is a way of whiling away one鈥檚 life until the end arrives.
And so it does for Macab茅a: her celebrity moment, her hora da estrela.
The final affirmative however does not close the narration. It waits for an answer.
As open and loose as interstellar dust.
Read
May 3, 2019Oh muse, aid me, by God's toe and the bones of saints' uncounted.
The problem with reviewing this book, is this book, but that is narrow minded of me, sorry, a problem with reviewing this book, is this book, another problem with reviewing this book, is reviewing. Perhaps there are further valid difficulties to list, I would not like to deny that possibility.
So I could say it is unique, but I haven't read all the books that ever there were so that could be lying, it is offbeat and weird but not so off beat or that weird, I could say it is unconventional but then when I tell you that the story, such as it is, is girl meets boy, boy is distracted by the riper charms of a plumper girl who also was born and bred in the capital , girl is left alone and experiences the conclusion of the story, you will see that I barely understand the first thing about language, literature, stories, culture or the typical habits of human persons.
If we strained the published book and in the colander or sieve or cheesecloth, and caught only the story and lost the story telling then we would be looking at maybe twelve pages rather than the seventy-seven printed ones in which a narrator who is not the author tells us about the nature of the characters and in a hagiographic humility topos tells us how inadequate he is as a narrator - look I am trying to do the same thing, which shows the awful power of the author Clarice Lispector even though she is not only dead but in Brazil and as is well known running water insulates the harassed vulnerable person from all kinds of witches, demons, and foreign authors if not from from micro plastics or the perils of world trade - neither of which feature in this novel except as objects of wonder and delight.
So what can I say? I don't know, what can I say? It is and is not a picaresque story, perhaps if you looked only at the boy, you might reshape it as a picaresque story set in 20th century Brazil. We're certainly down at that kind of level, a demi-monde of criminals, the potential criminal, the criminally undereducated and abused, with a singular swagger to the narration. It might be a hagiography, a political and social protest story, an explosion of words about gender and identity. But maybe it is all in the eye of the beholder, I don't know any more and I didn't know any way even as I read it.
The fates, if you pardon me, arse about. And as a result of this I am required to be obliged to travel, however as apparently I have free will, or don't, I invariably take a book or two with me . On a previous iteration of this journey I travelled with , I read it once on the outward journey and again on the return, this time with Hour of the Star and I didn't even read it once, but the journey was no longer, however I may have been distracted by the newspaper, which contained no news that I wanted to read, despite being the only witness I am unwilling to comment further on this irrelevant non-event. But I can say that is worth reading. Hour of the Star is somehow beyond recommendation. Before handing over to her narrator, Clarice, that sweet heart, that Lispector, dedicates her tale to: Robert and Clara Schumann, Beethoven, Bach, Chopin, Stravinsky, Richard Strauss, Debussy, Marlos Nobre, Prokofiev, Carl Orff, Schoenberg, the twelve-tone composers, and to the electronic composers. Now I don't know a thing about Marlos Nobre, but reading through these seventy-seven pages I could hear the resonances of all the others. If that doesn't make any kind of sense to you then you have to read it for yourself, and if you can already taste it on your tongue, then you'll want to read it for yourself. And that's it. Vivat Clarice .
The problem with reviewing this book, is this book, but that is narrow minded of me, sorry, a problem with reviewing this book, is this book, another problem with reviewing this book, is reviewing. Perhaps there are further valid difficulties to list, I would not like to deny that possibility.
So I could say it is unique, but I haven't read all the books that ever there were so that could be lying, it is offbeat and weird but not so off beat or that weird, I could say it is unconventional but then when I tell you that the story, such as it is, is girl meets boy, boy is distracted by the riper charms of a plumper girl who also was born and bred in the capital , girl is left alone and experiences the conclusion of the story, you will see that I barely understand the first thing about language, literature, stories, culture or the typical habits of human persons.
If we strained the published book and in the colander or sieve or cheesecloth, and caught only the story and lost the story telling then we would be looking at maybe twelve pages rather than the seventy-seven printed ones in which a narrator who is not the author tells us about the nature of the characters and in a hagiographic humility topos tells us how inadequate he is as a narrator - look I am trying to do the same thing, which shows the awful power of the author Clarice Lispector even though she is not only dead but in Brazil and as is well known running water insulates the harassed vulnerable person from all kinds of witches, demons, and foreign authors if not from from micro plastics or the perils of world trade - neither of which feature in this novel except as objects of wonder and delight.
So what can I say? I don't know, what can I say? It is and is not a picaresque story, perhaps if you looked only at the boy, you might reshape it as a picaresque story set in 20th century Brazil. We're certainly down at that kind of level, a demi-monde of criminals, the potential criminal, the criminally undereducated and abused, with a singular swagger to the narration. It might be a hagiography, a political and social protest story, an explosion of words about gender and identity. But maybe it is all in the eye of the beholder, I don't know any more and I didn't know any way even as I read it.
The fates, if you pardon me, arse about. And as a result of this I am required to be obliged to travel, however as apparently I have free will, or don't, I invariably take a book or two with me . On a previous iteration of this journey I travelled with , I read it once on the outward journey and again on the return, this time with Hour of the Star and I didn't even read it once, but the journey was no longer, however I may have been distracted by the newspaper, which contained no news that I wanted to read, despite being the only witness I am unwilling to comment further on this irrelevant non-event. But I can say that is worth reading. Hour of the Star is somehow beyond recommendation. Before handing over to her narrator, Clarice, that sweet heart, that Lispector, dedicates her tale to: Robert and Clara Schumann, Beethoven, Bach, Chopin, Stravinsky, Richard Strauss, Debussy, Marlos Nobre, Prokofiev, Carl Orff, Schoenberg, the twelve-tone composers, and to the electronic composers. Now I don't know a thing about Marlos Nobre, but reading through these seventy-seven pages I could hear the resonances of all the others. If that doesn't make any kind of sense to you then you have to read it for yourself, and if you can already taste it on your tongue, then you'll want to read it for yourself. And that's it. Vivat Clarice .
October 10, 2022
賴賳丕賰 賵賴賳丕 賵賮賷 丕賱賲丿賳 賰賱賴丕 賵丕賱賯乇賶 賵丕賱賵丿賷丕賳 賵丕賱亘丨丕乇 賵丕賱氐丨丕乇賷 賵丕賱匕丕賰乇丞 亘爻毓鬲賴丕 丕賱卮丕爻毓丞 丕賱鬲賷 鬲噩匕亘 丕賱毓丕賱賲 賰卮亘賰丞 毓賳賰亘賵鬲 爻鬲賯賱賾丿賴丕 丕賱鬲賰賳賵賱賵噩賷丕 賵賱賳 鬲賯賷賾丿賴丕貙 爻鬲噩丿 鬲賱賰 丕賱卮禺氐賷丞 丕賱鬲賷 兀丨囟乇鬲賴丕 廿賱賷賰 賰賱丕乇賷爻 賱賷爻亘賰鬲賵乇 (1920- 1977賲) 賲賳 丨丕乇丕丞 亘乇丕夭賷賱賷丞 囟賷賯丞貙 卮禺氐賷丞 賲兀爻丕賵賷丞 賱丕 鬲丿乇賷 賲丕 丕賱賲兀爻丕丞貙 乇亘賲丕 鬲孬賷乇 爻禺乇賷丞 丕賱丌禺乇賷賳 賵賱丕鬲丿乇賷 賲丕 賮賷 鬲賱賰 丕賱囟丨賰丕鬲 丕賱亘賱賴丕亍 賲賳 爻賵丿丕賵賷丞貙 鬲爻鬲賲毓 廿賱賶 丕賱廿匕丕毓丞 賵賱丕 鬲丿乇賷 賲丕 噩丿賵賶 賲丕 鬲丨卮乇賴 賮賷 賳賮爻賴丕 鬲賱賰 丕賱賲毓賱賵賲丕鬲 丕賱賲卮鬲鬲丞貙 賮賷 丕賱丨賯賷賯丞 賰賱丕乇賷爻丕 賱賲 鬲爻鬲胤毓 兀賳 鬲氐丕丨亘賴丕 賮賲鬲丕亘毓鬲賴丕 賳賯胤丞 兀賱賲 鬲鬲爻毓 賱鬲氐亘丨 賲丨賷胤丕 賮賷 丕賱賳賮爻 賷亘鬲賱毓 賰賱 賮乇丨丞 夭丕卅賮丞 兀賵 兀賲賱 毓丕乇囟貙 鬲鬲乇賰 賰賱丕乇賷爻 賲賴賲丞 廿丨囟丕乇賴丕 賱卮禺氐賷丞 賲丐賱賮 賷亘丨孬 毓賳 賯氐丞貙 賰氐賷賾丕丿 丕賱鬲賯胤 爻賲賰丞 賲賳 賳賴乇 丕賱丨賷丕丞 賵賲丕 毓賱賷賴 爻賵賶 兀賳 賷賯賱亘賴丕 毓賱賶 賵賴噩 丕賱丨賰賷貙 丕賱賲丐賱賮 丕賱丿丕禺賱賷 賲爻賰賷賳 兀賷囟丕 賮賴賵 賷鬲兀賱賲 賲賳 兀噩賱 賮鬲丕鬲賴 丕賱鬲賷 賱賷爻鬲 爻賵賶 兀丨丿 丕賱賲毓丕賳賷 丕賱氐乇賷丨丞 丕賱賲胤乇賵丨丞 賮賷 丕賱胤乇賷賯貙 賰賷賮 賷氐賳毓 賲賳賴丕 丿乇丕賲丕責 爻賷胤賵賱 丨丿賷孬 丕賱賲丐賱賮 丕賱卮亘丨 毓賳 賲丕賴賷丞 丕賱賮賳 丕賱乇賵丕卅賷 貙 乇亘賲丕 賷囟噩乇賰 賯賱賷賱丕 賱賰賳賴 賲賴賲 賱賱賳賯賾丕丿 丕賱匕賷賳 賷賱賴孬賵賳 禺賱賮 爻賷賲賷丕卅賷丕鬲 丕賱丨丿丕孬丞 賮賷 丕賱丌丿丕亘 丕賱賲丨賱賷丞 賵丕賱賲賯丕乇賳丞 賵丕賱毓丕賱賲賷丞貙 賵丨賷賳賲丕 賷賰賵賳 丕賱賯氐 丕賱卮丕乇丨貙 兀賵 賲丕賵乇丕亍 丕賱爻乇丿貙 賲賵囟賵毓丕 乇賵丕卅賷丕 爻賷爻毓丿 丕賱亘丕丨孬 賰孬賷乇丕 賱兀賳賴 賵噩丿 丕賱丨丿丕孬丞 賮賷 丨賷丕丞 賰丕賱賲賵鬲 賵賲賵鬲 乇丨賷賲 亘丕賱丨賷丕丞貙 賲孬賱賲丕 爻賷爻毓丿 亘鬲丨賱賷賱 丕賱毓賳賵丕賳 丕賱匕賷 賷賯賷賲 賲賮丕乇賯丞 賲毓 丕賱賲丨鬲賵賶貙 賮爻丕毓丞 丕賱賳噩賲丞 賴賷 賱丨馗丞 賳賴丕賷丞 賲賳 賱賲 鬲賲爻賴賲 賳卮賵丞 丕賱丨賷丕丞 兀亘丿丕
賱賲丕匕丕 丕禺鬲乇毓鬲 丕賱賲丐賱賮丞 賰賱丕乇賷爻 賱賷爻亘賷賰鬲賵乇 卮禺氐賷丞 丕賱賲丐賱賮 丕賱丿丕禺賱賷 賱賰賷 賱丕 賷鬲氐賵乇 丕賱賯丕乇卅 兀賳賴丕 丕賱乇丕賵賷丞責 賴賱 賱賯爻賵丞 丕賱賲賵囟賵毓 賮賯胤責 兀馗賳 兀賳 丕賱爻亘亘 丕賱噩賵賴乇賷 賴賵 丕賱賮賰乇丞 賳賮爻賴丕貙 賮丕賱賲丐賱賮 丕賱丿丕禺賱賷 丕賱匕賷 賷賯賵賲 亘丿賵乇 丕賱乇丕賵賷貙 賱丕 賷兀鬲賷 亘卮禺氐賷鬲賴 丕賱賲兀爻丕賵賷丞 賲賳 卮賵丕乇毓 丕賱賲丿賷賳丞 賱鬲賰賵賳 丨丕賱丞 賲毓賷賳丞 賲丨丿丿丞 囟毓賷賮丞 賲賳賴丕乇丞 賲禺丿賵毓丞 賵丕賴賲丞貙 兀賵 廿丨丿賶 丕賱卮禺氐賷丕鬲 丕賱鬲賷 鬲賲孬賱 胤亘賯丞 兀賵 鬲卮賷乇 廿賱賶 賳賵毓賷丞 賲賳 丕賱賳丕爻責 賱丕 廿賳賴丕 賲毓丕丿賱 丕賱鬲噩乇亘丞 丕賱亘卮乇賷丞貙 賱匕賱賰 賮賴賷 鬲賰丕丿 鬲賰賵賳 氐賵乇丞 毓賲賷賯丞 賲賳 丕賱賲丐賱賮丞 匕丕鬲賴丕貙 丕賱賲丐賱賮丞 賮賷 兀夭賲鬲賴丕 丕賱賵噩賵丿賷丞 丕賱賲毓乇賮賷丞 丕賱鬲賷 賷丿丕乇賷賴丕 丕賱賵噩賵丿 丕賱丕噩鬲賲丕毓賷 亘賯卮乇鬲賴 丕賱亘乇丕賯丞 丕賱賴卮丞貙 賵賲毓馗賲賳丕 賷丿乇賰 賰賲 鬲丿丕乇賷 丕賱兀賯賳毓丞 囟毓賮丕 賳禺賮賷賴 賮賷 禺夭丕賳鬲賳丕 卮亘賴 丕賱賮丕乇睾丞
乇賵丕賷丞 賱賳 鬲賳爻丕賴丕貙 賵賱賳 鬲賳爻賶 卮禺氐賷鬲賴丕 丕賱賲丨賵乇賷丞貙 賵賱賳 鬲賳爻賶 丕賱兀丿賷亘丞 丕賱亘乇丕夭賷賱賷丞 賰賱丕乇賷爻 賱賷爻亘賰鬲賵乇丕賱鬲賷 賲丕鬲鬲 賯亘賷賱 賮噩乇 賷賵賲 賲賷賱丕丿賴丕 丕賱爻丕亘毓 賵丕賱禺賲爻賷賳貙 賵爻鬲卮賰乇 賲丕噩丿 丕賱噩亘丕賱賷 丕賱賲鬲乇噩賲 丕賱匕賷 鬲丨賲賱 毓亘亍 賳賯賱 賳氐 賷賱賯賷 亘氐賷氐 囟賵亍 毓賱賶 毓匕丕亘 丕賱亘卮乇賷丞
賱賲丕匕丕 丕禺鬲乇毓鬲 丕賱賲丐賱賮丞 賰賱丕乇賷爻 賱賷爻亘賷賰鬲賵乇 卮禺氐賷丞 丕賱賲丐賱賮 丕賱丿丕禺賱賷 賱賰賷 賱丕 賷鬲氐賵乇 丕賱賯丕乇卅 兀賳賴丕 丕賱乇丕賵賷丞責 賴賱 賱賯爻賵丞 丕賱賲賵囟賵毓 賮賯胤責 兀馗賳 兀賳 丕賱爻亘亘 丕賱噩賵賴乇賷 賴賵 丕賱賮賰乇丞 賳賮爻賴丕貙 賮丕賱賲丐賱賮 丕賱丿丕禺賱賷 丕賱匕賷 賷賯賵賲 亘丿賵乇 丕賱乇丕賵賷貙 賱丕 賷兀鬲賷 亘卮禺氐賷鬲賴 丕賱賲兀爻丕賵賷丞 賲賳 卮賵丕乇毓 丕賱賲丿賷賳丞 賱鬲賰賵賳 丨丕賱丞 賲毓賷賳丞 賲丨丿丿丞 囟毓賷賮丞 賲賳賴丕乇丞 賲禺丿賵毓丞 賵丕賴賲丞貙 兀賵 廿丨丿賶 丕賱卮禺氐賷丕鬲 丕賱鬲賷 鬲賲孬賱 胤亘賯丞 兀賵 鬲卮賷乇 廿賱賶 賳賵毓賷丞 賲賳 丕賱賳丕爻責 賱丕 廿賳賴丕 賲毓丕丿賱 丕賱鬲噩乇亘丞 丕賱亘卮乇賷丞貙 賱匕賱賰 賮賴賷 鬲賰丕丿 鬲賰賵賳 氐賵乇丞 毓賲賷賯丞 賲賳 丕賱賲丐賱賮丞 匕丕鬲賴丕貙 丕賱賲丐賱賮丞 賮賷 兀夭賲鬲賴丕 丕賱賵噩賵丿賷丞 丕賱賲毓乇賮賷丞 丕賱鬲賷 賷丿丕乇賷賴丕 丕賱賵噩賵丿 丕賱丕噩鬲賲丕毓賷 亘賯卮乇鬲賴 丕賱亘乇丕賯丞 丕賱賴卮丞貙 賵賲毓馗賲賳丕 賷丿乇賰 賰賲 鬲丿丕乇賷 丕賱兀賯賳毓丞 囟毓賮丕 賳禺賮賷賴 賮賷 禺夭丕賳鬲賳丕 卮亘賴 丕賱賮丕乇睾丞
乇賵丕賷丞 賱賳 鬲賳爻丕賴丕貙 賵賱賳 鬲賳爻賶 卮禺氐賷鬲賴丕 丕賱賲丨賵乇賷丞貙 賵賱賳 鬲賳爻賶 丕賱兀丿賷亘丞 丕賱亘乇丕夭賷賱賷丞 賰賱丕乇賷爻 賱賷爻亘賰鬲賵乇丕賱鬲賷 賲丕鬲鬲 賯亘賷賱 賮噩乇 賷賵賲 賲賷賱丕丿賴丕 丕賱爻丕亘毓 賵丕賱禺賲爻賷賳貙 賵爻鬲卮賰乇 賲丕噩丿 丕賱噩亘丕賱賷 丕賱賲鬲乇噩賲 丕賱匕賷 鬲丨賲賱 毓亘亍 賳賯賱 賳氐 賷賱賯賷 亘氐賷氐 囟賵亍 毓賱賶 毓匕丕亘 丕賱亘卮乇賷丞
October 16, 2024
'The Hour of the Star' hits you like a stray bullet. It is poignant, beautiful and it makes one feel uncomfortable. In spite of its poetic irony it makes you sad not because it is a sad story of an 'invisible' girl from favelas who is deprived of everything. It is told by the insecure but sympathetic philospher constantly diverging from main subject (Rodrigo is gradually becoming as important as Macab茅a is to us).
According to the logic of the story poor Macab茅a has her 'hour of the star' too early but it seems the author thinks this is the most significant event in her miserable life when she really feels alive (although it looks absurd). Unlike Macab茅a, most of us feel loved and needed but in the long run are we so different from her when it comes to 'the hour of the star'?
'She believed in angels, and, because she believed, they existed.'
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'Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?'
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'I ask myself: is every story that has ever been written in this world, a story of suffering and affliction?'
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'For at the hour of death you became a celebrated film star, it is a moment of glory for everyone, when the choral music scales the top notes.'
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'And even sadness was also something for rich people, for people who could afford it, for people who didn鈥檛 have anything better to do. Sadness was a luxury.'
According to the logic of the story poor Macab茅a has her 'hour of the star' too early but it seems the author thinks this is the most significant event in her miserable life when she really feels alive (although it looks absurd). Unlike Macab茅a, most of us feel loved and needed but in the long run are we so different from her when it comes to 'the hour of the star'?
'She believed in angels, and, because she believed, they existed.'
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
'Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?'
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
'I ask myself: is every story that has ever been written in this world, a story of suffering and affliction?'
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
'For at the hour of death you became a celebrated film star, it is a moment of glory for everyone, when the choral music scales the top notes.'
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
'And even sadness was also something for rich people, for people who could afford it, for people who didn鈥檛 have anything better to do. Sadness was a luxury.'
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