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reading clarice lispector’s works often feels transcendental, and this was no different. but this one especially felt like running through a waterfall or a cascade of words rather than physically reading pages. the cadence and rhythm of lispector’s writing in this felt oddly hypnotic, and I felt like i was watching her stretch and fold sentences, making literature malleable in her hands. kind of a spiritual experience in a way.

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pre-read

love clarice lispector so much i'm trying to pace myself with her books, like how i'm saving jane austen's sandition for my deathbed so i continue to have a will to live.