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A review by paperrcuts
Hour of the Star by Clarice Lispector
5.0
"Yes, but don’t forget that to write anything at all my basic material is the word. So that’s why this story will be made of words that gather in sentences and from these a secret meaning emanates that goes beyond words and sentences. Naturally, like every writer I’m tempted to use succulent terms: I know splendid adjectives, meaty nouns, and verbs so slender that they travel sharp through the air about to go into action, since words are actions, don’t you agree? I’m not going to adorn the word because if I touch the girl’s bread the bread will turn to gold — and the girl (she’s nineteen) the girl wouldn’t be able to bite it, dying of hunger. So I have to speak simply to capture her delicate and vague existence. I humbly limit myself — without trumpeting my humility for then it wouldn’t be humble — I limit myself to telling of the lame adventures of a girl in a city that’s entirely against her. She who should have stayed in the backlands of Alagoas in a cotton dress and without any typewriter [...]
Forgive me but I’m going to keep talking about me who am unknown to myself, and as I write I’m a bit surprised because I discover I have a destiny. Who hasn’t ever wondered: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?
Before that, I want to declare that this girl doesn’t know herself except from living aimlessly. If she was dumb enough to ask herself “who am I?” she would fall flat on her face. Because “who am I?” creates a need. And how can you satisfy that need? Those who wonder are incomplete.
The person I’m going to talk about is so dumb that she sometimes smiles at other people on the street. Nobody smiles back because they don’t even look at her."
Forgive me but I’m going to keep talking about me who am unknown to myself, and as I write I’m a bit surprised because I discover I have a destiny. Who hasn’t ever wondered: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?
Before that, I want to declare that this girl doesn’t know herself except from living aimlessly. If she was dumb enough to ask herself “who am I?” she would fall flat on her face. Because “who am I?” creates a need. And how can you satisfy that need? Those who wonder are incomplete.
The person I’m going to talk about is so dumb that she sometimes smiles at other people on the street. Nobody smiles back because they don’t even look at her."