Every time I reread this I find a different lens to view it through based on where I'm at in my life at the time. I read it this time as a petit-bourgeois woman coming to terms (in a Kierkegaard-y leap of faith) with the understanding of class as identity and capitalist individualism as a plague. Along the way she touches on language and its incoherence, human/nonhuman relationships, and art as a mode of destroying the self. This book simply demands parallel readings of Donna Haraway and Wittgenstein and the like. Absolutely lovely as always and I never quite know how Lispector does it.