Perto do Coração Selvagem

Perto do Coração Selvagem La Totalidad Del Libro Es Un Milagro De Equilibrio, Combinando La Lucidez Intelectual De Los Personajes De Dostoievski Con La Pureza De Un Ni O Dinah Silveyra De Queiroz Cerca Del Coraz N Salvaje Es La Mejor Novela Escrita Por Una Mujer En La Lengua PortuguesaL Do Ivo Clarice Lispector Ha Desplazado El Centro De Gravedad Alrededor Del Cual La Novela Brasile A Ha Estado Girando Desde Hace A Os Jorge De Lima

Clarice 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

☄ [PDF / Epub] ☃ Perto do Coração Selvagem By Clarice Lispector ✓ –
  • Paperback
  • 208 pages
  • Perto do Coração Selvagem
  • Clarice Lispector
  • Spanish
  • 19 May 2019
  • 9789871772247

10 thoughts on “Perto do Coração Selvagem

  1. says:

    Fleetingly wonderful All of me swims, floats, crosses what exists with my nerves, I am nothing but a desire, anger, vagueness, as impalpable as energy Joana and L dia two women, two sides of one medal Together, they would have been a deity On their own, they are two people sharing the love of one man, Ot vio, who is floating between the stable, motherly safety of L dia, and the wild, independent Joana, who can t be owned by anyone Either I light up and am wonderful, fleetingly wonderful, or I am obscure, wrapped in curtains L dia, whatever she is, is immutable, always with the same bright base Why did this young, wild, passionate tale touch me so much Why is it so hard to put into words the admiration I felt for the young woman Joana, who with seeming ease understands herself and her incompatibility with other people And who is willing to accept it too Her vision of the world is tolerant and open minded, and she doesn t expect any hypothetical yet quite unnecessary gods to know than she does herself I don t know a thing, I am able to give birth to a child and I don t know a thing God will receive my humility and will say I was able to give birth to a world and I don t know a thing No reproach, no demands, no rules, no dogma Just a goddess giving birth to a first child feeling vulnerable and inexperienced, and destined to make mistakes and lose control when the child grows up and claims an independent life I like that notion of a deity the first one I have come across which doesn t fill me with anger, guilt and nauseating frustration at the injustice of it all Unfortunately, the beauty of the idea doesn t make it any true than other, less pretty cosmic conceptions And Joana knows that, instinctively, rejecting the idea of one truth, one path to a happiness that symbolises a stasis she can t embrace What comes after happiness Her question resonates with my childhood memories of the fairytale endings And they lived happily ever after those optimistic words were never explained, the reader was never introduced to the concept of HOW happiness would be achieved, forever after that most vital part of the eternal question always left unanswered What a brilliant thing for Joana to ask Most people move between the security of the life L dia represents and the wish to acknowledge the wild in the soul that Joana symbolises, and only very few people dare to choose being alone in the world in order to feel fully alive, without being understood Joana s conception of marriage shows her understanding of the human dilemma, and explains her unwillingness to blindly submit to a happiness that restricts her freedom And being a married woman, that is, a person with her destiny all mapped out From then on all you do is wait to die I thought not even the freedom to be unhappy is preserved because you are dragging another person around with you There is someone who is always observing you, who scrutinizes you, who sees your every move And even the weariness of living has a certain beauty when it is born alone and desperate I thought But as a couple, eating the same bland bread every day, watching your own defeat in the other person s defeat All this without considering the weight of your habits reflected in the other person s habits, the weight of the common bed, the common table, the common life, preparing and threatening the common death I always said never And yet she married, and she didn t know why That is life in a nutshell, fluctuating between sad happiness and sweet sadness, between boring, death invoking routine and exciting, scary, lonely wild life To know that you can be and feel both is to be human a free, thinking, living human.Fleetingly wonderful

  2. says:

    Where does music go when it s not playing she asked herself And disarmed she would answer May they make a harp out of my nerves when I die.A quest for measuring the eternity and finding some sense in defining the immortality while the object of all desires remains nothing but one s own life A truly wild heart Like a breath of fresh, melancholic air, Clarice Lispector finally entered my world and brought along an exquisite gift of precious reflections made out of the lyrical strands of dazzling sentences A sororal feeling ascended, settled down and went away only to come back with full force after small intervals of opening and closing each new chapter of this astonishing literary feat now she was sadly a happy woman A childhood full of questions leading up to womanhood full of unsure answers, the journey of Joana s life comprises of rampant jumps and reckless missteps between a dark abyss and the bright limitless sky A person of extremes and yet it s not hard to imagine her universe In fact, it was dangerously easy for me to understand her and making out her silhouette even from a good distance A sense of affinity was present throughout as if a part of me wandered through some anonymous streets without my knowledge and poured her heart out to another wandered soul Some of those shared thoughts if splashed on a piece of paper would form a familiar picture of words written in this book, which made me ignore the apparent flaws in Joana s character and admire her plunge into a dreamy reality An oxymoronic joy was thus realized by contemplating every random feeling which either led to articulated ramblings or enthralling discoveries Maybe women s divinity wasn t specific, but merely resided in the fact of their existence Yes, yes, there was the truth they existed than other people, they were the symbol of the thing in the thing itself And woman was mystery in itself, she discovered There was in all of them a quality of raw material, something that might one day define itself but which was never realized, because its real essence was becoming Wasn t it precisely through this that the past was united with the future and with all times I was spellbound after reading the aforementioned quote and my mind went back and forth to that young girl of 23, sitting in her room, not alone but in the enchanting company of her sparkling words and innocently creating a literary work which is undeniably worthy of being called a masterpiece She possibly saved her life through writing but she has definitely given me a new lifeline of her magical thoughts Whether one read in order to connect or to walk on the uncharted paths, the satisfaction rendered from few books is hard to describe In that case, only a short, heartfelt Thank You can be directed towards the said book and its respected author So, Thank You, Clarice I m clearly besotted I don t feel madness in my wish to bite stars, but the earth still exists And because the first truth is in the earth and the body If the twinkling of the stars pains me, if this distant communication is possible, it is because something almost like a star quivers within me.A Beauty to BeholdClarice Lispector

  3. says:

    Clarice Lispector by Giorgio de Chirico, 1945The title of this book is a phrase from James Joyce s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man he was alone, he was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life. According to the introduction, Clarice Lispector didn t choose the title and hadn t actually read any Joyce at that point in her life The title was chosen by a male friend and the bright pink cover of the first edition was chosen by a man in the publishing wing of the paper she worked for The terms of payment were also chosen by others, one hundred copies for the author to keep sell from a print run of one thousand.So it seems as if Lispector or less sleepwalked through the preparation of her book for publishing, allowing others to make all the important decisions But when we realise that she had written the book over a very short period while working full time as a journalist, studying for a law degree, and obeying the conventions of 1942 Brazilian society by getting formally engaged then we are less surprised When did she sleep, never mind make decisions about her book While I was reading this book, I wondered what title Lispector would have picked for the work she described as a groping in the darkness if the choice had been hers and I figured that the words night and sleep might have been involved Joana, the main voice of this story, seems to live in a penumbral space between day and night She floats through daytime as if it was a little bit of dream mixed with reality, and inhabits the night as if darkness were something concrete, the dense, dark night was cut down the middle, split into two black blocks of sleep Where was she Between the two pieces, looking at them the one she had already slept and the one she had yet to sleep , isolated in the timeless and the spaceless, an empty gap.This stretch would be subtracted from her years of life. Night has helped to shape Joana s being, her courage had developed with the light off. Each night, she approaches sleeping as if it was an adventure, falling from the easy clarity in which she lived into the same mystery, dark and cool, crossing darkness Dying and being reborn. The we read about Joana, the we realize that like day and night, and brightness and darkness, she is full of contradictions and oppositions She was sadly a happy woman.Happiness was erasing her, erasing her Joana believes that it is impossible to ever put into words the feelings she experiences since doing so will transform them into something other the most curious thing is that the moment I try to speak not only do I fail to express what I feel but what I feel slowly becomes what I say Or at least what makes me act is not, most certainly, what I feel but what I say. In spite of Lispector s apparently foreign sounding Portuguese she was born in the Ukraine which the translator has translated into slightly foreign sounding English, the author somehow succeeds in conveying the truth and meaning of Joana s conflicting emotions to the reader There is a naturalness and spontaneity about the writing that makes the many impossibilities in the text possible I can imagine that if anyone set out consciously to write the way Lispector does, or if she herself tried to repeat this kind of writing, it might not work so well It works here because there are twenty three years of uncensored feeling poured into it That s the only explanation I can come up with.

  4. says:

    NELLA GOCCIA DI TEMPO CHE VENIVAClarice Lispector 10 dicembre 1920 e el nyk, Ucraina 9 dicembre 1977, Rio de Janeiro.Che cosa si ottiene quando si felici, dopo che si felici che cosa succede, cosa viene Essere felici serve a raggiungere che cosa Chiede la piccola Joana alla sua insegnante.Cresciuta, Joana chiede invece al marito Hai mai pensato che un punto, un unico punto senza dimensioni, il massimo della solitudine Un punto non pu contare neppure su se stesso, non c in lui n fu n non fu.Della trama non si pu parlare perch non c In confronto a Lispector, Virginia Woolf Dumas.Quella poca trama che emerge pi che altro da intuire, trasmessa al lettore per illuminazioni allucinatorie, confonde presente e passato, mescola realt e immaginazione, incrocia l a con la rabbia, che forse perfino odio.Joana bambina, parla col padre, poi pi cresciuta, il padre muore, va a vivere con la zia, poi in collegio, si sposa, il marito, Ot vio, cominciamo a conoscerlo presto perch come dicevo prima e dopo vanno di pari passo, poi Joana partorisce, ama, odia, tradisce, tradita, abbandonata E poi Nulla Tutto La vita E la morte.Joana, e qualcosa mi fa credere che l impressione si ripeterebbe leggendo anche altre opere di Lispector, quelle della maturit , sembra preda di un tumulto mistico Che anche flusso mistico O, estasi mistica.Si tratta di un misticismo esistenziale, un misticismo della Natura non mi pare si possa parlare di fede in dio, questo dio o quell altro.I suoi personaggi, questa Joana, sono alla ricerca di un senso delle cose e dell essere Una ricerca che si svolge e si esprime per frammenti, flash, ripetizioni e variazioni stati di coscienza enigmatici, collassi dell identit personale, fughe impossibili dagli ordini stabilitili definisce Alfredo Giuliani nella quarta e nel suo articolo su Repubblica intitolato Debutto selvaggio del 27 settembre 1987.Esordio fulminante, primo libro pubblicato quando la bella ucraina cresciuta in Brasile sin da piccola, Greta Garbo che incontra Marlene Dietrich, quando Clarice aveva solo ventitre anni e studiava legge Lispector viene sempre avvicinata a Joyce e Virginia Woolf da Joyce arriva il titolo di questo suo primo romanzo, la frase presa dal Dedalus messa in esergo Il flusso di coscienza la incastra tra lo scrittore irlandese e la scrittrice inglese Ma a me ricorda pi di tutti Djuna Barnes E sullo stream of consciousness, Emanuele Trevi cos si esprime Il fibrillante, imprevedibile modernismo dell autrice rifugge da un impiego sistematico del flusso di coscienza Se ogni tecnica una specie di specchio nel mondo, qui la superficie riflettente appare deliberatamente infranta in minuscoli pezzi La prima e la terza persona si accavallano creando prospettive multiple, dal monologo che scaturisce dal pi buio fondo dell identit allo sguardo dall alto di una voce narrante che sa tutto e quasi se ne rammarica Non c regola apparente nei trapassi Pi del flusso di coscienza, allora, conta il trascorrere, di quella coscienza, da un individuo all altro, tanto pi vicina alla sua natura selvaggia quanto pi indifferenziata, molteplice come i colori ma unica come la luce che li genera Ed cos che nel suo primo libro Clarice pu disegnare un autoritratto che anche il racconto di un sofferto m nage trois, sovrapponendo ed alternando con grande sapienza i punti di vista, come se pensieri e sentimenti fossero malattie virali che circolano fra gli attori del dramma corrodendo i limiti dell identit e dell alterit , facendo di ognuno lo specchio segreto di chi gli sta di fronte. Il ritratto che Giorgio De Chirico fece di Clarice Lispector nella primavera del 1945.P.S.https watch v ohHP1Prima e unica intervista televisiva di Clarice Lispector, febbraio 1977.

  5. says:

    He was alone He was unheeded, happy and near to the wild heart of life._James Joyce. Near to the Wild Heart is a tribute to James Joyce insofar as the title is taken from one of his novels under a writer s early influence that is a vital element in the commencement and development of a new talent with her pen out, uncapped It is the delicate abyss of disorder carefully arranged with the abrasive and highly inquisitive stream of thought that marks her out, indeed, puts her above so many half measures, among the crowd of established fictionists, just with her one book stride, accomplished at the youthful age of 23, when most people are happy to indulge in breathtaking romantic fantasies or truculent defiance of the status quo whatever that might be as a credible explanation of the existential puzzle now she was sadly a happy woman.Clarice shook me out of my somnolent contentment and pulled me into a mirror house of transcendental imagery, leaving me trapped among reflections of illusion of the contorted self, standing at the elusive frontier between reality and imagination, between the physical and the mental, among a shadow cast of flickering thoughts like the flame of a candle, dully luminous and coldly pale, yet with the power to burn the complacent moth into nonexistence When that happened, I became the moth and she became the candle Freedom isn t enough What I desire doesn t have a name yet.As with most good novels that invent a set of parameters to define the use of language, to say nothing of the dazzling images that flood the reader s consciousness, Near to the Wild Heart, too, cannot be stripped down to its plot and content Whether she s a motherless child being brought up by the absentminded father, or living at her aunt s not knowing why her father abandoned her he s dead , or when she gets married to Otavio to escape the terror of happiness i.e love that s eating her from the inside, every stage in Joanna s life is a reflection painfully embedded in the memory of things past and future, gyrating their way out of the momentary present It is the singular continuation of the intolerable agitation of the soul which is captured in a dynamic image that ironically bespeaks a sharper state of dejection, exhaustion, and ennui just when her life s path is laid out clearly ahead of her Clearly Really Joanna seems to be asking I perpetually go on inaugurating myself, opening and closing circles of life, throwing them aside, withered, impregnated with the past. Having been introduced to Clarice with her gem of a debut, I take delight in my sudden acquiescence in knowing for what awaits me in the rest of her novels inspiration sends pain throughout my body.October 15.

  6. says:

    Freedom isn t enough What I desire doesn t have a name yet It took me some time to understand that one can t please everyone And if you re trying then sooner than later you ll end up feeling only disappointment and emptiness Trying to pleasing others against your own desires and needs you only hurt yourself And nobody even notices that Oh, Clarice how did you do that, that like hurricane, after all this is how you were named, entered in my well ordered life With this novel, so honestly and deeply penetrating soul, I felt all these questions returned to me All these concerns and problems, big and small ones resounded in my head, reminding me myself when I was at your age.I started reading with some obvious associations Firstly, the title He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life , it is Joycean Stephen Dedalus in his quest of own identity.Then the cover, intriguing and unsettling, as from some futuristic dreamscape, where some woman is lying as if she was sleeping or waiting But for what Or whom Is she waiting for somebody to wake her up to the life Or maybe she prefers dreaming than living And so Joana is A little live egg according to her father, a viper for her aunt, betrayed by her husband Otavio Child, girl, woman And whom is she for herself Stranger, with wild animal inside her, always diffrent from others, distant, hidden behind own dreams Joana examining her life, her soul Joana in the mirrors, in the rain, in the stars Sadly a happy woman Thoughts flow through her mind incessantly, her soul scattered on millions atoms, sliding from one truth to the other, and still questions and questions What would become of Joana Prose is elliptical and hypnotic, reminds Virginia Woolf in Waves The plot almost doesn t exist, and if it s secondary, because what really matters here is Joana s inner life Only images, flashes and snatches, and self exploration to finally make her decision, to be triumphantly reborn I will surpass myself in waves, ah, Lord, and may everything come and fall upon me, even the incomprehension of myself at certain white moments because all I have to do is comply with myself and then nothing will block my path until death without fear, from any struggle or rest I will rise up as strong and beautiful as a young horse

  7. says:

    This is another book that has been on the to read shelf for a very long time My only previous experience of reading Lispector was Agua Viva, which was short but very difficult to follow, but her reputation is such that I felt I should try again, and her first book seemed a good place to start This one is also quite a difficult read the translation reflects the unusual linguistic style of the original, it is poetic and largely about emotions rather than actions there is a plot of sorts, as it follows episodes in the life of Juana from early childhood through to the decision to leave her unfaithful husband Ot vio In the early part of the book the childhood parts are alternated with her adult life.I am glad that I read this, but I really don t feel qualified to assess or review it adequately.

  8. says:

    She wanted to be reborn always, to sever everything that she had learned, that she had seen, and inaugurate herself in a new terrain where every tiny act had a meaning, where the air was breathed as if for the first time She had the feeling that life ran thick and slow inside her, bubbling like a hot sheet of lava Maybe she loved herself And what if, she thought distantly, a bugle suddenly cut through that mantle of night with its sharp sound and left the plains free, green and vast And then nervous white horses with rebellious neck and leg movements, almost flying, crossed rivers, mountains, valleys Thinking of them, she felt the cool air circulate inside herself as if it had come out of a cool, moist, hidden grotto in the middle of the desert Insomnia Lying awake in the dark, unable to sleep, thoughts running faster and wilder through your head, elegant arguments about life being chased by flights of fancy through phantasmagoric landscapes The vast majority of us forget all about these moments in the light of the new dawn Clarice Lispector chronicles her journey into the night in all its splendor and all its agony with amazing grace and uncompromising honesty, all the laudable for the young writer who penned this debut novel at only 23 years old I saw her stream of conscience compared positively with Joyce and Proust, but because it s been decades since I visited these two titans of literature, I would rather compare Clarice Lispector with two recent friends I made in my own imaginary journeys she is the lonely hunter lost in an ice palace, a bridge over troubled existentialist waters that brings together the loneliness of Carson McCullers with the lyricism of Tarjei Vesaas She is a poet of the disturbing and obscure pathways through the inner landscapes of a hungry, wild, free, curious and brilliant mind The only thing she hadn t got used to was sleeping Sleeping was an adventure every night, falling from the easy clarity in which she lived into the same mystery, dark and cool, crossing darkness Dying and being reborn The story of Clarice Lispector debut novel starts with Joana, a child prodigy, gifted with a rare sensibility for the natural world, a restlessness and a thirst for meaning Before the end of the book Joana will experience the loss of loved ones, life among strangers, physical passion and devotion to her husband, jealousy and depression But all these intrusions of the outside world pale in comparison with the brightness and intensity of her inner life Joana is both intriguing and aloof for the people around her, running one moment hot, the other icy cold and analytical, judgemental Yet for me she is consistent over the years in her enthusiasm for life in all its aspects, physical and metaphysical, and in her despair at the vastness and indifference of the universe.Any quotations taken out of context from this type of long, introspective novel is bound to be misleading and insufficient to capture the whole essence of the arguments, but for me they are still useful examples of the powerful personality and intimate confessions of the author Her thoughts were, once erected, garden statues and she looked at them as she followed her path through the garden There was a great, still moment, with nothing inside it She dilated her eyes, waited Nothing came Blank But suddenly the day was wound up and everthing spluttered to life again, the typewriter trotting, her father s cigarette smoking, the silence, the little leaves, the naked chickens, the light, things coming to life again with the urgency of a kettle on the boil Let us cry together, quietly For having suffered and continuing on so sweetly Tired pain in a simplified tear But this was a yearning for poetry, that I confess, God Let us sleep hand in hand The world rolls and somewhere out there are things I don t know Let us sleep on God and mystery, a quiet, fragile ship floating on the sea, behold sleep.Why was she so burning and light, like the air that comes from a stove whose lid is lifted The imagination grasped and possessed the future of the present, while the body was there at the beginning of the road, living at another pace, blind to the experiences of the spirit For a minute it seemed to her that she had already lived and was at the end And right afterwards, that everything has been blank until now, like an empty space, and that she could hear far off and muffled the din of life approaching, dense, frothy and violent, its tall waves cutting across the sky, drawing nearer, nearer to submerge her, to submerge her, drown her, asphyxiating her Just as the space surrounded by four walls has a specific value, provoked not so much because it is a space but because it is surrounded by walls, Otavio made her into something that wasn t her but himself and which Joana received out of pity for both, because both were incapable of freeing themselves through love, because she had meekly accepted her own fear of suffering, her inability to move beyond the frontier of revolt Besides how could she tie herself to a man without allowing him to imprison her How could she prevent him from developing his four walls over her body and soul And was there a way to have things without those things possessing her Sometimes she rebelled distantly life is long She feared the days, one after another, without surprises, of pure devotion to a man To a man who would freely use all of his wife s forces for his own bonfire, in a serene, unconscious sacrifice of everything that wasn t his own personality I carry on always inaugurating myself, opening and closing circles of life, tossing them aside, withered, full of the past Why so independent, why don t they merge into just one block, providing me with ballast Fact was they were too whole Moments so intense, red, condensed in themselves that they didn t need past or future in order to exist While music whirls around and develops, the dawn, the strong day and the night all live, with a constant note in the symphony, that of transformation It is music unsupported by things, space or time, the same color as life and death Life and death in ideas, isolated from pleasure and pain The distance that separates emotions from words I ve already thought about that And the most curious thing is that the moment I try to speak not only do I fail to express what I feel, but what I feel slowly becomes what I say Or at least what makes me act is not what I feel but what I say I am the light wave that has no other field but the sea, I thrash about, slide, fly, laughing, giving, sleeping, but woe is me, always in me, always in me Words are pebbles rolling in the river It wasn t happiness that she felt then, but what she felt was fluid, sweetly amorphous, resplendent instant, somber instant All of me swims, floats, crosses what exists with my nerves I am nothing but a desire, anger, vagueness, as impalpable as energy Highly recommended to students of human nature and lovers of introspective journeys.

  9. says:

    Timothy Leary s dead No, no, he s outside looking in. Mi dispiace davvero tanto, ho cercato con ogni buona volont se non di farmelo piacere almeno di comprenderlo ma ora io qui non ho nessun motivo per scrivere una falsa sviolinata soltanto perch piaciuto alla maggior parte di amici e vicini, e l unica verit che posso scrivere che l ho trovato cervellotico e farraginoso Quando ho iniziato a leggerlo non avevo idea di cosa aspettarmi un po per via del fatto che i vari commenti e recensioni mi hanno dipinto un quadro molto eterogeneo, ma anche e soprattutto per quella che la storia personale dell autrice nata in Ucraina, naturalizzata brasiliana, afferma di non avere nulla a che fare con il suo paese di origine, e di non averci mai nemmeno messo piede dal momento in cui finch era l l hanno sempre dovuta tenere in braccio ma Dio solo sa se non vero che si pu sentire la nostalgia per un qualcosa o per un luogo che non si mai conosciuto Io credo anzi che sia la forma di nostalgia pi profonda e dolorosa Del resto, il sangue non mente e gli occhi nemmeno una che assomiglia cos tanto a Marlene Dietrich non pu che essere europea dalla punta dei capelli fin nel midollo Tutte le attenzioni dell autrice sembrano essere qui irrimediabilmente calamitate da quel particolare momento della giornata e dunque della vita che occorre per ognuno di noi al risveglio, con modalit credo molto simili per tutti la luce debole e soffusa, l intera stanza si compone di diverse sfumature di grigi, tra le lenzuola indugiano ancora gli echi e i sentori dei sogni, la mente non pi del tutto addormentata ma non ancora del tutto sveglia e cosciente, e in tale stato pu accadere di essere iper ricettivi nei confronti di una qualche riflessione o sentimento particolare, e allo stesso modo pu accadere di ripromettersi e figurarsi magnifiche sorti e progressive, epici cambiamenti che poi verranno regolarmente sgonfiati e smontati dall inizio vero e proprio della giornata e dalla sua inevitabile routine Ecco, il libro pare essere un unica ed esagerata dilatazione di quei pochi minuti di semi incoscienza ogni frase e riflessione della protagonista ma anche del marito e anche dell amante del marito e dell amante di lei , lei da bambina ma anche da ragazzina e da adulta, ogni considerazione sembra scaturita da quelle condizioni anche quando il racconto si sta necessariamente svolgendo in un momento diverso dal risveglio E un fluttuare costante, un galleggiamento che a mio avviso e per i miei gusti si protrae troppo a lungo E un torpore troppo uniforme per poter durare oltre vent anni e per potersi posare uguale identico su pi personaggi Quel che ne esce, da tutto questo fluttuare, il quadro di un infanzia ma soprattutto di un adolescenza fatte di infelicit e di estrema difficolt per non dire impossibilit di rapportarsi con gli altri Di pi , la protagonista ha difficolt ad esprimersi persino con s stessa, tra s e s quel tutto, tutto ripetuto in maniera talmente ossessiva, sfibrante e delirante da non significare proprio niente di niente, mi ha fatto pensare ad uno stato di iperventilazione o ad uno stato allucinatorio O forse il contrario, forse c il bisogno di una qualche sostanza psicoattiva per agevolare l apertura di canali di comunicazione con il resto del mondo Uno stato di incoscienza che una costante, non ha sviluppo nel corso della lettura e non ha soluzione di continuit in questo senso pi un racconto che un romanzo Credo non vi sia dubbio alcuno circa il fatto che l autrice intendesse qui esprimere dolore, un male di vivere, una bestia che si dimena senza sapere bene da che parte rivolgersi Non saprei dire in quale misura questo dolore sia solo immaginato o veramente vissuto sulla propria pelle, ma propendo pi per la seconda ipotesi Tra queste pagine e tra tutto questo galleggiamento di pensieri in libert , c un dolore sordo e muto, radicato e inconsulto al punto da venire ingannevolmente percepito come una sorta di forza e selvaticit E visti il titolo e la citazione di Joyce da cui il titolo stesso tratto, il fluttuante stato allucinatorio viene associato in maniera un po troppo riduttiva e sbrigativa all essere artista Perch invece solo un cuore sanguinante, non c nessuna forza ma solo tanto dolore, mescolato con tanta solitudine e tanta immaturit L immaturit , ovviamente, del personaggio, mentre la giovane autrice alla sua opera prima dimostra di sapersi muovere con cognizione sul terreno che si scelta, questo innegabile, indipendentemente dal fatto che la formula risulti pi o meno gradita al lettore E chiaro quanto quest opera sia debitrice a Il lupo della steppa di Hesse, forse fin troppo, ecco un altro dei difetti arriva quasi a farne la parodia C persino un Bach che qua e l fa capolino al posto di Mozart ma Bach una faccenda troppo massiccia per poterlo far apparire qui e l come se fosse un folletto o un gattino, e in nessun caso ti pu sostituire Mozart visto che i due sono agli antipodi sia come musicalit che come personalit In ogni caso, stata una nuova esperienza di lettura mi si conceda di aver comunque fatto un passo in pi rispetto chi dice non mi piace senza averlo letto e rispetto chi scrive brutto senza aver sviscerato un po di percome e di perch.

  10. says:

    Her whole body and soul lost their boundaries, they merged and fused into a single chaos, gentle and amorphous, relaxed and with uncertain movements, like matter that was simply alive It was perfect renewal, creation Even though this was first published in the early 1940s and was started when Lispector was, amazingly, just 19 , it feels like a text which illustrates the theoretical concept of criture feminine not because of gender essentialism but because of the way gender is imbricated with and through culture The prose is fluent, hallucinogenic at times, alight with figurative images and sometimes resistant to linear logic and analysis this is writing that has to be felt rather than merely understood and so has an appeal to somewhere visceral than just the brain If this eschews linguistic order, it also refuses to offer up neat and tidy characterisation and I put that in scare quotes because the very idea of character is interrogated critically in the book Joana cannot be categorised easily, her self is slippery and divided she had always been two, the one who superficially knew that she was, and the one that truly existed in depth , so that the narrative shifts between interior and external views of her that clash and collide Her duality at least is implicitly contrasted to the simple division of the unfaithful Otavio this man who divided himself between two homes and two woman and it is Joana who, in one intense scene, finds him unknowable, not himself.Challenging the marriage plot that underpins so much bourgeois fiction, Lispector has her protagonist exclaim marriage is a goal, after I get married nothing can happen to me Just imagine to have someone always at your side, never to know loneliness My God never to be by yourself, never, never And to be a married woman, in other words, someone with her destiny traced out I ve seen this described stylistically as stream of consciousness but, technically speaking, it isn t it s too unfractured at the sentence level, too syntactically correct at least in English translation It is, though, deeply introspective and the movement of the story, such as it is, traces the psychic journey of Joana, a journey that has no ending other than death so that she s always in an open state of becoming.Experimental, modernist, feminist there are so many ways in which this can be analysed in intellectual and theoretical terms but its appeal is deeper and physical than that, just as Joana is constantly finding herself embodied, from the fear of being buried in her unwelcoming aunt s overflowing breasts, to her awareness that she carried her diseased body with her, a troublesome wound.I m late to Lispector if her first novel written so young is this extraordinary, what does she go on to do

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