Clarice Lispector

Benjamin Moser

Stefan Tobler

Lispector at her most philosophically radical.

Água Viva

lore consultant

Do I not have a plot to my life? for I am unexpectedly fragmentary. I am piecemeal. My story is living. And I have no fear of failure. Let failure annihilate me, I want the glory of falling. My crippled angel who contorts all elusive, my angel who fell from the heavens to the hell where he lives savoring evil.

Because I don’t know what my secret is. Tell me yours, teach me about the secret of each one of us. Not a slanderous secret. It’s just this: secret.

And when I think a word is strange that’s where it achieves the meaning. And when I think life is strange that’s where life begins.

The horrible duty is to go to the end. And counting on no one. To live your life yourself. And to suffer as much to dull myself a bit.

What I write to you does not come gently, slowly rising to a peak before dying away gently. No: what I write you is aflame like fiery eyes.

If all this exists, then I am. But why this unease? It’s because I’m not living in the only way that exists for everyone to live and I don’t even know which one it is. Uncomfortable. I don’t feel well. I don’t know what it is. But something is wrong and making me uneasy. Yet I am being frank and playing fair.

Before writing to you I perfume myself all over.

Now I’m going to write wherever my hand leads: I won’t fiddle with whatever it writes. This is a way to have no lag between the instant and I: I act in the core of the instant. But there’s still some lag.

Because the full moon is light insomnia: numb and drowsy like after love. And I had decided to go to sleep so I could dream, I was missing the news that comes in the dream.

When I paint or write I’m anonymous. My profound anonymity which no one ever touched.

No one taught me to want. But I already want.

In truth I’m still not quite seeing properly the thread of what I’m writing you.

So what’s the harm of moving away from logic? I deal in raw materials. I’m after whatever is lurking beyond thought. No use trying to pin me down: I simply slip away and won’t allow it, no label will stick. I’m entering a very new and genuine chapter, curious about itself, so appealing and personal that I can’t paint it or write it.

I write to you because I don’t understand myself.

There is much to say that I don’t know how to say. The words are lacking. But I refuse to invent new ones:

More than anything else, I paint painting. And more than anything else, I write you hard writing. I want to grab the word in my hand. Is the word an object? And from the instants I extract the juice of their fruits. I must deprive myself to reach the core and seed of life. The instant is living seed.

I know that my phrases are crude, I write them with too much love, and that love makes up for their faults, but too much love is bad for the work.

All of me is writing to you and I feel the taste of being and the taste-of-you is as abstract as the instant. I also use my whole body when I paint and set the bodiless upon the canvas, my whole body wrestling with myself. You don’t understand music: you hear it. So hear me with your whole body. When you come to read me you will ask why I don’t keep to painting and my exhibitions, since I write so rough and disorderly. It’s because now I feel the need for words—and what I’m writing is new to me because until now my true word has never been touched. The word is my fourth dimension.

Sleeping brings us very close to this empty and yet full thought. I’m not talking about the dream, which, in this case, would be a primary thought. I’m talking about sleeping. Sleeping is abstracting yourself and scattering into the nothingness.

Now I shall write you everything that comes into my mind with the least possible amount of policing. Because I feel attracted to the unknown. But as long as I have myself I won’t be alone. It’s going to start: I’m going to grab the present in every phrase that dies.

Larissa Campos

Ah viver é tão desconfortável. Tudo aperta: o corpo exige, o espírito não pára, viver parece ter sono e não poder dormir—viver é incômodo. Não se pode andar nu nem de corpo nem de espírito. Eu não te disse que viver é apertado? Pois fui dormir e sonhei que te escrevia um largo majestoso e era mais verdade ainda do que te escrevo: era sem medo.

Não vou morrer, ouviu, Deus? Não tenho coragem, ouviu? Porque é uma infâmia nascer para morrer não se sabe quando nem onde. Vou ficar muito alegre, ouviu? Como resposta, como insulto. Uma coisa eu garanto: nós não somos culpados. E preciso entender enquanto estou viva, ouviu? porque depois será tarde demais.

Recuso-me a ficar triste. Quem não tiver medo de ficar alegre e experimentar uma só vez sequer a alegria doida e profunda terá o melhor de nossa verdade. Eu estou—apesar de tudo oh apesar de tudo—estou sendo alegre neste instante-já que se passa se eu não fixá-lo com palavras. Estou sendo alegre neste mesmo instante porque me recuso a ser vencida: então eu amo. Como resposta. Amor impessoal, amor it, é alegria: mesmo o amor que não dá certo, mesmo o amor que termina. E a minha própria morte e a dos que amamos tem que ser alegre, não sei ainda como, mas tem que ser. Viver

E Deus é uma criação monstruosa. Eu tenho medo de Deus porque ele é total demais para o meu tamanho. E também tenho uma espécie de pudor em relação a Ele: há coisas minhas que nem Ele sabe. Medo? Conheço um ela que se apavora com borboletas como se estas fossem sobrenaturais. E a parte divina das borboletas é mesmo de dar terror. E conheço um ele que se arrepia todo de horror diante de flores—acha que as flores são assombradamente delicadas como um suspiro de ninguém no escuro. Eu é que estou escutando o assobio no escuro. Eu que sou doente da condição humana. Eu me revolto: não quero mais ser gente. Quem? quem tem misericórdia de nós que sabemos sobre a vida e a morte quando um animal que eu profundamente invejo—é inconsciente de sua condição? Quem tem piedade de nós? Somos uns abandonados? uns entregues ao desespero? Não, tem que haver um consolo possível. Juro: tem que haver. Eu não tenho é coragem de dizer a verdade que nós sabemos. Há palavras proibidas. Mas eu denuncio. Denuncio nossa fraqueza, denuncio o horror alucinante de morrer—e respondo a toda essa infâmia com—exatamente isto que vai agora ficar escrito—e respondo a toda essa infâmia com alegria. Puríssima e levíssima alegria. A minha única salvação é a alegria.

 is a short collection of "fragments" or "instants", as Clarice Lispector and her editor describe them. The narrator, an unnamed painter / writer, discusses a WIDE variety of topics regarding time, nature, being alive, being in love, and being a writer. That's... pretty much everything you need to know about the book. While the premise is self explanatory, Lispector packs a LOT in these 88 pages.

This peek into Lispector's brain was astounding to read, especially since this served as my introduction to Lispector as a writer. There's so much to unpack in terms of what Lispector actually talks about, but before I unpack that, I first want to talk about the structure of this book and why it works so well. These fragments / instants are essentially 1-2 sentence paragraphs that capture the narrator's immediate thoughts in their present. The idea of living in the present, "capturing the instant", is a worry for the narrator throughout the whole book, which (without spoiling the structure) makes this story have such an impact by the end.

How to summarize all that the narrator talks about in the book? It's the definition of genius scatterbrain: Lispector goes ALL over the place with all that's involved in being a creative person. She talks about writing, and the uniqueness of these fragments and where it leads her, and she talks about time and the ephemerality of existence, and she talks about who she's writing to and how it's affecting her. These are just a couple examples, and it's also quite difficult to pick out a single line from the collection. 

 is meant to be taken as the total sum of the fragments, forming one constructed 

At the moment, I have little else to say. This was incredible, and boy am I excited to read 

smile

Água Viva is a short collection of "fragments" or "instants", as Clarice Lispector and her editor describe them. The narrator, an unnamed painter / writer, discusses a WIDE variety of topics regarding time, nature, being alive, being in love, and being a writer. That's... pretty much everything you need to know about the book. While the premise is self explanatory, Lispector packs a LOT in these 88 pages.

This peek into Lispector's brain was astounding to read, especially since this served as my introduction to Lispector as a writer. There's so much to unpack in terms of what Lispector actually talks about, but before I unpack that, I first want to talk about the structure of this book and why it works so well. These fragments / instants are essentially 1-2 sentence paragraphs that capture the narrator's immediate thoughts in their present. The idea of living in the present, "capturing the instant", is a worry for the narrator throughout the whole book, which (without spoiling the structure) makes this story have such an impact by the end.

How to summarize all that the narrator talks about in the book? It's the definition of genius scatterbrain: Lispector goes ALL over the place with all that's involved in being a creative person. She talks about writing, and the uniqueness of these fragments and where it leads her, and she talks about time and the ephemerality of existence, and she talks about who she's writing to and how it's affecting her. These are just a couple examples, and it's also quite difficult to pick out a single line from the collection. Água Viva is meant to be taken as the total sum of the fragments, forming one constructed instant for us.

At the moment, I have little else to say. This was incredible, and boy am I excited to read The Passion According to G.H..

9.5/10

Is it because this book feels like someone is archiving their brainstorming process or something but the way this book talks about the struggle of writing (or painting?) makes me feel validated? Like, it's just comforting to know that sometimes your mind will just wander around everywhere when you try to find the right words to write. The way someone also went through this branching out of one topic to another, the struggle to express things in words, the questions Clarice 'asked' in this book, it was strangely comforting.

Paradoxalmente, me encontro sem palavras, para descrever um livro que sinto que me deu minhas palavras de volta. Deixo aqui minha reação no momento que finalizei o livro e soube que nunca mais serei a mesma. 

https://substack.com/@secretgardenss/note/c-153779800?r=5dv78p&utm_medium=ios&utm_source=notes-share-action

Paradoxalmente, me encontro sem palavras, para descrever um livro que sinto que me deu minhas palavras de volta. Deixo aqui minha reação no momento que finalizei o livro e soube que nunca mais serei a mesma. 

https://substack.com/@secretgardenss/note/c-153779800?r=5dv78p&utm_medium=ios&utm_source=notes-share-action

didn’t like it as much as i thought…i think because her work is so internal it may come off as cringe sometimes. i guess im in that stage of life where i dont respond to her work that well. let me read this again when i have a crush on someone lol

Patricia K

didn’t like it as much as i thought…i think because her work is so internal it may come off as cringe sometimes. i guess im in that stage of life where i dont respond to her work that well. let me read this again when i have a crush on someone lol

personal copy

Clarice lê-se para se sentir. A sinceridade da sua prosa e a liberdade com que usa e abusa das palavras para explicar sentimentos, pensamentos, gestos, ..., são o que tornam este livro tão especial. Se há alguém no mundo que me compreende, que descreve, palavra por palavra, o que sinto, é ela. 

Cada livro dela é único, diferente, uma experiência por si só. Água Viva é dolorosamente curto, mas reconforto-me em saber que ele existe para lá do tempo; que, apesar de já estar escrito e terminado com ponto final, a fluidez do pensamento e do que ele transmite transcende o passado, presente e futuro juntos. Belíssimo.  

Um adendo: Durante todo o livro, Clarice fala do “instante-já”, do “momento único”,… Enfim, algo que seja permanente no presente, nem antes, nem depois. E todo o livro possui essa mesma sensação de permanência, eu diria; ele existe por si só no tempo em que criou, num universo onde não existe nem passado, nem presente, nem futuro; afinal se o tempo foi construído pelo Homem também por ele pode ser desconstruído. Já no final do livro Clarice refere este mesmo desejo de querer que o livro continue, para lá do ponto final. E ele continua, pelo menos, eu imagino-o assim; é um livro que existe, que respira, que é tão fluído quanto o pensamento: é Água Viva.

misha.

Clarice lê-se para se sentir. A sinceridade da sua prosa e a liberdade com que usa e abusa das palavras para explicar sentimentos, pensamentos, gestos, ..., são o que tornam este livro tão especial. Se há alguém no mundo que me compreende, que descreve, palavra por palavra, o que sinto, é ela. 

Cada livro dela é único, diferente, uma experiência por si só. Água Viva é dolorosamente curto, mas reconforto-me em saber que ele existe para lá do tempo; que, apesar de já estar escrito e terminado com ponto final, a fluidez do pensamento e do que ele transmite transcende o passado, presente e futuro juntos. Belíssimo.  

Um adendo: Durante todo o livro, Clarice fala do “instante-já”, do “momento único”,… Enfim, algo que seja permanente no presente, nem antes, nem depois. E todo o livro possui essa mesma sensação de permanência, eu diria; ele existe por si só no tempo em que criou, num universo onde não existe nem passado, nem presente, nem futuro; afinal se o tempo foi construído pelo Homem também por ele pode ser desconstruído. Já no final do livro Clarice refere este mesmo desejo de querer que o livro continue, para lá do ponto final. E ele continua, pelo menos, eu imagino-o assim; é um livro que existe, que respira, que é tão fluído quanto o pensamento: é Água Viva.

thoughts and feelings written down are incredibly vulnerable yet so beautiful

ryan

“Only the act of love—the limpid star-like abstraction of feeling—captures the unknown moment, the instant hard as crystal and vibrating in the air and life is this untellable instant, larger than the event itself: during love the impersonal jewel of the moment shines in the air, the strange glory of the body, matter made feeling in the trembling of the instants—and the feeling is both immaterial and so objective that it seems to happen outside your body, sparkling on high, joy, joy is time’s material and the essence of the instant.”

In Água Viva, there is no order—only the transcendental nakedness of thought. A meditation without anchor, a narrative that dares to name the unnameable. This is a dialogue with the self, unfolding in fragments, pauses, and sudden illuminations, as if consciousness itself were speaking aloud with no need to justify its leaps. Every line feels on the edge of revelation, trembling with an intensity that refuses closure.

Reading this feels like slipping underneath language into the silence it tries to hold. This book is definitely a hallmark of Lispector's fearless dismantling of form. Água Viva is a living text that is not meant to be understood in the traditional sense.

Rien

“Only the act of love—the limpid star-like abstraction of feeling—captures the unknown moment, the instant hard as crystal and vibrating in the air and life is this untellable instant, larger than the event itself: during love the impersonal jewel of the moment shines in the air, the strange glory of the body, matter made feeling in the trembling of the instants—and the feeling is both immaterial and so objective that it seems to happen outside your body, sparkling on high, joy, joy is time’s material and the essence of the instant.”

In Água Viva, there is no order—only the transcendental nakedness of thought. A meditation without anchor, a narrative that dares to name the unnameable. This is a dialogue with the self, unfolding in fragments, pauses, and sudden illuminations, as if consciousness itself were speaking aloud with no need to justify its leaps. Every line feels on the edge of revelation, trembling with an intensity that refuses closure.

Reading this feels like slipping underneath language into the silence it tries to hold. This book is definitely a hallmark of Lispector's fearless dismantling of form. Água Viva is a living text that is not meant to be understood in the traditional sense.

“feeling”— that’s the closest i can get to describing this book. reading it felt like being inside someone’s raw, unfiltered thoughts. there’s no clear plot, no characters in the traditional sense, but somehow it speaks so deeply. i didn’t always understand it, but i 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 it.

lispector’s words flow like music and art: abstract, poetic, and yet strangely comforting. she captures emotion and consciousness in such an intimate way that it feels like she’s talking directly to you, or even to a part of yourself you didn’t know was listening.

i loved the way she writes. it’s experimental but never cold; her language has warmth. it’s beautiful and alive. even in the confusion, there’s clarity. even in the fragments, there's connection.

agua viva isn’t a book i’ll ever fully explain. but i know it touched me. it’s the kind of book you feel more than understand, and that’s exactly why it stayed with me.

“feeling”— that’s the closest i can get to describing this book. reading it felt like being inside someone’s raw, unfiltered thoughts. there’s no clear plot, no characters in the traditional sense, but somehow it speaks so deeply. i didn’t always understand it, but i 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 it.

lispector’s words flow like music and art: abstract, poetic, and yet strangely comforting. she captures emotion and consciousness in such an intimate way that it feels like she’s talking directly to you, or even to a part of yourself you didn’t know was listening.

i loved the way she writes. it’s experimental but never cold; her language has warmth. it’s beautiful and alive. even in the confusion, there’s clarity. even in the fragments, there's connection.

agua viva isn’t a book i’ll ever fully explain. but i know it touched me. it’s the kind of book you feel more than understand, and that’s exactly why it stayed with me.

the immediacy of the prose is disconcerting to me. im as latin for "not" and media as latin for "middle". i wanted to like this a lot as a whole but i found it grating to read, despite how earnestly it is written. there are some great lines in there and honestly this is a great exercise in style, but this just isnt for me. i do have to say that it is excellently written. not verbose and despite its stream-of-consciousness style, lispector takes great care to pause and breathe and ramble and pause and do it over and over again

i do appreciate the central message of the book: NEVER KILL YOURSELF! lispector's treatise is a deeply buddhist text, without the asceticism. take a sip from the water of life (agua viva) go for a stroll. experience life as it is. 

where i went wrong is probably in my strategy to read the book. i had wanted to use this as a breather almost, a companion to the dry and academic deluge by tooze that i tried to read concurrently. i suspect that if the reader commits 1-2 hours to this and really sit down with it, the experience will be far more positive. instead, i was pulled in and out of this work abruptly as i read this on my commutes

also this is ~80 pages too, so not a large commitment

Ghee

the immediacy of the prose is disconcerting to me. im as latin for "not" and media as latin for "middle". i wanted to like this a lot as a whole but i found it grating to read, despite how earnestly it is written. there are some great lines in there and honestly this is a great exercise in style, but this just isnt for me. i do have to say that it is excellently written. not verbose and despite its stream-of-consciousness style, lispector takes great care to pause and breathe and ramble and pause and do it over and over again

i do appreciate the central message of the book: NEVER KILL YOURSELF! lispector's treatise is a deeply buddhist text, without the asceticism. take a sip from the water of life (agua viva) go for a stroll. experience life as it is. 

where i went wrong is probably in my strategy to read the book. i had wanted to use this as a breather almost, a companion to the dry and academic deluge by tooze that i tried to read concurrently. i suspect that if the reader commits 1-2 hours to this and really sit down with it, the experience will be far more positive. instead, i was pulled in and out of this work abruptly as i read this on my commutes

also this is ~80 pages too, so not a large commitment

Everything comes to an end but what she write will goes on.

🍁

caótico, simplemente bello. nueva autora favorita.

ivanna

🪢

Saffy

Rocío de la Hera

Es una novela acuática, que fluye, calma como un río, pero potente como un mar bravo. Breve, juega con los límites de las palabras y las emociones.

"My candour was crushed underfoot by you. You didn’t love me, only I know that. I was alone. Yours alone. I write to no one and a riff is being made that doesn’t exist. I unglued myself from me." 

mari

“my essence is unconscious of itself and that’s why i obey myself blindly”

akelo 

i ❤️ vulnerable female writers (they just like me fr) 

unserious review cuz i need to go to sleep byeeeeee

Alma

i ❤️ vulnerable female writers (they just like me fr) 

unserious review cuz i need to go to sleep byeeeeee

(if you know you know) i'm convinced lispector wrote this book for us 12th house placements girlies. unbelievable, impeccable book. extremely goated writer...5 stars is not enough. this has become my favorite book of all time.  what can't she do man!!!!! i love you ma'am clarice lispector. 

nandi

"La creación se me escapa. Y no quiero saber tanto. Me basta con que el corazón me lata en el pecho."

donna 

azliana aziz

for two third of the book i was immensely enthralled by everything then couple of pages nearing the coda it sort of fizzled. perplexing thought-feeling :)

jess

Lispector at her most philosophically radical, her attempt to capture her thoughts about intense, philosophical topics such as time, life and death. The prose gushes with unfiltered emotion so that you don’t know where to look. And yet, there is a thrill in reading these breathless, fitfully coherent fragments, each deployed in a vain quest to capture the living moment of naked existence, the “now-instant”. Love the duality of her thoughts when facing deeply conceptual topics and how she goes back to intertwining it with self, and how seemingly vivid her conveyance, her conceptualization of her "beyond thoughts".

"My only salvation is joy. An atonal joy inside the essential it. Because it's too cruel to know that life is just one time and that we have no guarantee outside our faiths in shadows - because it's too cruel, so I respond with the purity of an untamable happiness. I refuse to be sad. Let us be joyful. Whoever isn't afraid to be joyful and to and to experience even a single time the mad and profound joy will have the best part of our truth. I am - despite everything - am being joyful in this instant-now that passes if I don't capture it in words. I am being joyful in this very instant because I refuse to be defeated : so I love. As an answer."

isa/bella

difficult to pick a rating out of 5 stars for a book that evokes the exact feeling of waking up in the morning and reading for the first time with lucid eyes the ALMOST incomprehensible thoughts and 'prose' that u dumped in ur notes app while u were between dreams & wakefulness the previous night. everything about this was, while it lasted, very surreal, very fleeting, very magical and transcendent, somehow very true 

"What I’m saying is that the thought of the man and the way this thinking-feeling can reach an extreme degree of incommunicability— that, without sophism or paradox, is at the same time, for that man, the point of greatest communication. He communicates with himself."

Água Viva

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