A hora da estrela
Reviews
“This book is a silence. This book is a question.”
sometimes you read a book and can’t help but think, “this is a gift.” the hour of the star is my first book by Lispector, and i feel like i’ve opened a door to my favorite place on earth.
“Anyway, it’s true that I too have no pity for my main character, the northeastern girl: it’s a story I want to be cold. But I have the right to be sadly cold, and you don’t. So that’s why I won’t let you. This isn’t just a narrative, it’s above all primary life that breathes, breathes, breathes”
what else can i say but that i loved everything this story had to offer? i can’t decide yet if the star was our main character Macabéa or her narrator, Rodrigo S.M. “The one who knows too little, or the one who knows too much.”
i think this piece of metafiction is a powerful example of the idea that we don’t see things as they are, but as we are. in just 94 pages, it manages to strip the main character of everything that would make her complex, and yet, in that “nothingness,” we still find a deep resonance of the human spirit. it also offers a social critique of poverty, particularly the distant gaze with which the privileged class views said poverty. because only those who have never lacked knowledge could think ignorance is real freedom. furthermore, it’s a story that challenges the narrator’s authority and invites us into the process of a writer’s creation of their characters, showing how they will forever be interlinked.
“If the girl knew that my own joy also comes from my deepest sadness and that sadness was a failed joy.”
oof, i just want to read every literary analysis out there on this book because the language, the structure, and the intention held all my attention; and now have all my praise.
i really can’t wait to continue reading more of Lispector’s work.
i love you clarice lispector
unsettling but astute account of poverty via the male gaze directed at a girl. the voyeurism strips naked macabea's existence, making it extremely uncomfortable to experience, and although he does not veer into outrightly sexualising her, the mania through which the unnamed narrator describes macabea might as well be. on the other hand, he handles her as he would a feather. this points to a deeper truth of a strand of obsession, of an unrelenting lust that crumbles into discomfort for the recipient. think: squeezing too tightly and bruising a petal that one wanted to simply gently touch.
the events of the final portion makes clear how individuals can be unaware of their material conditions, and how easily it is to lapse into indignity that appears soteriological
snappy read too! 80-odd pages
this book gave me a raging headache (complimentary)
Maybe self-referential to a fault towards the end, but I have never read a book that takes such gentle, painstaking care of the image of its hero, such assured control over how she will be remembered.
Me peguei lendo A Hora da Estrela meio desprevinida, talvez sem a atenção ou sem o entendimento preciso.
Mesmo assim, Clarice Lispector consegue ser surpreendente e inexperada, com um humor mórbido escondido na vida miserável de Macabéa.
Read it a little too fast because I needed to drop it back off at the library today! I was SO enamored with Lispector’s forward to the book, much more than the book itself. Definitely excited to sink my teeth into some different titles of hers. The experimental prose worked really well at times but at other points it didn’t land for me. I’ll probably revisit this one after reading some more of her work.
SPOILERS AHEAD
Been reading a lot of novellas for the first time this summer and this is the 3rd one in a row I’ve read that ends in death! Is this a thing?? Is novella just 70-100 pages and then boom main character or narrator dies?
Loved the last line so much…
“And now —now all I can do is light a cigarette and go home.
My God, I just remembered that we die. But —but me too?!
Don't forget that for now it's strawberry season.
Yes.”
como é esquisito ser gente
compelling and strange, reminds me of etel adnan’s work. thinking a lot about lyric compression, emotional density, and the vehicular motion of syntax (or syntactical choices)
my first Clarice Lispector's book and definitely won't be the last.
Only a women could author this book
described many emotions i didn’t even know i had. i totally understand the appeal of her prose, and i think i’d like it even more in a setting where characters and stories could be more fleshed out. i am definitely planning on reading one of her longer novels soon.
Oh yes, to have a Mercedes Benz, a yellow one, preferably a Pagoda, 1977 model, would be a dream. Second Lispector I've read. I've always thought Lispector is a master in creating madness from the mundane, and this one I think cements that reputation. Rodrigo S.M. is such an invention, a narrator so unserious yet at some point one might be misled that he's the main character. Told in the perspective of another narrator, telling the accounts of someone else's life, it's as if we're to keep a skeptical outlook on things, to only look at the accounts on a testimonium de auditu basis and second guess every bit of it, or is it the gist of it? The perspective transition went so smoothly it's barely noticeable, and then suddenly like a wrecking ball it went full gonzo and broke the fourth wall. Pretty experimental for my uncultured arse, short, yet dense with obscure references, one of my best reads this year, or is it? Oh well, all I could do now is light a cigarette and go perhaps, ah yes, is it Persimmon season yet?
i’m so back.. and my question is.. AM I A MONSTER OR IS THIS WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A PERSON????
5 pages in and i kid you not I am enthralled. Lispector describes the book in a way that's very much about the nuts and bolts of crafting the story it is telling, along with the story itself. As a matter of consequence, the presence of the author is omnipresent, and that's what makes it so captivating. This 80-page book explores an author who created a character he then loved, and he tells the story of her but then is more concerned with himself and his ultimate reasons for writing. Macabea, a girl who lives a miserable, impoverished life in which she makes no impact on the world and never knows love, whose greatest joy is getting to be in a room by herself. Macabea’s happiness, as the author makes himself clear, may be informed by the fact that she doesn’t know how miserable she should be, but it’s none the less very real. The author is secure enough to be unhappy about the lack of meaning in his life whereas Macabea must struggle to obtain the basics of survival and is thus at peace just to have the little she has. As Macabea comments: “Sadness was also something for rich people, for people who could afford it, for people who didn’t have anything better to do.” Lispector’s prose is difficult, but she manages some breath-taking turns of phrase and stunning insights: “Who hasn’t ever wondered: Am I a monster or is this what it means to be human?” “What can you do with the truth that everyone’s a little sad and a little alone.” “They had forgotten the bitterness of childhood because childhood, once it’s over, is always bittersweet and even makes you nostalgic.” The book raises a lot of wonders, does ignorance ever really a bliss? what gives in to the sufferings one has indefinably been perceiving as "not miserable, but romantic"? what aspect enables human to determine which, and what, is sufficient enough to trigger their inability to ignore any longer? But then, we should recognize too each little life’s greatness, the awesome power of just being alive that even the ‘pointless’ Macabea had. And presumably to enjoy the strawberries while we’re still here to do so. It’s all the eerier knowing that Lispector was dying while writing The Hour of the Star, and from what I have read did not know it. She is truly brilliant, a literary goddess if I may be as bold to say so.
really loved this. 4-stars only because the beginning dragged a bit. a tip to avoid spoilers: if you're reading this particular edition, don't read the foreword until after you've finished the book; if you're reading a different edition, and you come across her interview quote about a fortune teller, don't read the quote.
i have never felt so illiterate
does death only come to those who want to live?
Não acredito que li isso tudo p finalmente descobrir pq o livro se chama a hora da estrela🤡
Não sei se algum dia posso me acostumar com a escrita da Clarice, o que não é necessariamente algo ruim. Talvez o incômodo seja justamente por divergir da estrutura e estilo das minhas outras experiências literárias.
Tudo isso pra chegar à conclusão que sim, lerei mais Clarice Lispector daqui pra frente.
i have never seen language be used in such a way wow i think this is objectively like the best book ive ever read
meta af, she writes as if you were reading your own thoughts and emotions were painted into the narrative. Separation through oneness as the relationship between narrator and characters and in between roles blurred to elicit the collective human experience
A classic. I always liked Clarice Lispector but when I was younger I didn't have much patience to read her books, now I'm rereading it and having other opinions about it! The book is short but the reading is a bit sluggish so it took me at least three days to finish it, the narrator – and the protagonist – is very interesting although he's a bit egocentric, the first twenty pages were just about him, him and him even though the story itself should be about Macabea, a few time he even interrupt everything to talk about himself. Despite being a little peculiar and maybe even one-sided, the protagonist is interesting enough to make the reader care about her and even hope that everything gets better. The end was the part that I liked the most, I don't know it's a spoiler but I thought it was good to break expectations! A friend said to read the book with the "mind crazy people" and it makes a lot of sense lmao
Highlights
"Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?"
“…But I want the worst thing of all: life. So let those who read me get punched in the stomach to see if it’s good. Life is a punch in the stomach.”
you never forget the person you slept with. The event remains tattooed with a fiery mark on living flesh and all who glimpse the stigma flee in horror
- Eu vou ter tanta saudade de mim quando morrer.
Ela: - Eu?!
Ele: - Por que esse espanto? Você não é gente? Gente fala de gente.
Ela: – Desculpe mas não acho que sou muito gente.
Ele: - Mas todo mundo é gente, Meu Deus!
Ela: - É que não me habituei.
Ele: - Não se habituou com quê?
Ela: - Ah, não sei explicar.
Desculpai-me mas vou continuar a falar de mim que sou meu desconhecido, e ao escrever me surpreendo um pouco pois descobri que tenho um destino. Quem já não se perguntou: sou um monstro ou isto é ser uma pessoa?
Quero antes afiançar que essa moça não se conhece senão através de ir vivendo à toa. Se tivesse a tolice de se perguntar “quem sou eu?" cairia estatelada e em cheio no chão.
euu
“It’s better for me not to speak of happiness or unhappiness — it provokes that swooning longing and lilac, that violet perfume, the chilly waters of the gentle tide in foam upon the sand. I don’t want to provoke because it hurts.”
In The Hour of the Star, the narrator is a man, Rodrigo S. M., an obvious projection of Clarice herself. In the following sentences, I hear her voice.
I write because I have nothing else to do in the world: I was left over and there is no place for me in the world of men. I write because I'm desperate and I'm tired, I can no longer bear the routine of being me and if not for the always novelty that is writing, I would die symbolically every day.
since there wasn’t anyone to answer she herself seemed to have answered: that’s how it is because that’s how it is. is there another answer in the world? if anyone knows a better one speak up and tell me, i’ve been waiting for years.
things were so good that they could go very bad. because fully mature things rot.
because “who am i?” creates a need. and how can you satisfy that need? those who wonder are incomplete.
how do i know everything that's about to come and that i myself still don’t know because i never lived it? because on a street in Rio de Janeiro i glimpsed in the air the feeling of perdition on the face of a northeastern girl. not to mention that i as a boy grew up in the northeast. i also know about things because i'm alive. everyone alive knows, even if they don't know, they know. so you gentlemen know more than you think.
“Everything in the world began with a yes. One molecule said yes to another molecule and life was born.”
“So long as I have questions to which there are no answers, I shall go on writing.”
“I only achieve simplicity with enormous effort”
“She believed in angels, and, because she believed, they existed”
“I am only true when I’m alone.”
“For one has the right to shout.
So, I am shouting.”
“I feel happier with animals than with people. When I watch my horse cantering freely across the fields— I am tempted to put my head against his soft, vigorous neck and narrate the story of my life. When I stroke my dog on the head — I know that he doesn't expect me to make sense or explain myself.”
“Don't forget that for now it's strawberry season”
Because ‘who am I?’ creates a need. And how can you satisfy that need? Those who wonder are incomplete.
Since I am, the thing to do is to be.
The girl didn't wonder why she was always punished but you don't have to know everything and not knowing was an important part of her life.
God? She didn't think about God, God didn't think about her. God belongs to those who manage to get him.
She didn't know she was unhappy. That's because she believed. In what? In you, but you don't have to believe in anyone or anything — you juts have to believe.
this is not making any sense but it makes so much sense what the fuck
I write because I'm desperate and I'm tired, I can no longer bear the routine of being me.
Because "who am i" creates a need. And how can you satisfy that need? Those who wonder are incomplete.
Because there's the right to scream.
So I scream.
How do you start at the beginning, if things happen before they happen?
[...]conheceria ela algum dia do amor o seu adeus? Conheceria algum dia do amor os seus desmaios? Teria a seu modo o doce voo? De nada sei. Que se há de fazer com a verdade de que todo mundo é um pouco triste e um pouco só.
Escrevo por não ter nada a fazer no mundo: sobrei e não há lugar para mim na terra dos homens. Escrevo porque sou um desesperado e estou cansado, não suporto mais a rotina de me ser e se não fosse a sempre novidade que é escrever, eu me morreria simbolicamente todos os dias.