Benjamin Moser

Clarice Lispector

Stefan Tobler

Lispector at her most philosophically radical.

Água Viva

misha.

Morrer deve ser uma muda explosão interna. O corpo não aguenta mais ser corpo. E se morrer tiver o gosto de comida quando se está com muita fome? E se morrer for um prazer, egoísta prazer? 

Clarice brinca com a língua, molda palavras como lhe aprouver. Quanta magia existe neste texto - dar nome a um Deus; ironia elegante.

Como o Deus não tem nome vou dar a Ele o nome de Simptar. Não pertence a língua nenhuma Eu me dou o nome de Amptala. Que eu saiba não existe tal nome. Talvez em língua anterior ao sânscrito, língua it. 

A verdade está em alguma parte: mas inútil pensar. Não a descobrirei e no entanto vivo dela.

Não se compreende música: ouve-se. Ouve-me então com o teu corpo inteiro. 

ryan

"Am I one of the weak? a weak women possessed by incessant and mad rhythm? if I were solid and strong would I even have heard the rhythm? I find no answer: I am. This is all that comes to me from life. But what am I? the answer is just: what am I. Though I sometimes scream: I no longer want to be I! but I stick to myself and inextricably there forms a tessitura of life."

Is my theme the instant? the theme of my life. I try to keep up with it, I divide thousands of times into as many times as the number of instants running by, fragmented as I am and the moments so fragile—my only vow is to life born with time and growing along with it: only in time itself is there room enough for me.

I want to possess the atoms of time. And to capture the present, forbidden by its very nature: the present slips away and the instant too, I am this very second forever in the now.

Bibi

But no passion suffered in pain and love is not followed by a hallelujah.

Giovan

Dying must be a mute internal explosion. The body can no longer stand being a body. And what if dying had the taste of food when you’re very hungry? And what if dying were a pleasure, selfish pleasure?

This is not a story because I don’t know any stories like this but all I know how to do is go along saying and doing: it is the story of instants that flee like fugitive tracks seen from the window of a train.

akelo 

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

Alma

I am before, I am almost, I am never. And all of this I won when I stopped loving you.

Listen: I let you be, therefore let me be.

I am being joyful in this very instant because I refuse to be defeated: so I love. As an answer. Impersonal love, it love, is joy: even the love that doesn’t work out, even the love that ends.

maria

dina

My story is living. And I have no fear of failure. Let failure annihilate me, I want the glory of falling.

I’m tired. My tiredness comes often because I’m an extremely busy person: I look after the world. Every day I look from my terrace at a section of beach and sea and see the thick foam is whiter and that during the night the waters crept forward uneasy. I see this by the mark which the waves leave upon the sand. I look at the almond trees on the street where I live. Before going to sleep I look after the world and see if the night sky is starry and navy blue because on certain nights instead of being black the sky seems to be an intense navy blue, a color I’ve painted in stained glass. (...) With my glance I must look after thousands of plants and trees and especially the giant water lily.

And may it rebel, that nerve of life, and may it contort and throb. And may sapphires, amethysts and emeralds spill into the dark eroticism of abundant life: because in my darkness quakes at last the great topaz, word that has its own light.

I who come from the pain of living. And I no longer want it. I want the vibration of happiness.

May whoever comes along with me come along: the journey is long, it is tough, but lived.

maia

I know you all over because I have lived you all over.

As for me, I own up to my solitude that sometimes falls into ecstasy as before fireworks. I am alone and must live a certain intimate glory that in solitude can become pain. And the pain, silence. I keep its name secret. I need secrets in order to live.

No, I was never modern. And this happens: when I think a painting is strange that's when it's a painting. 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. I great take care not to surpass myself. 

I am the one listening to the whistling in the dark. I who am sick with the human condition. I revolt: I no longer want to be a person. Who? who has mnercy on us who know about Life and death where an animal I envy profoundly— is unconscious of its condition? Who takes pity on us? Are we abandoned? given over to despair? No, there must be a possible consolation. I swear: there must be. What I don't have is the courage to say the truth that we know. These are forbidden words.

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.

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

“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

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

unserious review cuz i need to go to sleep byeeeeee

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."

Wynter

I had same issues with this book as I had with The Breath of Life. It felt like Lispector just rambled on and on about nothing. There were some nice, imaginative paragraphs within, but they were diluted between empty fillers that caused no emotions in me. I think self-exploratory books like this are just not for me. I like artsy writing, but I also need some kind of plot - at least a thin thread to hold on to, - that would justify me spending time on somebody's personal reflections. 

I am looking forward to The Passion According to G.H. that apparently has a definite "backbone". But so far its 2 out and only 1 in for Lispector.

if anyone ever asked me what having a pisces mercury feels like i’d just give them this book

tiff <3

It took me longer than I expected to finish this, I feel like it's been on my list since the previous year and I didn't get the chance to finish it. It revolves mostly around the narrative of life, the instant-now, the present. Mostly throughout it didn't really have a plot but it just flows and somewhat afloat on how growth works and the nature of life. 

Água Viva

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