This is the second book I’ve read by Clarice Lispector. I read her debut novel, Near to the Wild Heart, and now her last novel. This was definitely a shorter read. Published in 1977, shortly before the author’s death.
What strikes me about this book more than anything is the interplay between the voice of the narrator and the main character, Macabea. The narrator, Rodrigo S.M., is certainly an extension of Clarice herself. For instance, in the following passage:
“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.”
Clarice, in many ways, is the narrator. Clarice’s upbringing in a very fraught Brazil as an immigrant from Ukraine must’ve played a role in shaping the most prominent theme in this story: the cruel injustice of existing. Macabea is stupid, poor, and naive. She lacks very basic mannerisms, she doesn’t understand herself, but in that, she’s almost free. She lacks a developed sense of self, which we are made to think is more a burden than a boon. She manages to eke out a living as a typist, not a particularly competent one, and she lives in a simple five-bedroom apartment. She takes pleasure in simple things, like chocolate. Her diet consists mainly of hotdogs and soft drinks.
Macabea is from Alagoas, Brazil, which is where Clarice lived when they first arrived in the country. The character then moves to Rio de Janeiro, as Clarice did. Clarice was also known to go to fortune tellers, just like the character. Dereliction, as the character experiences objectively but perhaps not subjectively, is something Clarice was no stranger to growing up in relative poverty.
The book deals a lot with many of Clarice’s preoccupations as a writer, namely god and death. God does not exist for Macabea, because she lacks the faculty to recognize what other people, perhaps more “fortunate ones”, would call divinity. She hears the radio tell her to repent in Christ so she does. But it’s merely a performance. Her real divine access is in her not knowing, in her simplicity.
The narrator is by contrast far more self-aware and discursive. He ruminates excessively to the point of rambling. His presence is intrusive. He procrastinates telling the story and somehow manages to insert himself while attempting to tell the story of Macabea, who doesn’t believe in death. But for him, that is his foreboding: “And now—now all I can do is light a cigarette and go home. My God, I just remembered that we die. But—me too?! Don’t forget that for now it’s strawberry season. Yes.”
What I liked
It’s raw and it’s real. Mcabea is ugly, poor, and pathetically naive. But I never felt sorry for her. I almost felt jealous. She’s so simple that one thinks that there is almost something sinful or terrible about the fate of having to think. And so she didn’t believe in death. Most people can’t fabricate ignorance of basic facts like this, and yet, it seems like the best thing to do in light of the inherent injustice and suffering we are condemned to.
Who Should Read It?
Everyone. If it turns out that you don’t like it, it’s a very short read so you won’t be stuck with it for too long. However, If you decide to read it, I suggest going slowly. There’s a meditative element to it that I think is digested better when you chew on it slowly.
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