By Clarice Lispector
Lispector’s such a lot surprising novel.
The ardour in accordance with G.H., Clarice Lispector’s mystical novel of 1964, matters a well-to-do Rio sculptress, G.H., who enters her maid’s room, sees a cockroach crawling out of the cloth cabinet, and, panicking, slams the door ―crushing the cockroach ―and then watches it die. on the finish of the unconventional, on the top of a non secular challenge, comes the main well-known and such a lot really surprising scene in Brazilian literature…
Lispector wrote that of all her works this novel used to be the person who “best corresponded to her calls for as a writer.”
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Extra info for The Passion According to G.H.
I looked at the inside area, the backs of all the apartments, for which my own apartment too existed as a back. On the outside, my building was white, with the smoothness of marble and the smoothness of finished surface. But on the inside, the inside area was a chaotic jumble of square blocks, windows, dark streaks and blotches from the rain, window snarling at window, mouths looking into mouths. My building's mass was like a factory's. The miniature of a vast landscape of passages and canyons: smoking there, as though on a mountaintop, I looked out over the view, probably with the same inexpressive gaze that could be seen in the photographs of me.
That was when I unexpectedly succeeded in remembering her face, but, of course, how could I have forgotten it? I pictured again her quiet, black face, pictured her completely opaque skin that seemed more like one of her ways of being silent, extremely well defined eyebrows, I pictured again the fine, delicate features that were barely discernible on the faded blackness of her skin. were a queen's features. And her posture as well: her body, erect, slim, hard, smooth, almost fleshless, with no breasts, or ass.
That throbbing something to which I was so accustomed that I thought throbbing was the same as being a person? Isn't that it? yes, that too . . that too ... I become so scared when I realize that over a period of hours I lost my human constitution. I don't know if I'll have another one to replace the lost one with. " But I also don't know what form to give to what happened to me. And for me nothing exists unless I give it a form. And . . and what if the reality is precisely that nothing has existed?!