Daydream and Drunkenness of a Young Lady

by Clarice Lispector, Katrina Dodson (Translator)

"The morning became a long, drawn-out afternoon that became depthless night dawning innocently through the house."

Tales of desire and madness from this giant of Brazilian literature.

Genres: Short Stories, Classics, Fiction, Modern Classics, Brazil, Literary Fiction, 20th Century

64 pages, Paperback

First published February 22, 2018

About the author

Clarice Lispector was a Brazilian writer. Acclaimed internationally for her innovative novels and short stories, she was also a journalist. Born to a Jewish family in Podolia in Western Ukraine, she was brought to Brazil as an infant, amidst the disasters engulfing her native land following the First World War.

She grew up in northeastern Brazil, where her mother died when she was nine. The family moved to Rio de Janeiro when she was in her teens. While in law school in Rio she began publishing her first journalistic work and short stories, catapulting to fame at age 23 with the publication of her first novel, 'Near to the Wild Heart' (Perto do Coração Selvagem), written as an interior monologue in a style and language that was considered revolutionary in Brazil.

She left Brazil in 1944, following her marriage to a Brazilian diplomat, and spent the next decade and a half in Europe and the United States. Upon return to Rio de Janeiro in 1959, she began producing her most famous works, including the stories of Family Ties (Laços de Família), the great mystic novel The Passion According to G.H. (A Paixão Segundo G.H.), and the novel many consider to be her masterpiece, Água Viva. Injured in an accident in 1966, she spent the last decade of her life in frequent pain, steadily writing and publishing novels and stories until her premature death in 1977.

She has been the subject of numerous books and references to her, and her works are common in Brazilian literature and music. Several of her works have been turned into films, one being 'Hour of the Star' and she was the subject of a recent biography, Why This World, by Benjamin Moser.

Reviews

[Léa · Rating 4 out of 5]

I'll forever question why 'love' wasn't written as a full novel... perhaps one of my favourite pieces of writing from Clarice Lispector (and the perfect introduction to her work)

[Lisa (NY) · Rating 4 out of 5]

[3.75] These three stories each expose the perilous interior life of a woman who is stifled by her life as a wife and mother. The most powerful, Love, is an afternoon in the life of a woman who has "pacified life so well"..."that is what she had wanted and chosen." An encounter with a blind man on the tram throws her contentment into question. I first read these a few years ago when I read Lispector's Complete Stories and remember how heavy the burden of her dissatisfied women felt to me then. Lispector writes in feverish, sensual prose and is easier to read in small doses!

Penguin Modern Classics
#1 - Letter from Birmingham Jail by Martin Luther King, Jr.
#2 - Television Was a Baby Crawling Toward That Deathchamber by Allen Ginsberg
#3 - The Breakthrough by Daphne Du Maurier
#4 - The Custard Heart by Dorothy Parker
#5 - Three Japanese Short Stories (3 authors)
#6 - The Veiled Woman by Anais Nin
#7 - Notes on Nationalism by George Orwell
#8 - Food by Gertrude Stein
#9 - The Three Electroknights by Stanislaw Lem
#10 - The Great Hunger by Patrick Kavanagh
#11 - The Legend of the Sleepers by Danilo Kis
#12 - The Black Ball by Ralph Ellison
#13 - Till September Petronella by Jean Rhys
#14 - Investigations of a Dog by Franz Kafka
#15 - Daydream and Drunkenness of a Young Lady by Clarice Lispector

[Isa · Rating 5 out of 5]

I have no notes. I seem to always find myself amongst the writings of clarice and these little stories struck me so violently i want to read them over and over again.

[Kirsty · Rating 5 out of 5]

I was so looking forward to the inclusion of Clarice Lispector in the Penguin Moderns series, and am happy to report that Daydreams and Drunkenness of a Young Lady, the fifteenth book, is my favourite so far. I have not read much of Lispector's work to date, but find her writing glorious, and the perspectives which she uses fascinating. The three stories collected here - 'Daydream and Drunkenness of a Young Lady, 'Love', and 'Family Ties', all of which were published in 1960, and have been translated by Katrina Dodson - promise the blurb, are 'three intoxicating tales of three women - their secret desires, fears and madness - from a giant of Brazilian literature.'

There is a peculiar beauty to each of these tales; they have an almost otherworldly quality to them, even when Lispector is writing about rather mundane things. The titular story in this volume begins: 'Throughout the room it seemed to her the trams were crossing, making her reflection tremble. She sat combing her hair languorously, before the three-way vanity, her white, strong arms bristling in the slight afternoon chill. Her eyes didn't leave themselves, the mirrors vibrated, now dark, now luminous... Her eyes never pried themselves from her image, her comb working meditatively, her open robe revealing in the mirrors the intersecting breasts of several young ladies.'

Daydreams and Drunkenness of a Young Lady is both emotive and absorbing, and is filled with intelligent nuances. Lispector's voice is searching and perceptive. I was utterly swept away with the three stories here, and absolutely loved each one of them.

[Luís · Rating 3 out of 5]

"The morning became a long, drawn-out afternoon that became depthless night dawning innocently through the house."

There is always something sad in Lispector's writing that makes me a little strange.

[Kerry · Rating 4 out of 5]

Three short stories by Clarice Lispector. Translated from the Portuguese by Katrina Dodson

Lispector is a complex writer and these three stories in this small Penguin classic are a good representation of her writing. The first story of the title of the book is the stream of consciousness meanderings of a drunk young woman. The writing is a story that makes little sense for more than 4 or 6 lines and then veers off in a different direction and allows the reader to learn of the young girl's character by her drunken concerns.

The 2nd story, Love, is easier to follow but once again is the internal dialogue of a woman on a street car taking groceries home. It was a little strange and will take more than one or two readings to peel back the layers.

A line from this story she describes her memories about her children: "As if it were a butterfly, Ana caught the instant between her fingers before it was never hers again."

The third story, Family Ties, was my favorite. It begins with a young woman taking her mother to the train station after a 2 week visit. On her return home she grabs her own son and takes him out to the park. Once again the internal dialogue of this woman and her husband shade the story and imbue it with more of a meaning than is revealed on the first reading.

For a book of barely 48 pages it has much to say. If you like short stories I would recommend Lispector for sure. These stories will get you thinking of the message that is just beyond her words and the story told.

[xKarenina · Rating 2 out of 5]

I'm clueless as to why people love this. I cannot grasp what the deal is, really. I reckon I just don't understand the artistic value, don't see where Lispector is going with this, especially with 'Love' and 'Family Ties'. I liked 'Daydream and Drunkenness of a Young Lady' because I could really picture the poor woman but it wasn't astonishing or touching. Lispector isn't for me, then.

[Olivia-Savannah · Rating 3 out of 5]

After having read and loved Hour of the Star by Lispector I had high expectations. Unfortunately, this didn’t quite meet them. There were three short stories and it was nice to have some variation. But the last short story really confused me. I didn’t understand the character roles and that led to me appreciating it less. But that might just be on me.

I really liked the sense of the lost and longing in the first two short stories. The writing style just didn’t vibe for me here and I am thinking it could be the translation? Especially as her writing style was so wonderful in her novella…

I just didn’t feel the depth and connection to the short stories like I did with her novella. Maybe they were too short to demonstrate such depth in only the space of a few paragraphs…


This review was originally posted on Olivia's Catastrophe: https://oliviascatastrophe.com/2019/0...

[jaz ₍ᐢ. ̫.ᐢ₎ · Rating 4 out of 5]

this felt like a really great introduction to clarice lispector, such disjointed and intoxicating prose. I especially enjoyed “Love”

[farahxreads · Rating 4 out of 5]

My first foray into the works of Clarice Lispector and I can see why her writing is so well beloved by many.

”Through the winding paths, she had fallen into a woman’s fate, with the surprise of fitting into it as if she had invented it,”

Daydream and Drunkenness of a Young Lady is a collection of three short stories that revolves around three housewives - one who despises her husband and children, one who devotes her life to familial duties and one who has a strained relationship with her elderly mother - who were blissfully cocooned in a life of domesticity. Despite the fact that identity and motherhood are frequently explored in literature, Clarice Lispector is adept in bringing novelty combined with depth and candour to her stories. Employing the style of stream of consciousness, the writing took some time to get used to but I ended up loving it and couldn’t imagine it being written any other way. I particularly liked how the author interspersed the themes of identity, womanhood and domestic responsibilities with the simple mundanities of everyday life, and due to this, the stories may appear simple but it’s brimming with life and depth.

I enjoyed all the stories but the second story, Love (Amor), is one of the most remarkable short stories I have ever read.

I can’t wait to read the rest of Clarice Lispector’s works <3

[Colin · Rating 2 out of 5]

English Version:
Good stories but appalling translation. OK, OK, I see you giving it five stars and I see the translator has won awards and is translating all of Lispector's work, but I'm boggling at you all in disbelief. Why? There are a *lot* of bizarre word choices and malformed sentences in this tiny little book. I found it almost unreadable for that reason. For example: "Next to her was a lady in blue, with a face". That's the kind of sentence Dan Brown would write. Do the women of Brazil not usually have faces? If you can find a book by the same author but a different translator, give that a go instead.

Portuguese version:
Lusófonos, desculpem-me. Cometi um crime muito grave. Li um livro de Clarice Lispector.... traduzido em inglês! Ai que vergonha! Eu sei, eu sei, não mereço misericórdia.
É um livrinho de quarenta e nove paginas que contém três contos. Comprei-o porque tinha um cartão de oferta de dez libras, mas o livro que queria custava nove libras. Restava uma, e por acaso, havia uma estante com livrinhos que custavam exactamente uma libra. Pumba! Comprei.
Os contos parecem muito bom. Contam histórias de mulheres que se encontram a fazer uma descoberta de algo importante - ou seja uma epifania - sobre elas próprias. Lembram-me de livros de existencialismo, tal como "O Estrangeiro" de Camus. Infelizmente, a tradução é completamente horrível. Havia muitas palavras esquisitas que não se encaixam nas frases em que se encontram. Às vezes, tornou-se ridículo. Por exemplo a frase "Junto dela havia uma senhora de azul, com um rosto" é traduzido literalmente. Fiz uma pergunta sobre isso porque fez me soltar uma gargalhada, e um brasileiro simpático explicou que provavelmente é uma expressão idiomática que significa "resoluta" ou "com bravura" (equivalente de "com peito feito" em português europeu, acho eu). Mas existem muitos exemplos de frases menos ridículas que dão a impressão, sobretudo, de ter sido escrito por alguém que não fala inglês como nativo. Claro, isso não é um crime - todos nós tem os nossos próprios desafios com as nossas línguas escolhidas, mas não é normal para uma tradutora literária.
Pesquisei a tradutora: É americana e ensina literatura comparativa Ganhou prémios. Hum... Ora bem, talvez o mundo discorda comigo mas... Não vou comprar mais livros traduzido pela mesma pessoa!

[aga · Rating 1 out of 5]

I'm guessing the translation is terrible. It feels as if somebody translated each word individually, but did not bother to make sure they form cohesive sentences. It's a mess.

[Salem ☥ · Rating 4 out of 5]

“And, if she had passed through love and its hell, she was now combing her hair before the mirror, for an instant with no world at all in her heart. Before going to bed, as if putting out a candle, she blew out the little flame of the day.”

Clarice Lispector will always be one of my favorite authors, and this tiny collection has reminded me of why.

The way she writes women is so different from others, and in all of these collections, there are two things in common: love and labor.

How do these things change women and their lives? I absolutely adore Lispector and the way her writing makes me feel. Three short but introspective stories about women and their lives.

[Afi (WhatAfiReads) · Rating 4 out of 5]

I get it. I get why Lispector is an author that many love. But like other authors like her, the border between liking and loving her has a thin line. So yes, her writings might not be for everyone, but this is one of the books that I felt compelled to read, picked it up at the right time and ended up loving it. Even amidst my confusion at first as I get used to her writing style, but once you get past that, you'll find that the almost-subconscious-dreamlike style that she wrote suited the whole theme of this book; which was about the struggles of women in their mundane everyday lives.

"What was she ashamed of? That it was no longer compassion, it wasn't just compassion: her heart had filled with the worst desire to live.

I feel with the three stories, the roundabout way she narrates each character in their own state, where three different women lives entirely different lives, but is blanketed with the same emotions : Loneliness. The questions of the hows and the whys of being a woman and the complex nature of motherhood itself was explored in such a way that felt like I was brought along through the stream of consciousness from Lispector. Its almost like, one minute you won't understand what she's saying but in the same sentence, you'll be able to grasp what she wanted to convey. That for me is ingenius of her, but its definitely not everyone's cup of tea.

”Through the winding paths, she had fallen into a woman’s fate, with the surprise of fitting into it as if she had invented it,”

I had definitely enjoyed my first short entry to her works. Definitely more to come :)))))))

[Cody · Rating 5 out of 5]

In lucid, strangely balanced prose, this collection speaks to moments of the interior life that I didn't know could be clearly written about (I had the same reaction to Terence Davies' film The Long Day Closes). Family, spite, maturity, and sudden mystical impulses and moments of awareness in their bewildering incompatibility with everyday life. "It is easier to be a saint than a person."

[Min · Rating 4 out of 5]

From a very young age, I was frightened of my own shadow. Perhaps John Crowe Ransom put it expressly when he wrote 'she took arms against her own shadow.' Every moment lived was a conscious act repressing violence. I was plagued by the fear that I may turn out to be a murderer or a psychopath. Surely, at the very least, I would commit suicide or harm myself. Onboard a car, I was often paralyzed with the fear that contrary to my consciousness fighting my death drive(for I pleaded to God though I was not religious to save me time and time again), I would unlock the door and meet my death. Seated on the 2nd floor of a theater, I wondered if I could live through this moment's urge to jump off. Eating ice cream from a plastic container, I worried I would push the container deeper down my throat and choke to death. Holding a jump rope, I worried that in some fit of madness or a panic attack at night, I would hang myself. The kitchen knife, a crosswalk, the top of a building, subway stations...The possibilities were endless. The potential of violence poised at my fingertips carried a force too torrential for me to bear. I would never be strong enough to resist.
After more than ample enough time had passed for any of those possibilities to become reality, miraculously, I beat the odds. I still existed on this planet. Did I suffer from depression? Occasionally. Did I still hate any hint of violence, not only physical but verbal, too? Indeed. Yet instead of feeling suffocated under the weight of fear, I whittled a weapon of my cowardice. I waged a war against violence by endlessly pursuing tranquility and peace, or so I believed. Oddly, the intense emotions that had flared up within me, seemingly about to explode any minute, had faded away, without my acknowledging of their ceasing. In the time of their existence, these worries had seemed so immediate.
I convinced myself my numbing to other's pain was a part of growing up. Thankfully, there were many to give me support in that direction, to trap me further within my narcissistic dream. With smiling eyes and hypnotically alluring smiles, they told me I was too good for this world. It was a good thing, they assured me. Among some of 'them' were my family. To be sure, their suggestions were well intended. Yet it was an insane paradox, and one that I had a hard time wrapping my head around, that all my life I had thought myself evil, and here they were, telling me I was too good. I knew it was too good of a lie to believe. Yet I had no other means by which to escape a deep, cutting self hatred. Lying to myself was the only other alternative to hurting myself. So I lied. I pulled on an act. I acted as if I was someone else at school. I tried to become a bright ball of sunshine, endlessly happy, endlessly joking around as if life was a joking matter.
Passing the age of 16, I finally faced myself naked in my mirror of thoughts. Bare and without ugly excuses, it took me deep sips from Hesse's well and the help of therapy not to avoid a black hole of deep self hatred. My reflection was pathetic and loathsome. A brat who had received more than what others would receive in a lifetime, unable to express or even feel gratitude for every opportunity. I came face to face with the uncomfortable truth I had tried to distort and cram under a certain tool of 'art'; the truth that all along, I had wrapped my guilt under an invisibility cloak. My masked conscience had known no shame in disregarding pain and simply 'living my best life.' After all, to each their own. We were made to look for our 'own' happiness in the world, weren't we? Yet before my mirror of truths, every well designed lie was destroyed and turned into broken shards. In giving up my contemplations and self-reflective debates, I had been sacrificing understanding pain in order to exterminate my own pain. In truth, perhaps I had noticed the absence of my once ardent, passionate emotions. When I no longer felt anxious if I did not give a penny to a homeless man on the street, for instance. As a child, I felt guilty if I did not do anything. Perhaps... I had tentatively come to a small understanding, an excuse, that no amount of help on my end could liberate all the suffering prevalent in this cruel blue planet. And with more time, as I began to grow into a more 'privileged' position within society, I had to realize, time and again, that I was the one who voluntarily chose this path. My past relationships had distorted my worldview. In our unfair world, you were either the victim or the attacker. To avoid being hurt, I chose the attacker's position. The tears I shed would not fall as compassion but and pity.

All this, I physically felt on my skin in a particularly memorable conversation I remember from my first trip with my university classmates. So I, sitting in that room littered with alcohol bottles and snacks and crackers, had made it to what was regarded as the best university in Korea. The university every parent dreamed of sending their children to. The dream students, too, cherished within their young hopeful hearts as they sat at a desk and laboriously, sometimes with the help of strong caffeine and unhealthy 'monster' drinks, sometimes by poking their thighs with a sharp pen to keep themselves awake, studied into the night. In my mind, I see myself sitting in that group of four, in a huddle, heads tucked together in a firm circle that was, unintentionally, an act of exclusion through inclusion. Scattered pieces of my thoughts from that night come back to me. Would I ever be able to say I had written of 'universal' pain when I had not lived in the poorest of neighborhoods nor lived under the constant threat of bombs hitting my house or gunshots fired at my neighbors? From their perspective, from those who had been discriminated and segregated, those whose whole lives had been torn apart and denied a proper place in this world, my well-intended writing would be an act of deceit at best, and at worst, the sharpest and most painful weapon thrown at them.

And this thought, this open ended question I still have a hard time answering, is the reason why from the three short stories in this beautiful mint penguin book, the second, Love, won my preference over the title story. Will reading this prove a clear cut answer to my question, launched high up in the air, seeking assistance from the stars, from a college student? Probably not. But it gave me confirmation that those worries that had troubled my spirit with endless turbulence was an arc thrown in the right direction, and that it is a question worth exploring time and time again.
Final thoughts. What little I could have possibly said to express my love for Lispector will already have been said. So instead, I leave a quiet note that there is something about Lispector reminiscent of Plath. Several times, I was reminded of Tulips. A strong poet's music underlying the prose, but beneath that, a certain sense of fear. Calm, but in a way that is detached from life. Yet the detachment is written in such an intoxicating and beautiful way, suffused with something, slipped halfway between consciousness and subconsconsciousness, within life that makes you hold your breath, for whatever reason.
Lastly, quotes:

Compassion was suffocating her.

The cruelty of the world was tranquil. The murder was deep. And death wasn't what we thought.

In horror she was discovering that she belonged to the strong part of the world-and what name should she give the violent mercy? She would have to kiss the leper, since she would never be just his sister...By God, hadn't it been real, the waters of compassion that had fathomed the deepest of her heart? But it was the compassion of a lion.

[Gohnar23 · Rating 4 out of 5]

#️⃣3️⃣5️⃣1️⃣ Read & Reviewed in 2025 🏩🌷🦩
Date :💮 Thursday, July 17, 2025 🌸🌸
Word Count📃: 11k Words 🧼💒

🦑 ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ 🍧

⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝ ♡ My 36th read in "Why is Kesha's latest album so good" 🩷 July

4️⃣🌟, 'Love', 'Family Ties' & 'Daydream and Drunkenness of a Young Lady'
——————————————————————
➕➖0️⃣1️⃣2️⃣3️⃣4️⃣5️⃣6️⃣7️⃣8️⃣9️⃣🔟✖️➗

Very short boom but veryy impactful. Three mini stories about their respective titles. The most impactful in here being "Love". Clarice Lispector writes such immense imagery and meaningful discussions in all of her stories most especially this one! (I mean family ties & daydream and drunkenness of a young lady are both good stories too but both of them just get overshadowed by "Love".

Alll of it is so witty and relatable. Like it has a tad realism in every line and how joyful the small things can be. I don't really have that much opinions on any of them other than that because of just how otherworldly the quality of these stories are. But I do think that this book doesn't showcase her lyrical and poetic skills enough, most likely because this is too short. 10k words, and then you divide it by three because there are three stories, it gets REALLLLLY short by then.

[misael · Rating 3 out of 5]

3 contos de Clarice que ainda não havia lido.

Devaneio e Embriaguez de uma Rapariga de que não gostei; Amor , um conto muito bom e meio onírico; e Laços de Família , que achei razoável.

[Callum McLaughlin · Rating 1 out of 5]

Either I don't click with Lispector's narrative voice at all, or the translation in this edition is very poor. It felt wildly incoherent, to the point I'd read entire pages without taking a single thing in. If I'm being generous, I could say this was perhaps intended to reflect the irrationality of the madness I think she was trying to depict? But that might just be reaching.

I hate when I can't find anything positive to say about a book, but I don't think I could even offer worthwhile critique regarding the plot or characterisation, because truthfully, I took absolutely nothing from any of the 3 stories included here. Perusing reviews, I see a few drawing parallels to Virginia Woolf, and perhaps that explains it: despite a couple of tries, and a strong desire to love her work, I don't get on with her style either. Alas, we can't like 'em all. But that is, after all, the strength of these Penguin Moderns; they allow you to try samples of various writers' work, to see which styles you gel with, and which, as in this case, you don't.

[andreea. · Rating 5 out of 5]

I wish all books were written in Lispector's stream...

[Amr Ezzat عمرو عزت · Rating 5 out of 5]

Clarice Lispectos' way of writing stories makes me read only one story a time and don't read anything else the whole day, just to keep the taste of it as long as I can.

[Sophie · Rating 4 out of 5]

“The morning became a long, drawn-out afternoon that became depthless night dawning innocently through the house.”

Daydream and Drunkenness of a Young Lady is a collection of three short stories on married women. Lispector addresses the themes of addiction and loneliness, depicting the struggles and desires through their mundane existence. Stifling and melancholic, Lispector typifies the lives of married women in the mid-twentieth century, wherein they unceasingly felt lost, controlled, and limited to the accessible world.

All the while narrating their wistful accounts, Lispector’s prose remained elegant and enthralling as ever. I now need to get myself a copy of The Complete Stories.

[Brian]

Before going to bed, as if putting out a candle, she blew out the little flame of the day. [34]

[Richard · Rating 5 out of 5]

The rush of blood in my body whenever I read her

[Feebrecht · Rating 5 out of 5]

„Love“ broke my brain

[Idil · Rating 4 out of 5]

so dreamy

[Victoria Casteels · Rating 4 out of 5]

three beautiful stories about women and their internal desires, thoughts, and madness. i adored ‘love’ but any story in this collection is absolutely worth the read! i don’t want to say anything else as i think you should just dive into her words and enjoy the worlds she builds. hungry for more lispector now.

[Beatriz Baptista · Rating 5 out of 5]

5/5 ⭐️

este furacão de mulher está de volta às minhas leituras e, apesar de serem 3 contos com apenas +/- 20 páginas cada, a mensagem continua tão profunda e comovente. um mix entre a náusea de jean paul sartre e a sensibilidade feminina de virginia woolf, ainda mais agressiva e crua. uma leitura rápida mas, como é hábito, com algum grau de exigência. super recomendo (talvez um bom ponto de entrada para a obra de lispector) !

”On Saturday night her everyday soul was lost, and how good it was to lose it (…). ”— Daydream and Drunkenness of a Young Lady

”She had pacified life so well, taken such care for it not to explode.” — Love

”And as if it were a butterfly, Ana caught the instant between her fingers before it was never hers again.” — Love

”And for an instant the wholesome life she had led up till now seemed like a morally insane way to live.” — Love

”Just when does a mother, holding a child tight, impart to him this prison of love that would forever fall heavily on the future man.” — Family Ties

review de cada conto: ─────── ☽ •

1. Daydream and Drunkenness of a Young Lady: 4.5/5 🍸🌙
2. Love: 1000/5 🧑‍🦯🍬
3. Family Ties: 5/5 🚃🤰🏻

quotes preferidas: ─────── ☽ •

✧˖°˖ Daydream and Drunkenness of a Young Lady ˖°˖✧

Obstinate, she wouldn't know how to answer, so shallow and spoiled was she that she didn't even know where to look for an answer.

And when she was drunk (…) all things that by their own natures are separate from each other (…) were peculiarly united by their own natures, and it all amounted to one riotous debauchery, one band of rogues.

And that urge to feel wicked so as to deepen the sweetness into awfulness. And that little wickedness of whoever has a body.

Her sensibility was uncomfortable without being painful, like a broken nail.

If only she could get closer to herself, she'd see she was bigger still.

That right then things were happening to her that only later would really hurt and matter: once she returned to her normal size, her anaesthetized body would wake up throbbing and she'd pay for all that gorging and wine.

On, words, words, bedroom objects lined up in word order, forming those murky, bothersome sentences that whoever can read, shall.

Certain things were good because they were almost nauseating.

Oh what's got into me! she thought desperately. Had she eaten too much?oh what's got into me, my goodness! It was sadness.

The moon. How well you could see it. The high, yellow moon gliding across the sky, poor little thing. Gliding, gliding... Up high, up high. The moon. Then the profanity exploded from her in a sudden fit of love: bitch, she said laughing.

✧˖°˖ Love ˖°˖✧

Ana gave to everything, tranquilly, her small, strong hand, her stream of life.

A certain hour of the afternoon was more dangerous. A certain hour of the afternoon the trees she had planted would laugh at her. When nothing else needed her strength, she got worried.

All her vaguely artistic desire had long since been directed toward making the days fulfilled and beautiful.

Through winding paths, she had fallen into a woman's fate, with the surprise of fitting into it as if she had invented it.

Her former youth seemed as strange to her as one of life's illnesses. She had gradually emerged from it to discover that one could also live without happiness: abolishing it, she had found a legion of people, previously invisible, who lived the way a person works - with persistence, continuity, joy.

The only thing she worried about was being careful during that dangerous hour of the afternoon, when the house was empty and needed nothing more from her, the sun high, the family members scattered to their duties.

As for herself, she obscurely participated in the gentle black roots of the world. And nourished life anonymously.

Expelled from her own days, she sensed that the people on the street were in peril, kept afloat on the surface of the darkness by a minimal balance - and for a moment the lack of meaning left them so free they didn't know where to go.

She was falling asleep inside herself.

The cruelty of the world was tranquil. The murder was deep. And death was not what we thought.

Because life was in peril. She loved the world, loved what had been created - she loved with nausea.

In horror she was discovering that she belonged to the strong part of the world

✧˖°˖ Family Ties ˖°˖✧

'Whoever marries off a son loses a son, whoever marries off a daughter gains a son,'

Being able to laugh always hurt a little.

No one but me can love you, thought the woman laughing through her eyes; and the weight of that responsibility left the taste of blood in her mouth. As if 'mother and daughter' were life and abhorrence. No, you couldn't say she loved her mother. Her mother pained her, that was all.

Without her mother's company, she had regained her firm stride: it was easier alone.

The woman felt a pleasant warmth and would have liked to capture the boy forever in that moment.

Because Saturday was his, but he wanted his wife and his son at home while he enjoyed his Saturday.

Who could ever know just when a mother passes this legacy to her son. And with what somber pleasure. Mother and son now understanding each other inside the shared mystery. Afterward no one would know from what black roots a man's freedom is nourished. (…) The shared mystery.

What had this vibrant little creature been born from, if not from all that he and his wife had cut from their everyday life. They lived so peacefully that, if they brushed up against a moment of joy, they'd exchange rapid, almost ironic, glances, and both would say with their eyes: let's not waste it, let's not use it up frivolously. As if they'd been alive forever.

He had felt frustrated because for a while now he hadn't been able to live unless with her. And she still managed to savor her moments - alone.

'After dinner we'll go to the movies,' the man decided. Because after the movies it would be night at last, and this day would shatter with the waves on the crags of Arpoador.

•☽ boas leituras ! ─────── ✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧

[Yanina · Rating 5 out of 5]

I will have to reread these three stories so to understand their multi-levelled complexity, poeticisism and not to grasp the obvious quotes and meanings...
This prose is so out-there for me, of uncanny, bewildering and mesmerising qualities, as if it is alive and has life of its own. It needs to be read slowly.
However, what stood out for now was....

“She quickly righted the suitcases and her purse, trying to remedy the catastrophe as fast as possible. Because something had indeed happened, there was no point hiding it: Catarina had been launched into Severina, into a long forgotten bodily intimacy, going back to the age when one has a father and a mother”.

“That was how this calm, thirty-two-year old woman was, who never really spoke, as if she’d been alive forever”.

“She was now combing her hair before the mirror, for an instant with no world at all in her heart”.

“What she called a crisis had finally come. And it’s sign was the intense pleasure with which she now looked at things, suffering in alarm”.

“The trees were laden. The world was so rich it was rotting”.

[Anne]

Some time ago I'd also read The Hour of the Star and the short story 'Love', which convinced me of Clarice Lispector's genius.

These stories deserve to be read slowly and carefully, since there's not a lot of action, or at least, the action is not what really matters. The strength of Lispector's writing is that she creates a whole world in a few pages, or sometimes even in a few sentences. The strangeness, the detachment of these women from any meaning to life is absolutely visceral.