The Hour of the Star

by Clarice Lispector

It is hard to decide who to feel more sorry for, Macabéa or the narrator, the innocent victim of life, or the highly self-conscious victim of his own failure. The one who knows too little, or the one who knows too much.

Who hasn’t ever wondered: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?

the account that soon is going to have to start is written with the sponsorship of the most popular soft drink in the world even though it’s not paying me a cent,

There was one ad, the most precious of all, that showed in full color the open pot of cream for the skin of women who simply were not her. Blinking furiously (a fatal tic she had recently acquired), she just lay there imagining with delight: the cream was so appetizing that if she had the money to buy it she wouldn’t be a fool. To hell with her skin, she’d eat it, that’s right, in large spoonfuls straight from the jar.

She sat there leaning her head on her shoulder the way a dove gets sad.