Library deadlines are undoubtedly occupying a substantial part of my thoughts currently – forever seems a little bit too dramatic-!
Putting all this drama aside, for my own good, I was overcome by the idea of a library haul/ wrap up. Definitely, something I didn’t intend on publishing at the very beginning of this blog but … here we are after all.
I have already parted with the books that are pictured, on a proper chilly night of October, rushing myself through the fourth floor of the library, trying to keep an eye for future reading material as well as to be presentable -thank god, for the elevator -. It was a quick goodbye but certainly not a happy one.
“In no sense an intellectual, I write with my body. ”
From the very beginning of this book, you know that you’re going to annotate it a hell lot. Lispector manages to fill every sentence of hers so very beautifully and simply. Even if you put aside her wonderful writing, you get a text and a persona.
This is a short novel. A novel that plays quite sensitively with the lines of fiction and autobiography.
“Just as I am writing at the same time as I am being read. Only I do not start with the ending that would justify the beginning — as death appears to comment on life — because I must record the preceding events.
Even as I write this I feel ashamed at pouncing on you with a narrative that is so open and explicit.”