ACCORDING TO CLARICE LISPECTOR. Paul B. Dixon. Clarice Inspector’s A paixão segundo G. H. is a passion in more than one sense. It is an account of a. Availing herself of a single character, Lispector transforms a banal situation—a O livro “A Paixão Segundo G. H.” é a minha estreia literária com Clarice.
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Open Preview See a Problem? Thanks for telling us about the problem. Return to Book Page. Preview — The Passion According to G. The Passion According to G. Aficionados of South American fiction as well as literary critics will welcome this posthumous translation of a nearly plotless novel by one of Brazil’s foremost writers. Availing herself of a single character, Lispector transforms a banal situation—a woman at home, alone—into an amphitheater for philosophical investigations.
The first-person narration jousts clraice language Aficionados of South American fiction as well as literary critics will welcome this posthumous translation of a nearly plotless novel by one clariice Brazil’s foremost writers.
The first-person narration jousts with language, playfully but forcefully examining the ambiguous nature of words, with results ranging from the profound to the pretentious: For how will I be able to speak without the word lying for me?
Poesia y Poetica
Although this idiosyncratic novel will not have wider appeal, those with academic or markedly erudite tastes should find much to like. Paperbackpages. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up.
To ask other readers questions about The Passion According to G. Is it first person or omnipresent? Bobby Fields first person: See 2 questions about The Passion According to G. Lists with This Book. Oh, lcarice knocked me down, again! Clarice Lispector, you daring, independent soul, you brilliant thinker, you wild, wild woman!
And all of us if we dare not to segunddo what we are. Breaking down certainties and truths and letting life emerge beyond the illusion of knowledge. A woman in a clean, almost sterile room encounters and injures a roach, and engages in an inner monologue about the meaning lessness of life.
It is as if the gospel was told from the perspective of an educated and open-minded Eve, writing her memoirs with the understanding that she had to break off relations with her dominant and simple-minded God father to have a life of her own. An Eve who is proud to be naked! An Eve whose metamorphosis into herself is mirrored in the roach, the intruder into a clean, pwixao sterile room, challenging the old Biblical concepts: What ideal was fastening s to the sentiment of an idea?
What was I afraid of?
Becoming unclean with what? Becoming unclean with joy. Real living though can only be within a moment: And when it is too hard to reconcile her thoughts with the outside world, she has pity on the external concepts and carries the responsibility for the discrepancies herself: Her ignorance is the highest form of knowledge in a Socratic take on the psyche. Her religion consists in accepting the narrative while rejecting the morality – quite the opposite of mainstream churchgoing, but liberating in its logic!
She blew me away, yet again. She is closer to my wild heart than any other author I know, reading her is like being with the stars for an hour, and I share the passion according to the anonymous woman alone in a clean room with a roach with whom she is passionately in love despite destroying it. The novel left my fingers yearning for brushes, wishing for oil paints to make a giant painting of a beautiful woman dancing the tango with an elegant roach – Tango For Two, the passion according to Clarice Lispector.
View all 26 comments. If you’re one of those Dragnet types who wants ‘just the facts, ma’am,’ you’d better scram right about now because I have absolutely no oaixao where this thing is going.
I guess I’ll just let this review be what it wants to be. My first crisis was—I want to say at around the age of ten. But when I say it was the first crisis you should understand that it’s the first crisis I remember. Who knows when or why these things begin? I’ll leave that question to the psychologists, the biochemists, the shamans Anyway, I was let’s say ten, and I was in my pajamas standing in the living room. It was evening—dark enough for the bright lamplight to cast hard shadows around the room—but not so late that the dingy sunlight had fully retreated.
In other gg, it was the dying hour. It’s nature’s daily memorandum to those who’ve become too complacent, too forgetful, clarcie too immortal.
My mother was on the sofa, and my sister was on the chair. But I paixa standing there locked into place while the world moved around me. I could sense the world vividly moving around me.
In a span of time too swgundo to register—a time without duration, just as in math a line theoretically has length but not width or depth and is therefore invisible—I experienced the crisis. The first crisis that I remember. But I shouldn’t say I experienced it because it’s difficult to experience something that doesn’t extend itself in time; I should say that I remembered the feeling from it.
I wasn’t experiencing it directly, just a dulled memory of it. And what ‘it’ was was this: I remembered experiencing the world suddenly as objects without meaning or context. Imagine that you’re driving down the highway at 85 mph because you’re a leadfoot and there’s traffic all around you—but then suddenly you forget how a car works.
Segndo steering wheel, the pedals just become strange, unintelligible objects that you don’t know what to do with. The car itself is only a shape surrounding you, without significance.
The Passion According to G.H.
Does it even have anything to do with your motion down the highway? That’s what it was like. Everything in the world, for a period of time without duration, became random shapes and figures without any organizing principle. Think about the world as nameless matter. How strange and perhaps even frightening these shapes become when you don’t know their ‘intentions.
I remembered not comprehending what I was and how I had a consciousness directed at these objects. It’s true—I was safe now—the experience already belonged to the past, but even its residue was terrifying. I could remember losing myself. I never told anyone about these experiences until many years later. As a ten year old, I didn’t even know if it was strange or a symptom of merely being alive. Then one day I told my girlfriend S.
The Passion According to G.H. – Wikipedia
It was like a dark, horrible secret opened up between us. We could never tell ‘the others’—they wouldn’t understand. But we needed something to call it, a way to describe what it was. Being the pretentious kid I was, I dabbled in existentialism at the time, so I borrowed the conceptual underpinning and came up with the phrase phenomenological disorientation. When I see her now, many years later, we both remember remembering it.
It was not long after the naming of the remembering of the experience that I realized that I would probably always be nuts. My main fear was that I would actually get stuck in the experience. What if one day I never came back out of it? What if I could never comprehend the world, the body, or the mind I inhabited ever again? That would be insanity. That must be what insanity is, right?
I’ve shared this all-too-true reminiscence with you because The Passion According to G.
A sculptress known only as G. She attempts to kill it by closing the door of an armoire on it, but this succeeds only in injuring it and prolonging its death. She watches over this dying cockroach, and this vigil provokes a collapse of her identity and her previous notion of what it meant to be human. Most of the it is comprised of the frantic, iterative reflections of G.
The Passion According to G.H. by Clarice Lispector
This new world can not be spoken. Our language fails it. It is an ‘inexpressive’ state of being without words—a vast, timeless existence that is constant like a humming without any inflection.
Needless to say, The Passion According to G. Because it is composed of sentences that can not precisely name what is being discussed, the strategy is one of allusion. Lispector attempts to evoke the unsayable through unconventional and paradoxical uses of language.
The idea if we can even call it that lies in the interstices between gu words. The sentences are signposts directed at some unseeable object, lost on the horizon.