A review by nathansnook
A Breath of Life: Pulsations, by Clarice Lispector
4.0
READING VLOG
A conversation without connection between the creator and its creation.
In the final days of Lispector, you see grief and, still, this urgency to find profundity and wonder in the banalities of life, even amongst so much end. To look at objects and gloss them over like a slow-moving camera from Russian Ark or Journey into the Night. Like a Terrance Malick film that doesn’t look at wonder, but finds wonder in common objects. A trash can. An elevator. Butterfly.
Man becomes mother, and a mother’s worry is forever. Worried to be too close to subject. Worried to be too far from subject.
But Angela Pralini, an undead non-existing figment of female imagination, an object of desire, is but the subject of these pages that breed beginnings and ends, of the very reason why art exists and why we exist for art.
Best read in companionship with The Hour of the Star, to see man becoming in the form of Lispector, her brute masculinity, her force majeure.
A conversation without connection between the creator and its creation.
In the final days of Lispector, you see grief and, still, this urgency to find profundity and wonder in the banalities of life, even amongst so much end. To look at objects and gloss them over like a slow-moving camera from Russian Ark or Journey into the Night. Like a Terrance Malick film that doesn’t look at wonder, but finds wonder in common objects. A trash can. An elevator. Butterfly.
Man becomes mother, and a mother’s worry is forever. Worried to be too close to subject. Worried to be too far from subject.
But Angela Pralini, an undead non-existing figment of female imagination, an object of desire, is but the subject of these pages that breed beginnings and ends, of the very reason why art exists and why we exist for art.
Best read in companionship with The Hour of the Star, to see man becoming in the form of Lispector, her brute masculinity, her force majeure.