While music whirls around and develops, the dawn, the strong day and the night all live, with a constant note in the symphony, that of transformation. It is music unsupported by things, space or time, the same color as life and death. Life and death in ideas, isolated from pleasure and pain.

Don’t accuse myself. Seek the basis of selfishness: nothing that I am not can interest me, it is impossible to be any more than what you are (nevertheless I exceed myself even when I’m not delirious, I am more than myself almost normally); I have a body and everything that I do is a continuation of my beginning; if the Mayan civilization doesn’t interest me it is because I have nothing in me that can connect with its bas-reliefs; I accept everything that comes from me because I am unaware of the causes and I may be trampling something vital without knowing it; this is my greatest humility, she figured.

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Any quotations taken out of context from this type of long, introspective novel is bound to be misleading and insufficient to capture the whole essence of the arguments, but for me they are still useful examples of the powerful personality and intimate confessions of the author. And so Joana is. A little live egg according to her father, a viper for her aunt, betrayed by her husband Otavio. Child, girl, woman. And whom is she for herself ? Stranger, with wild animal inside her, always diffrent from others, distant, hidden behind own dreams. Joana examining her life, her soul. Joana in the mirrors, in the rain, in the stars. Sadly a happy woman. Thoughts flow through her mind incessantly, her soul scattered on millions atoms, sliding from one truth to the other, and still questions and more questions. What would become of Joana. Alison Entrekin has previously translated City of God by Paulo Lins and Budapest by Chico Buarque. Guest Editor It is not fun or easy to read. The style is one of extreme introspection and stream of consciousness. I think many people go through this kind of thing at the cusp of adulthood. She wrote the book when she was nineteen. I think I went through it but I didn't know or understand what it was and I sure didn't talk about it to anyone, except maybe a little with a friend of my parents who was nothing like my parents.

Clarice Lispector's sensational, prize-winning debut novel Near to the Wild Heart was published when she was just twenty-three and earned her the name 'Hurricane Clarice'. It tells the story of Joana, from her wild, creative childhood, as the 'little egg' who writes poems for her father, through her marriage to the faithless Otavio and on to her decision to make her own way in the world. As Joana, endlessly mutable, moves through different emotional states, different inner lives and different truths, this impressionistic, dreamlike and fiercely intelligent novel asks if any of us ever really know who we are.Clarice Lispector was a Brazilian novelist and short story writer., Her innovation in fiction brought her international renown. References to her literary work pervade the music and literature of Brazil and Latin America. She was born in the Ukraine in 1920, but in the aftermath of World War I and the Russian Civil War, the family fled to Romania and eventually sailed to Brazil., In 1933, Clarice Lispector encountered Hermann Hesse's Steppenwolf, which convinced her that she was meant to write. She published her first novel, Near to the Wildheart in 1943 when she was just twenty-three, and the next year was awarded the Graca Aranha Prize for the best first novel. Many felt she had given Brazillian literature a unique voice in the larger context of Portuguese literature., After living variously in Italy, the UK, Switzerland and the US, in 1959, Lispector with her children returned to Brazil where she wrote her most influential novels including The Passion According to G.H. She died in 1977, shortly after the publication of her final novel, The Hour of the Star. Near to the Wild Heart was greeted as a revolution in Brazilian literature, though it was very rarely compared to the work of any Brazilian writer. Critics mentioned James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, Katherine Mansfield, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Marcel Proust, André Gide, and Charles Morgan. The reason seems to be that its language sounded completely un-Brazilian, as the poet Lêdo Ivo wrote: “Clarice Lispector was a foreigner. … The foreignness of her prose is one of the most overwhelming facts of our literary history, and even of the history of our language.” [8]For a minute it seemed to her that she had already lived and was at the end. And right afterwards, that everything has been blank until now, like an empty space, and that she could hear far off and muffled the din of life approaching, dense, frothy and violent, its tall waves cutting across the sky, drawing nearer, nearer ... to submerge her, to submerge her, drown her, asphyxiating her ...

The song (and album)’s title is taken from Irish writer James Joyce’s first novel, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. In Chapter IV, Joyce says: A young woman describes her weltanschauung… She recalls the fragments of her childhood and girlhood… And her story is about feeling alive… Of being conscious of existence… Elation of being… Sometimes she rebelled distantly: life is long ... She feared the days, one after another, without surprises, of pure devotion to a man. To a man who would freely use all of his wife's forces for his own bonfire, in a serene, unconscious sacrifice of everything that wasn't his own personality. Eternity wasn't just time, but something like a deeply rooted certainty that she couldn't contain it in her body because of death; the impossibility of going beyond eternity was eternity; and a feeling in absolute, almost abstract purity was also eternal. What really gave her a sense of eternity was the impossibility of knowing how many human beings would succeed her body, which would one day be far from the present with the speed of a shooting star.' Stilul e acesta: „Ah, avea să moară. Da, avea să moară. Simplu, cum zburase pasărea. Şi-a aplecat capul într-o parte, cu gingăşie, ca o nebună blîndă; dar era uşor, era uşor, aşa de uşor... nu era ceva ce ține de inteligență... e moartea care va veni, va veni... Cîte secunde au trecut? Una sau două. Sau mai multe. Frigul” (p.166).Just as the space surrounded by four walls has a specific value, provoked not so much because it is a space but because it is surrounded by walls. Otávio made her into something that wasn’t her but himself and which Joana received out of pity for both. . . Besides: how could she tie herself to a man without allowing him to imprison her? How could she prevent him from developing his four walls over her body and soul? The more we read about Joana, the more we realize that like day and night, and brightness and darkness, she is full of contradictions and oppositions: She was sadly a happy woman....Happiness was erasing her, erasing her... I've seen this described stylistically as stream-of-consciousness but, technically speaking, it isn't: it's too unfractured at the sentence level, too syntactically correct (at least in English translation). It is, though, deeply introspective and the movement of the story, such as it is, traces the psychic journey of Joana, a journey that has no ending other than death so that she's always in an open state of becoming. Have you ever forgotten that you are human? Felt free from the awareness of yourself that otherwise constantly assaults you? Have you sometimes felt like you are an entire village but at other times have been lost like a dot? Have you felt the narcissistic but insurmountable need to prove your body, especially around cheerful people? Have you maybe felt the great desire to dissolve until your ends merged with the beginnings of things? Oh don't worry. Your condition isn't fatal. It is, but only in the way everything you've ever encountered, touched, heard, felt and seen is. You just happen to be a protagonist in a Clarice Lispector novel. Joana believes that it is impossible to ever put into words the feelings she experiences - since doing so will transform them into something other: the most curious thing is that the moment I try to speak not only do I fail to express what I feel but what I feel slowly becomes what I say. Or at least what makes me act is not, most certainly, what I feel but what I say.

urn:lcp:neartowildheart0000lisp:lcpdf:eabd6710-d3e0-4c19-9c22-ff1bf4a95ace Foldoutcount 0 Grant_report Arcadia #4281 Identifier neartowildheart0000lisp Identifier-ark ark:/13960/t06x7xz5r Invoice 2089 Isbn 0811211398 This is my first Lispector book, but I already know I will be intimately familiar with all of her writing. She's the sort of writer who'll show you eternity in a blink. Or to be more poignant and pretentiously referential, she'll show you fear in a handful of dust. And all of that fear is the same: crippling existential agony.

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has it ever occurred to you that a dot, a single dot without dimensions, is the utmost solitude? A dot cannot even count on itself, as often as not it is outside itself.” The title, Near To The Wild Heart Of Life, comes from a passage in the novel A Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man by James Joyce: Si tratta di un misticismo esistenziale, un misticismo della Natura: non mi pare si possa parlare di fede in dio, questo dio o quell’altro. Lccn 90033455 Ocr_converted abbyy-to-hocr 1.1.20 Ocr_module_version 0.0.17 Old_pallet IA17384 Openlibrary_edition