Água Viva
Ratings23
Average rating3.9
“É como se a vida dissesse o seguinte: e simplesmente não houvesse o seguinte.”
demorei a acostumar-me com este livro. a princípio não queria compreender, não me permiti súbdita ao mundo que é a mente de clarice lispector, mas talvez isso se deva ao facto de ela ter colocado em prática exatamente o tipo de livro que eu escreveria.
gosto de imaginar que clarice escreveu a totalidade desta obra num perfeito estado de limbo e crepúsculo, acompanhada de uma chávena de café que se recusa a arrefecer. é esta a persistente sensação de quem lê água viva. como se visse uma paisagem azul, infinita, como que aurora que acaba no mar, corrente que escorre como os pensamentos de lispector para o papel.
escrever algo tangível acerca de água viva seria uma traição, quase tanto como um absurdo. pretende ser saboreado, pensado, questionado, discordado e, sobretudo, sentido. penso compreender lispector, mas será que estou certa? não tenho a certeza. tenho mais a certeza de que não pretendia ser compreendida. mas também nasci incumbida do mundo, então sinto uma amarga compreensão.
e sinto uma amarga proximidade ao terminar esta obra. gostava de viver no cérebro que dá casa à brilhante mente de quem escreve esta obra. mas estou grata o suficiente de a poder ter lido (no idioma original, que honra!), e de ter tido acesso ao pensar tão puro, tão livre, tão presente de clarice lispector.
“Você há de me perguntar por que tomo conta do mundo. É que nasci incumbida.”
Yes, this is life seen by life. But suddenly I forget how to capture whatever is happening., I don't know how to capture whatever exists except by living here...
Despite Lispector's worries about this book not having a plot and being spineless, she still provides her unique prose that makes the reader rethink the daily objects and routines we take for granted. Living is such a difficult thing – it's tiresome, and improvised, and it continues to move as we go from one instance to the next and the next.
My story is living. And I have no fear of failure. Let failure annihilate me, I want the glory of failing.
i have never read anything like it, and at the same time it feels as if i have always known it by heart
posh tearing, a loan in the form of holes on the edges of a thin flexible film. and film like a lace edge, and black, almost liquid alive black, like eyeliner, soft glass at the same time. why soft? from water outside? where are you behind? but I sure about right place for holes and teeth to pull art through, right number of holes so as not to burst. be thin, with smooth black edges, like stockings. go through the notches and protected volcano behind the projector glass. in her tearing I think about silk, how fingers don't grip because of nails, and silk shoots back to skin. that any vessel you drink from is automatically half filled with enlarged pearls. Clarice's rhythms are so psychic and erotic that literature for children can be more intuitive. it's always sad that with all the love for Clarice, or sweet creatures like David Lynch — who is in plain sight and still took a well-deserved place, but people still say «the most beautiful thing on the planet» but often add that it's not clear to the end. people say «this is witchcraft, not literature», but for some reason, and for me, it is...witchcraft, enlightenment and literature. and sometimes her conclusions are even simple and could be more psychic and led to something more unexpectedly connected.
I thought this form was born because the usual narrative does not contain pain, only brings pain and does not help, the narrative needs to learn crash down. I thought it was for people who read and write with heads under blankets or skirts, or threaded through cuts on white sheets. like in school decoration of a guillotine, Bluebeard. from where it is? what I know, these texts make you bow your head, for no problem. I thought... head, problem... I thought, I know, she know... I thought, heads were constantly rolling in looking for THIS form, in THIS world. «maybe now, maybe you», in every open page, this is, after some visions, the truth. this roots in unknowing introduces to cognition. a built-in loop in structure of slipping beyond the golden edge of structure, like silk slid off thin metal scales. maybe a form blown out of glass in the air, which you can enter and it moves you along an electric circuit. a very lively, mobile enzyme, like a role in a live theater, not a dead, every night. the right magnet or hook clings, animates an element in brain, and you get into catharsis through the repetition and repetition of words, or a real imitation of a scream, passion, maternal peace. places where you must want to express your feelings as brazenly beautiful as someone in front of you, and then leave this field with a new experience or bags, like from travel, from shopping. in your room and bed - witchcraft and enlightenment.
these texts had a built-in descent to level of their sketch, but they are not blurred. red, sacred, not scared. scar, maybe, only in the terms of acquired return of innate beauty forever. so much, like love, clear, firm poetic and emotional logic. this is a biography of inner copy of world. when I opened, for me it was the most logical on earth. that's the way it is right, like I do not know what else, it's just that this is naturally right.
«Agua» or «Passion» one of books written from the corner of bedroom with jungian sweet dreams. not about it, not from chair - thanks, no need a chair. need beautiful uncombed hair, bed, bad and good hair. just with embodiment, from consciousness tuned as an instrument according to these rhythms. when consciousness has accepted that its entanglement is normal, a core in art, holes on thin celluloid was for most beautiful thing on earth. it wants to «slip and don't sleep in cognition», washes instability to beauty. this book is sexy in the love of non-final knowledge, it slides, and by this style of moving it's slipping into knowledge. not a sticky psychological tangle to walk through the maze. this is stroking the maze walls with back on dress, with venus accessories for access to mazes.
russian «writing» and «letter» can be designated by one word, so when I read in preface or afterword things like «the art of Clarice's writing» I also feel «the art of letter».
i want to write a love letter in, for her book.
when Annie Ernaux in «Simple Passion» writes about time when woman's eyes frozen on horizon with her new lover... finding such a book is like finding a somebody, lying on stomach with it. page numbers...I don't know. I don't know, am I read it...or currently reading. it was one of the most wow books of year, but I didn't see the point in adding it to any «read» or something. books on the floor, heels skated between them. for some reason, when you... not you, I, iii find it, I get into a loop, and it's best to fall under water with hair, slightly open lips when the water tickles organs of breathing, read it as run or swallow. but I feel a heaviness around two eyelids and breast. t-shirt is really like...t/shir/t, rip. and body on the bed is twisted, world and works slides down the walls. cognition and sexuality. saved as a photo. a living triangle of tissue has been preserved, you can observe it as in a laboratory. if there is sexuality and books, cognition, if this book is about roots in unknowing...these gallery or laboratory of female characters who read in the bed, with naked legs, split in unequal two like a book or compressed, confusing the keys to a girl's diary with keys to library, in a house of hair, but who do not need the sublimation of always working head and language, who knows tongues. i want to press against the wall and sit like that for two hundred years, because I do not know what kind of wall I need to splash out, stick, where's a cold wall-size window. to cling to something, and drag along the road for a long time. what should I do. I missed this obsession. love here is like a law. I love how she pull the word «life» and imprisoned it in one sentence with «dark», but «eroticism», «emeralds, sapphires, amethysts», sentenced. because for people it's insult - «emeralds» after hated word «life». she creating orgasm and ice bed from two ordinary words «my» and «is» by using cursive.
I think about passages in the «Olivia» part, from «White Oleander» — pink feet and palms on cinnamon skin as jewels in some mysterious woman's land, tortoiseshell combs with a single broken tooth and tall olive oil bottles in the trash. or description of brazilian singer as «chocolate candy with liqueur cherries tangling in mouth», and eights, 8, like eternity, from hips moving in dance lesson. even «Lispector» it's like a «lips spectrum»
A verdade é que a descoberta de si através de uma longa carta ao amante com mil analogias requer um certo espírito disponível ao intangível, ao ambíguo, ao etéreo. Provavelmente eu nem deveria ter continuado a ler ao perceber que os parágrafos que sublinhei na primeira leitura, em 96, agora me pareciam só interessantes do ponto de vista estilístico e não comoventes e originais como na época. Mas creio que envelheci, me tornei mais cinica, mais impaciente e mais distante; me lembrei de uma amiga querida que vai ganhar o livro e talvez veja nele a emoção que um dia eu tive e a escritora possivelmente merece. Em tempo: não acho que seja o melhor dela, mesmo que seja eu horrível. Clarice tem mais a dar do que nessa narrativa.