Name: The passion according to G.H.
ISBN: 0816617112

Clarice Lispector

The passion according to G.H.

Brianna Hawkins

smile??

When living comes to pass, one wonders: but was that it? And the answer is: that is not only it, that is exactly it.

Noreen Farsai

Annie Millman

All sudden understanding closely resembles an acute incomprehension.

No. All sudden understanding is finally the revelation of an acute incomprehension. Each moment of finding is a getting lost.

But if I screamed even once, I might never again be able to stop. If I screamed nobody could ever help me again; whereas, if I never revealed my neediness, I wouldn’t scare anybody by venturing outside the rules. But if they find out, they’ll be scared, we who keep the scream as an inviolable secret. If I raised the alarm at being alive, voiceless and hard they would drag me away since they drag away those who depart the possible world, the exceptional being is dragged away, the screaming being.

ㅤrizki

How I hate the light of the sun that reveals everything, reveals even the possible.

I'm searching, I'm searching. I'm trying to understand. Trying to give what I've lived to someone else and I don't know to whom, but I don't want to keep what I lived. I don't know what to do with what I lived, I'm afraid of that profound disorder.

sofia 🪆

“And that that way I would draw near to whatever is… divine? to whatever is real? The divine for me is whatever is real.”

“When living comes to pass, one wonders: but was that it? And the answer is: that is not only it, that is exactly it.”

soochie

I must violate myself until I have nothing, and need everything; when I need, then I shall have, because I know that it is just to give more to whoever asks for more, my demand is my size, my emptiness is my measure. 

How could I explain that my greatest fear is precisely of: being? and yet there is no other way. How can I explain that my greatest fear is living whatever comes? how to explain that I can't stand seeing, just because life isn't what I thought but something else—as if I knew what!

I don't know if I'll have the courage just to go. It's hard to get lost.

But was I happy while imprisoned? or was there, and there was, something restless and sly in my happy jailhouse routine? or was there, and there was, that throbbing thing I was so used to that I thought that throbbing was being a person.

Maybe all that happened to me was a slow and great dissolution? And that this is my struggle against that disintegration: trying now to give it a form? A form shapes the chaos, a form gives construction to the amorphous substance—the vision of an infinite piece of meat is the vision of the mad, but if I cut that meat into pieces and parcel them out over days and over hungers—then it would no longer be perdition and madness: it would once again be humanized life.

But I'm so little prepared to understand. Before, whenever I tried, my limitations gave me a physical sensation of discomfort, any beginning of thought immediately banged into my forehead. Early on I had to recognize, without complaint, the limits of my small intelligence, and I strayed from the path. I knew I was destined to think little, reasoning kept me confined inside my own skin. So how was I supposed to inaugurate thinking within me now? and maybe only thought can save me. I'm afraid of passion.

This effort I'm making now to let a meaning surface, any meaning, this effort would be easier if I pretended to write to someone.

Each moment of finding is a getting lost.

To learn it again, I would now have to re-die. And knowing might be the murder of my human soul.

Listen, I'm going to have to speak because I don't know what to do with having lived. Even worse: I don't want what I saw. What I saw smashes my daily life. Sorry for giving you this, I'd much rather have seen something better. Take what I saw, deliver me from my useless vision, and from my useless sin.

Benjamin Moser

Idra Novey

The Passion According to G.H.

“there’s a bad taste to the disorder of living.”

- a book about the self, and the selves we find within us and within others. the disgusting qualities — and the beautiful ones — about ourselves that must be observed, accepted, and cherished

- this is a big question (perception, identity, the “self”) that clarice loves to yap about, which makes an apprenticeship a perfect follow-up read. takes the same topics and twists them into the rooms of happiness and romance and desire

- this has been my favorite book in the world for about a year now which has come with its own unique challenges. any time i try to bring it up in conversation with friends i sound like an absolute freak. like of all books to become my favorite why is it the one where a woman stares at a roach for 100 pages

- clarice lispector is a hypnotist: once you fall under her spell she’s incredibly difficult to shrug off. she sticks with you every day, like an echo that follows your own voice. clarice is often described by critics as “mystical” and “singular”, neither of which even begin to cover what it’s like to read her prose for the first time

- whenever i see anyone talk about this book, their focus is usually on the narrator’s obsession with the void, and nothingness, and spiraling into one’s self. while this is certainly one of the key points of the novel and one that’s executed beautifully, i’m saddened by the lack of attention this book gets on how it analyzes shame, and fear, and also one’s acceptance of that shame / fear. this is the aspect of the passion according to g.h. that has been most impactful to me, and something i find very beautiful about clarice lispector’s novels: many of her narrators have something “wrong” with them, or something that happened to them, that isn’t described in vivid detail but is at the core of each protagonist

- this shame is apparent even from the very first paragraph: 

“i don’t know what to do with what i lived, i’m afraid of that profound disorder.”

- it would take a reread or two to have a more well thought out take, but there’s definitely a discussion worth having re: the correlation between the narrator’s obsession with the “void” and her ongoing battle with shame and acceptance

- reading the first few pages of this novel felt exactly like what falling in love has felt like throughout my life. the writing and narration is at a level of beauty that’s instantly overwhelming and near impossible to accurately describe. if soulmates do exist, this book is mine

- “there’s a bad taste to the disorder of living.” (p.20)

- cockroach x human enemies to lovers

- a book about the self, and the selves we find within us and within others. the disgusting qualities — and the beautiful ones — about ourselves that must be observed, accepted, and cherished

- this is a big question (perception, identity, the “self”) that clarice loves to yap about, which makes an apprenticeship a perfect follow-up read. takes the same topics and twists them into the rooms of happiness and romance and desire

- this has been my favorite book in the world for about a year now which has come with its own unique challenges. any time i try to bring it up in conversation with friends i sound like an absolute freak. like of all books to become my favorite why is it the one where a woman stares at a roach for 100 pages

- clarice lispector is a hypnotist: once you fall under her spell she’s incredibly difficult to shrug off. she sticks with you every day, like an echo that follows your own voice. clarice is often described by critics as “mystical” and “singular”, neither of which even begin to cover what it’s like to read her prose for the first time

- whenever i see anyone talk about this book, their focus is usually on the narrator’s obsession with the void, and nothingness, and spiraling into one’s self. while this is certainly one of the key points of the novel and one that’s executed beautifully, i’m saddened by the lack of attention this book gets on how it analyzes shame, and fear, and also one’s acceptance of that shame / fear. this is the aspect of the passion according to g.h. that has been most impactful to me, and something i find very beautiful about clarice lispector’s novels: many of her narrators have something “wrong” with them, or something that happened to them, that isn’t described in vivid detail but is at the core of each protagonist

- this shame is apparent even from the very first paragraph: “i don’t know what to do with what i lived, i’m afraid of that profound disorder.” (p.3)

- it would take a reread or two to have a more well thought out take, but there’s definitely a discussion worth having re: the correlation between the narrator’s obsession with the “void” and her ongoing battle with shame and acceptance

- reading the first few pages of this novel felt exactly like what falling in love has felt like throughout my life. the writing and narration is at a level of beauty that’s instantly overwhelming and near impossible to accurately describe. if soulmates do exist, this book is mine

A disoriented and confused young woman looks back on her life and her place in the world."

lispector has absolutely no concern for the rules of genre, form, even language. what a weird, haunting read this was. 

biddy

Ngl, her book was tough to get through, especially when you’re just getting back into reading after a slump. It’s under 200 pages, but it still took me a whole month to finish. I felt like I understood what she was trying to say, but I couldn’t fully grasp all of it. 

The story follows a wealthy sculptor from Rio who enters her ex-maid’s empty room. There, she sees a cockroach crawling out of the wardrobe. She panics and slams the door on it. But instead of moving on, her disturbing fascination with the dying insect becomes a gateway into a deeper, disorienting confrontation with the self, with God, and with the unknowable nature of existence. She begins to question her identity, her place in the universe, and what it even means to be human. Where does identity begin—within, or in how we are seen by others?

And yes, that’s the entire plot. After that, the book just pulls you into her relentless, often dizzying inner monologue as she spirals deeper into a crisis of meaning. It explores how much of being human is shaped by the way we’re perceived by others.

Ngl, her book was tough to get through, especially when you’re just getting back into reading after a slump. It’s under 200 pages, but it still took me a whole month to finish. I felt like I understood what she was trying to say, but I couldn’t fully grasp all of it. 

The story follows a wealthy sculptor from Rio who enters her ex-maid’s empty room. There, she sees a cockroach crawling out of the wardrobe. She panics and slams the door on it. But instead of moving on, her disturbing fascination with the dying insect becomes a gateway into a deeper, disorienting confrontation with the self, with God, and with the unknowable nature of existence. She begins to question her identity, her place in the universe, and what it even means to be human. Where does identity begin—within, or in how we are seen by others?

And yes, that’s the entire plot. After that, the book just pulls you into her relentless, often dizzying inner monologue as she spirals deeper into a crisis of meaning. It explores how much of being human is shaped by the way we’re perceived by others.



hypnotic. definitely weird but so unique in its voice and lyricism 

marlisa

Ryan Greene

This is the most tedious book I’ve ever read. Usually I put books down when they reach a fraction of this tediousness. But there’s something great about it, about what we are beyond the thin layer we call “I”, and it kept me hooked. I kind of wish it hadn’t. It took me forever to finish it. I’d read a page and put it back down for a week. It’s so repetitive, and at times gets so self-indulgent… Maybe for some people it conjures some great trance-like state. I am very happy to be finally free from it.

Martin

Lindy

No one writes a mental breakdown like Clarice Lispector.

Luis Ponce

Desde el principio Lispector nos avisa que el lector correcto de su novela es alguien con un alma ya formada, pues sabe con creces que no cualquiera, en un sentido espiritual y reflexivo, puede ahondar en ella. Pese a que la terminé con mucho placer, maravillado por su estilo poético y un tanto místico, sigo sintiendo que no era el momento adecuado, que aún no soy esa alma predestinada a comprenderla o, como se espera, destinada a aliviarse a medida que pasan los capítulos. Por eso quizá la disfruto bastante, porque sé que en una futura lectura será posible una reconciliación y que, gracias a la puesta en escena de tópicos tan íntimos, pueda querer más (si es que se puede) todos y cada uno de los detalles de la novela, frase por frase. 

A veces también necesito una cucaracha para recordar que sigo vivo.

D D D 

meeeeehhhh 2.5 and I wish I didn't feel that way. 

I saw one of my friends on here (Hi Ian!) sum up this book as "the acceptance that you will fail to live your life and continuing to live it anyways" or something like that. I love that sentiment! a lot of lines in this book were really powerful and I love its premise. 

but the cons were overpowering for me. I went back and forth every chapter finding G.H. relatable/sympathetic and horribly annoying/pathetic. I also found the prose so tedious - there's a popular 1 star review that mimics it so perfectly it made me laugh. Objectively, though, I like the content and wouldn't dissuade anyone from reading this. Just didn't grip me.

I liked the Novey translation a little better than the Sousa. I don't particularly like when novels are overtly doing philosophical musings...

Prashant Prasad

filing this under “cockroachs which caused unexpected existential dread” right next to metamorphosis 

also in love with clarice lispector

Silje Risøy Helgerud

Kieran Wood

Excellent book with a ton of philosophical depth. Incredibly hard to parse, but worth the time necessary to understand what is being said.

Mikee

andy f

G.H. Plaag 

G.H., a well-to-do Rio sculptress, enters the room of her maid, which is as clear and white 'as in an insane asylum from which dangerous objects have been removed'. There she sees a cockroach - black, dusty, prehistoric - crawling out of the wardrobe and, panicking, slams the door on it. Her irresistible fascination with the dying insect provokes a spiritual crisis, in which she questions her place in the universe and her very identity, propelling her towards an act of shocking transgression. Clarice Lispector's spare, deeply disturbing yet luminous novel transforms language into something otherworldly, and is one of her most unsettling and compelling works. Translated by Idra Novey With an Introduction by Caetano Veloso 'One of the twentieth century's most mysterious writers.' Orhan Pamuk 'The premier Latin American woman prose writer of this century.' The New York Times Book Review