Recursive Dream

The Passion According to G.H.

I have wanted to write something about The Passion According to G.H by Clarice Lispector since reading it some weeks ago. I still don't know what to write. I could quote endlessly from it, as so much of it describes what I have come to understand, am still understanding, or will understand when the time is right. Clarice wrote that of all her works this novel was the one that "best corresponded to her demands as a writer" and I can see why. One can feel the desperation to express something of profound importance on every page and, by the end, one cannot help but have viscerally experienced that communication. I suppose the best I can do at this point is to quote the final paragraph:

The world independed on me—that was the trust I had reached: the world independed on me, and I am not understanding whatever it is I'm saying, never! never again shall I understand anything I say. Since how could I speak without the word lying for me? how could I speak except timidly like this: life just is for me. Life just is for me, and I don't understand what I'm saying. And so I adore it.

I am deeply grateful for the one who recommended the book. I trusted you implicitly because you shared yourself genuinely.