Lispector (1920-1977) is widely considered "the premier Latin American woman prose writer" (NYT), but I bet most Americans have never heard of her. I certainly had not until I came across this collection, the first time her stories have been published in one volume in any language.
In this case the psychedelic cover art is telling; Lispector's prose is unapologetically strange, if magnetic. These stories open up interior experiences, mostly of women, at all stages of life: young newlyweds with sexual anxieties, elderly women grappling with sexual desire that no one wants, wealthy women confronting the poor and sick for the first time.
I have to confess that I often couldn't penetrate these highly idiosyncratic points of view. Frequently the stories lack a narrative arc that I could recognize, and even more difficult is Lispector's strange syntax and punctuation: "Only this: it is raining and I am watching the rain. What simplicity. I never thought that the world and I would reach this point of wheat." (From Such Gentleness) I wish I could understand 'point of wheat.' Or: "Water, despite being wet par excellence, is. Writing is. But style is not. Having breasts is. The male organ is too much." (From Report on the Thing)
Still. There were many stories that stunned me with their perfect depictions of psychological states, and her writing is certainly a refreshing mental experience.
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