Agua Viva by Clarice Lispector Review

I’ve heard of Clarice Lispector, the arty farty Brazilian author with the cool name, for some time now and a year or two ago I tried her book The Hour of the Star, and just couldn’t get on with it. Then I found out it was her final book and I thought I’d give her another chance - maybe Hour was bad because it was written at the end of her life when her artistic powers might’ve been diminished, and not be representative of her best work?

So I gave an earlier book of hers, Agua Viva, a shot. Nuh to the uh, buh. This is either bad luck (definitely a possibility with me) or Lispector is not my guy.

This book is a sieve. And with it you can make a nothing cake.

By which I mean, every single solitary stinkin’ sentence I read of Agua Viva I instantly forgot. You’ll gast your flabbers at how unmemorable Lispector’s prose is. There’s no story or characters - no attempt at them even - so no dialogue, scenes, or a blimmin point.

This wishy-washy claptrap is Lispector, or her proxy, wittering on in the first person about bloody nothing for page after page. I’m going to randomly flick through this book now and pick out some choice sentences to show you what I mean.

“I don’t want to have the terrible limitation of those who live merely from what can make sense. Not I: I want an invented truth.” (p.15)

“This is the word of someone who cannot.” (p.27)

“Will I have to die again in order to be born once again? I accept.” (p.38)

“I think I’m going to have to ask permission to die. But I can’t, it’s too late. I heard ‘The Firebird’ - and drowned entirely.” (p.53)

It’s bad poetry masquerading as bad prose. And it’s bollocks like this on every page for the entire book. It’s so unbearably pretentious, meaningless, boring beyond belief, writing. It’s the kind of writing people who hate literary books hold up as the example of why these kinds of books, their authors and readers, are so insufferably up their own arses.

The one semi-saving grace is that Lispector seemed to write only short books with both Agua Viva and The Hour of the Star clocking in at under 100 pages each. But when a book is so painfully bad to read as Lispector’s are, shortness doesn’t matter as the reading experience is interminably lengthened. I’ve read books many times this book’s size in far shorter timeframes because they’re actually enjoyable to read.

I’m glad I can tick Lispector off my imaginary list of authors to read at least one book by, but this is one writer I will definitely only be reading one book by - I suspect they’re all this crappy and won’t be bothering with any more Lispector. No idea who Agua Viva is for but I know it ain’t for me.