The writing is absolutely beautiful. I would almost say that it reads like a meditation - like Lispector is guiding you through your breathing. She writes in little paragraphs that have their own climax: each one explores death and life and the idea of living the "instant" in a way that seems urgent and anxious, then ultimately quietens down when she tells you that, actually, it's okay to die, it's okay to live, and it's okay to be caught in the middle of everything, including existence.

The title is probably my favourite thing about this book - "living water" or "jelly fish", both translations sum up perfectly the tension between absolute calm and electric fury that runs through the writing. This is the kind of book I would read when feeling anxious - it is both delicate therapy and reckless encouragement of anger.

However, it is ultimately too long. At 88 pages I wouldn't usually say that, but considering the absence of plot, setting, and character, Lispector's inner monologue and abstract musings just get repetitive after the first half, and in some instances border on unnecessarily problematic. This would have worked much better as a short (non)story.