It didn't occur to me to put this book down.

Did I know what was going on? Not really. But did I get one of the most vivid paintings of the life of a young woman in Rio and her biographers pity and off contempt for her? You betcha.

This was my first foray into Clarice Lispector. I was told that I would enjoy her work but, frankly, I knew nothing about her writing going in and instead focused on how her name reminded me of the silence of the lambs (Lispector rhymes with Lector, Clarice). (Forgive me for my ignorance).

I saw a review here that the writing is like that of a raving lunatic with frequent moments of absolute brilliance. And frequent they are. Reading this is like panning for gold and seeing that the water is full not only of gold but other precious stones and I greedily wanted to gobble them up (I've never planned for gold so I'm mixing metaphors here). And that's why I couldn't stop reading. The beauty and the ache of the prose kept reeling me in and I just couldn't get enough. More please.

Recommended if you love a weird little book where the sentences take your breath away, thrive on evocative imagery even if what they evoke is miserable, and have no need for such literary conventions as "plot" or "coherence" to have a good time with a book. (I jest but not really. This was amazing).

(It also made me crave cheese and guava, which I thankfully had in the house)