I first was introduced to Clarice Lispector when a Wild Beast name-checked her as an inspiration behind their then-upcoming record, Smother. Years on, I finally read her brilliant The Hour Of The Star and, later, her debut novel, Near To The Wild Heart.
Smother is not only a beautiful descendent of Lispector’s work, it’s an apt descriptor. Her pulsating, emotionally-coarse prose wraps itself around you, tightening its grip with each frighteningly-relatable insight to her teetering state. Chapters whirr in to gear, reading like steam off a qwerty, reading like a Brett Lee run up. Slow at first, but soon engrossing and consuming; begging you to look away.
This style was curbed later in her career (The Hour Of The Star reads similarly, but less like a writer writing five words ahead of herself), and there are lulls in Near To The Wild Heart. The almost stream of consciousness form occasionally twists and turns itself almost inside out, the narrative – which is secondary anyway to its message – chases its tail until it’s lost in its hide, relying on a sudden change of scene or character to find itself again. This if forgiven though, for the scenes of true introspective beauty are transcendental, magnificent and frequent.
With Lispector’s free-flowing prose and its translation from Portugese to English, there are passages which require a re-read or three. Searching for her message of gasping melancholy almost becomes a game in itself.
