More freelancer problems: some days you spend all afternoon trying to draw portraits of Clarice Lispector, and they all turn out wrong, because she just looks too damn happy.
This week, if nothing else, at least I finally read The Passion of G.H., which has been on my list for at least five years. It was strange and boring and exhilarating and transcendent and crass all at once. Thanks, Lispector! In the translator’s note was this fittingly eerie anecdote about Clarice’s interaction with a super fan:
“A friend in Brazil told me of a young woman in Rio who’d read Clarice Lispector obsessively and was convinced––as I and legions of other Clarice devotees have been––that she and Clarice Lispector would have a life-changing connection if they met in person. She managed to get in touch with the writer, who kindly agreed to meet her. When the young woman arrived, Clarice sat and stared at her and said nothing until the woman finally fled the apartment.”
Holy fuck! Can you imagine this face staring at you for even more than one second?
In other news, two days ago, while napping after reading a passage, I dreamed I very reluctantly choked down grilled snake.
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