The struggle between these two poles arguably brackets our sense of her mystery.
We have two pictures of two different writers that co-exist in her collected stories. This is a notion that she repeatedly plays with through reference, and the fact that citation always initiates a two-fold agenda that runs between original meaning and appropriation. We need accept the fact that in reading Lispector we’re reading the very idea of reading and questioning its limitations – limits grounded in a critical view of personality. Thus, to begin here, we need first examine the threads that Lispector herself would pull out of her work and consistently attach to a broader rumination on the links between the work-made and the life-lived that prove to characterise this new edition. Taken collectively these collated works not only realise her stylistic development but also elide something as to the relationship between that same aesthetic evolution and biographical time. That atmosphere, and the rift between a view of her collected stories as a creative biography or, conversely, as a series of exercises on the mysterious character of fiction, promotes two avenues of thought that we are constantly ushered down over the breadth of this vast collection of stories – 86 in all.
In this collection, she admits that fiction enacts a kind of ‘mystery,’ and through its murk it gets harder and harder to divine its focus. In reading Clarice Lispector, it is impossible to divine a singular frame of reference with which to begin. I’m the one who’s listening to the whistle in the dark. As it is meant to be in / evidently in nature – at best though perhaps it could make / our understanding seek / another’s loneliness out. We can only share the / part that is understood by within another’s knowing acceptable to / the other therefore so one / is for most part alone. Only parts of us will ever / touch only parts of others – / one’s own truth is just / that really – one’s own truth.
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