It is better not to speak of happiness or unhappiness…

I have neglecting my blog. I have just been wanting to disconnect myself from the Internet. Staring at this screen is making me insane, but I’m back.

Clarice Lispector’s The Hour of the Star really didn’t for me. I feel like I am channeling Ben’s anger from The Passion to this. The idea of writing about writing and discussing inner struggles throughout the story telling itself was distracting and obtrusive. The whole idea made me question the reality of the situation and who exactly Rodrigo was and his personal relationship to Macabea. The book got me so worked up. I can’t imagine a life so depressing and seclusive, not feeling the need to defend yourself because you accept who are and revel in your lack of intelligence. She doesn’t need to be anything else because she has accepted who she is and doesn’t think she can do anything about it. “She wasn’t even aware that she was happy.’”

Overwhelmingly pathetic, but can you help but sympathize? Rodrigo holds her fate in his hands in the end which made the situation to be nothing but a fabrication of his intellectual mind. I don’t know how long I can talk about this. I don’t understand why I have let this all get to me. And the last line of the novel? No….

I don’t think that Rio de Janeiro was a key factor in the novel at all, as compared to the other books we have studied this semester. The city felt distant and not in control. It felt as though it could have been set up in a million different cities, because the distinct line between the poor and the fortunate is so entirely common. i had a hard time visualizing the city itself through it lack of description or importance.

Although I did have an overall issue with the book, I did find lines that I can’t seem to erase from my thoughts.

“Am I a monster or is this that what it means to be a person?”

The idea of having nothing to live for…. This wasn’t my kind of book. Maybe this just wasn’t my day.