Into an Author’s Work… Clarice Lispector

I’d like to begin by asking how you discovered Clarice Lispector’s work.

That’s an old story. I’m half Brazilian and lived in Brazil for many years. When I was around twenty, my aunt gave me the short‑story collection Family Ties as a Christmas present, saying, “You like strange literature, so she might be something for you.” My aunt was a teacher. I liked the book immediately and ended up writing my university thesis on Clarice. At the time, unfortunately, not many people in Brazil were reading her. She was a critics’ darling, but largely unknown to a broader readership. It wasn’t until the mid‑1990s that people really began to embrace Clarice.

But many people in Brazil know who she is today?

No, that’s not entirely true. That idea is a bit of a tall tale, largely attributable to the American writer Benjamin Moser, who wrote a biography of Lispector. It certainly brought attention to Clarice — and for that, one can be grateful. But it’s important to nuance Moser’s portrayal of her. Unfortunately, one has to subtract a bit from what he writes. Imagination turns into fact. And Clarice deserves the right to be herself — not who Moser wants her to be. So we need to clear the picture and return to Clarice again.

For instance, she couldn’t make a living from her writing and was repeatedly in financial trouble, selling off her paintings to get by. Reluctantly, she agreed to write weekly columns for Jornal do Brasil for several years in order to earn extra money and reach a wider readership — and she ended up enjoying that work.

Lispector was born in what is now Ukraine, yet in her letters she strongly emphasised that she was a Brazilian writer. Why do you think that mattered so much to her?

She actually walked out of interviews that began with precisely that question. Being born in Ukraine meant nothing to her. To my knowledge, there are no explicitly Jewish elements in her literature — no rituals or symbols. She once said, “I’m just Brazilian. Why don’t you ask everyone else about that?” I understand her well. Her style, her imaginative mode, is Brazilian — or perhaps more broadly Latin American. I would say her writing is closer to other Latin American writers, such as Julio Cortázar.

Let’s turn to the works themselves. If you were to recommend a place to begin, which book would you choose?

Everyone says The Hour of the Star, but I would probably say Family Ties. For me, that short‑story collection is her most universal work — and also her most humorous. It’s fascinating how wide‑ranging it is thematically. It’s simply a string of remarkably original stories, each one a perfect piece in its own right. And in my view, Clarice is at her very best in her short stories. They’re so intense, so seemingly simple — and yet layered to the point of infinity.

If one were to read only a single book that captures the essence of her work, which would it be?

Then I would say Água Viva, without hesitation. It is the essence of Clarice — of her thoughts on life and on writing. And it’s lyrical. One of my friends once said, “Tine, this is a poem.” Yes, it is. Everything is there. It’s her most original work, in my view. She rewrote the manuscript countless times; it went through four different titles and was cut by 120 pages. All the handwritten, annotated and typewritten manuscripts are kept in an archive in Rio, and I had to work through them all to translate the book properly. It took time — nine months.

It can also be a frustrating book to read…

Yes, it’s no accident that she has a reputation for being hermetic — or difficult. But as a friend of mine who doesn’t work with literature once said: you simply have to lower your guard and drift into the work. Let yourself be seduced. Dare to get lost and see what happens. But you do have to be willing. Clarice is very much an either‑or writer. I don’t know anyone who merely “sort of” likes her. People either don’t like her at all — or they love her deeply.

Her writing is grounded in intuition, which has also guided me as a translator. I translate her intuitively. I read aloud constantly — pacing the floor, which my downstairs neighbour can attest to. I have to hear how it sounds. Clarice’s prose is deeply rhythmic and melodic. It’s a delightful hell to translate. Editors go mad, because I keep revising, again and again.

Are there any works you consider atypical or a bit strange within her oeuvre?

Yes — probably the novel Onde estiveste de noite (Where Were You at Night). It’s a strange, fluffy little book. You could almost read it without recognising her — it’s not very “Clarice‑like.” It lacks the current that characterises her work. There are a few other books that perhaps don’t quite reach the same level, but one can hardly demand that everything an author writes be a masterpiece.

Is there a Lispector work that has had special personal significance for you?

Yes — that would be The Hour of the Star. It was the first book I translated, back in the 1980s, because I felt it was the right introduction to present her in Denmark. It has a fairly clear narrative — it’s about a girl from north‑eastern Brazil who eats hot dogs and dreams of a man in Rio. And it’s very funny. I’ve lived in north‑eastern Brazil myself, and her portrayal of people from that region is extraordinary — allegorical rather than social‑realist. Clarice was socially engaged, by the way; she studied law because she wanted to improve conditions in Brazilian prisons.

You’ve also had access to the original manuscript of The Hour of the Star. What was that like?

Fantastic. I love sitting with Clarice’s originals. You’re handed a beautiful box containing the manuscript — tied with silk ribbons. And there it all is: everyday notes, scribbles, typewritten pages. Fragments she assembled — and suddenly the book emerges. That’s how she worked; she writes about it in her letters. The works are shaped by an undercurrent. She had a remarkable understanding of how a text comes into being. You can feel it.

Many of Lispector’s works have been published in recent years. Why do you think they’re appearing now?

It’s striking. The translation of The Hour of the Star that I sent to a Danish publisher in the 1980s came back to me with the comment, “This isn’t Danish.” And then, in 2018, suddenly it is Danish. Of course, I revised the translation, but not fundamentally. I think Denmark has changed. Publishers are now more open to new, different voices. Perhaps globalisation plays a role. When I began translating in the 1980s, it was to show that Brazil was more than football, coffee and samba.

Lispector’s selected letters have just been published. Can you say something about the selection?

The selection is based on an 800‑page collection of letters. I excluded the most domestic, everyday material — things that don’t expand our understanding of Clarice or hold particular interest for literary readers. What remains adds something new about Clarice as a person, or about her relationship to literature and the act of writing. You come closer to her in the letters. They reveal a very caring person, surprisingly dependent on maintaining a living connection with the outside world. The letters formed a bridge — perhaps her way of surviving the sixteen years she lived in Europe.

Final question: is there another author who might sharpen one’s reading of Lispector?

Perhaps Hilda Hilst. At times she writes in a similar way — with a strong voice and rhythm — though the result is quite different. She writes fiercely, without filters. She didn’t rewrite her books as extensively as Clarice did.

If one must speak of influence or kinship, I’m more inclined to mention Marcel Proust, though that may sound bold. Clarice taught herself French and read Proust. If there is anyone one can read into Clarice, it might be him — because of the undercurrent in her texts, that flowing, charged layer, and their shared polyphony. In her later works, she may also have been influenced by Franz Kafka, whom she mentions as an inspiration in her letters.

What’s unique about Clarice, though, is that she defies categorisation. She wrote for herself, in opposition to the dominant social realism of Brazilian literature at the time — without pointing fingers. Like singular figures such as Juan Rulfo in Mexico or Jorge Luis Borges in Argentina. From the very beginning, she has her own voice — radically different, radically new — and she stands by it without hesitation: This is how I write. This is who I am. So be it.