The Hour of the Star by Clarice Lispector is by far one of my favorite reads of the class so far. It was chilling and deeply moving, and had a very intense effect when read in one sitting. Macabéa, the subject of Rodrigo’s narration, lives a life of great external suffering yet even greater internal freedom. All of Rodrigo’s musings on perception and reality, in combination with Macabéa’s uncertainty of her own existence, made me wonder if she was even a real person or rather a figment of Rodrigo’s imagination. Upon finishing the book, I think it may be fair to say that both are true, for, as the narrator states, “[Macabéa] believed in angels, and because she believed in them, they existed.”

I was struck by Rodrigo and Macabéa’s characterizations of solitude. Having just finished One Hundred Years of Solitude, the concept was still top-of-mind. Both Rodigo and Macabéa find great peace and strength in their solitude: “My strength undoubtedly resides in solitude. I am not afraid of tempestuous storms or violent gales for I am also the night’s darkness;” “[Macabéa] could enjoy at long last the greatest privilege of all: solitude” (18; 41). These passages stand in stark contrast to those of the Buendía family, who felt endlessly haunted and tormented by their solitude.

Throughout the book, we are aware that Macabéa is enduring abject poverty, with barely enough to feed or clean herself. The narrator says that she is so poor that she cannot even afford to possess self-awareness, “Were she foolish enough to ask herself ‘Who am I?’, she would fall flat on her face. For the question ‘Who am I?’ creates a need. And how does one satisfy that need?” (16). I thought it was beautiful and devastating that right before the moment of her untimely death, she seemed to finally encounter her own self. She had become fully embodied and conscious from the pure excitement of her promised future. “For at the hour of death you become a celebrated film star, it is a moment of glory for everyone, when the choral music scales the top notes” (28). As foretold, when Macabéa had finally possessed self-awareness, she fell on her face, knocked over by a lavish car, and was serenaded by a fiddler, a candle, and on-lookers who finally “gave her an existence” (81). At the closing moments of her life, she had finally arrived at herself and became the star she’d always dreamed of being.

There are so many other things I’d like to say about this book that unfortunately won’t fit here. But I will certainly be reflecting on Lispector’s words for a long time to come. Question for discussion: What, if any, do you think is the purpose or symbolism of the narrator, Rodrigo’s, recurring insecurity around blame, ethics, and perception? Claiming to be the only one who loves Macabéa and yet the one who fails to save her life, what, if anything, does Rodrigo owe her?