Abstract

Is love when you don’t give a name to things’ identity? The Passion According to G.H., like much of Clarice Lispector’s writing, hovers on the razor-thin and fragile edge between description and the ineffable, between existence and nonexistence, between the world and its disappearance, between losing and finding oneself. It is no wonder, then, that a plethora of contradictions explode from the very first lines of the narrative that passionately wishes to share an obscure experience, of which the narrator herself is not certain—“I am not sure I even believe in what happened to me,” she says (p. 3)1—and which she is unable to organize into clearly delineated forms or molds, without losing its singularly ..