neinx TBR'd a book

The Dream of a Ridiculous Man
Fyodor Dostoevsky
neinx TBR'd a book

The Nose (Penguin Little Black Classics, #46)
Nikolai Gogol
neinx TBR'd a book

The Hour of the Star
Clarice Lispector
neinx TBR'd a book

A Breath of Life
Clarice Lispector
neinx is interested in reading...

Blood Over Bright Haven
M.L. Wang
Post from the Ăgua Viva forum
"All of me is writing to you and I feel the taste of being and the taste-of-you is as abstract as the instant. I also use my whole body when I paint and set the bodiless upon the canvas, my whole body with wrestling myself. You don't understand music: you hear it. So hear me with your whole body."
Such an eloquent and rousing portrayal of what writing truly is as a form of communication. I love the way she speaks of putting her "whole body..upon [her] canvas" and the idea of hearing with "your whole body"--transforming intangible communication into a visceral, metaphysical image.
As a writer myself, I find that this fundamental understanding of what a writer ought to be, or should be, doing so interesting:
"It's because now I feel the need for words--and what I'm writing is new to me because until now my true word has never been touched. The word is my fourth dimension."
I can see how she reckons with what it truly means to write to someone, transmuting thought into a letter or a missive, and what part of the individual (and perhaps, by extension, their consciousness, their "whole body") is lost in the transliteration. This idea is, of course, especially interesting, given the book's translated nature. For example, there are sections where the images culminate in unfamiliar ways, or where the words don't quite make sense to the average native English speaker such as myself:
"Sunday is a day of echoes--hot, dry, and everywhere buzzings of bees and wasps, cries of birds and the distance of paced hammer blows--where do the echoes of Sunday come from? I who loathe Sunday because it's hollow. I who wants the most primary thing because it's the source of generation--I who long to drink water at the source of the spring--I who am all of this, must by fate and tragic destiny only know the echoes of me, because I cannot capture the me itself."
It is places like these where, in my view, the translation really shines.
Post from the Ăgua Viva forum
"My unbalanced words are the wealth of my silence. I write in acrobatics and pirouettes in the air---I write because I so deeply want to speak. Though writing only gives me the full measure of silence."
Only tangentially related but recently saw a comment by another Pagebound user on another book, stating how one of the aspects they disliked the most about literary fiction was the intellectual labour required to fully grasp the meaning of each and every sentence, which was what I was thinking about when reading these lines. Reading this book has made me realise that I love literary fiction because of this very reason; because it is truly a labour of love of the written and spoken word. The acrobatics and pirouettes of its language, no matter how vague they may seem, ultimately reflect a desire to create something anew, and in the process of doing so, producing something imperfect, still in the process of being "torturously made", as Lispector puts it so beautifully.
neinx is interested in reading...

Weapons of Math Destruction: How Big Data Increases Inequality and Threatens Democracy
Cathy O'Neil
neinx is interested in reading...

The Creative Act: A Way of Being
Rick Rubin
neinx is interested in reading...

Empire of AI: Dreams and Nightmares in Sam Altman's OpenAI
Karen Hao
Post from the Pan forum
"I didn't know any adults who read books, except for Ty's mom, who was a feminist. I certainly didn't know any adults who went to the library." Yep, why else would any adult read books or go to the library? Jokes aside, its a telling perspective on the diminishing role of literature in an ordinary adult's life, especially given a lower-mid socio-economic status (like those adults in Nick's environment, perhaps)
neinx started reading...

Pan
Michael Clune
neinx started reading...

Pan
Michael W. Clune
neinx finished a book

The Raven
Edgar Allan Poe