Clarice Lispector & Caetano Veloso: Fascination with Language

There is a new book of complete stories by Brazilian writer Clarice Lispector (1920–1977) that was recently featured in the New York Times Book Review. Most people don’t know about her, though they might have heard a song sung by Caetano Veloso called “Clarice.” It was written by Capinam.

At first I thought maybe this song was about Lispector; as it turns out, however, Clarice is a common name and that there are many Clarises in Brazil, so Caetano’s song is not about her. The two artists, however, have things in common. Caetano, along with Gilberto Gil, created Tropicália, a music movement from 1968 that not only diverted music away from the apolitical bossa nova, but also scandalized the dictatorship and got him thrown out of the country. He has written and recorded countless songs and dozens of album since then. Caetano loves surrealism, automatic writing and concrete poetry, and is always inventing and experimenting with language. This was true of Lispector as well. Clarice was unique in her sometimes visionary writing style, but only became appreciated after her death at 56 in 1977.

Lispector’s life and writing mirrored the sadness, anguish, and alienation of another much more famous Jewish writer, Franz Kafka. During the anti-semitic pogroms in Ukraine after the Russian Revolution, family members were murdered and her mother was raped by Russian soldiers and infected with syphilis. Her father lost his work and social standing. The well-to-do middle class family lost all its money. The family made a harrowing escape, through Moldova and the Balkans and eventually arrived in Recife, Brazil, half a world away. Her mother died just a few years later, from the effects of the venereal disease she contracted from rape. Her father never found his footing again.

In Brazil she met and married a young lawyer who eventually became a diplomat. Her life became one of privilege as she globe-trotted the world on his various postings. She became the dutiful socialite and charming hostess of various parties and other social affairs. Her writings, however, reflect a different side. She left this life and her husband and returned to Brazil. Part of her later sadness involves fading beauty and the loss of her allure. She became addicted to sleeping pills and once fell asleep in bed while smoking. The fire disfigured most of her body.

I remember Caetano mentioning her in his autobiography, but I also remember her from a remarkable 1985 film

“Hour of the Star,” based on her novel that was published just after her death in 1977 . The film is about a poorly-educated country bumpkin who moves to Rio to live a lonely single life as a typist. She doesn’t know much about personal hygiene, but after a visit to a fortune teller, she is told that she will meet a handsome man who will sweep her off her feet. Although this turns out to be a false hope, the illusion keeps her going. The film was nominated for several awards, and I was very taken by it when I watched it 30 years ago. It’s one of those films that I’m afraid to revisit lest it be a case of disappointment and a “what was I thinking” moment.

Anyhow, years ago, I reviewed Veloso’s autobiography, Verdade Tropical or Tropical Truth, for the LA Times Book Review. They ran it as the cover story, “The Boy from Ipanema.” I remember being annoyed by the book’s pretentiousness, and especially by Veloso’s being so enamored by the surrealistic films of Glauber Rocha, especially Terra em Transe, which I once attempted to watch until I couldn’t fathom five minutes of it. I found it similar to some of Yoko Ono’s performance art (lighting matches for 24 hours in a 1955 performance piece), or some of Lispector’s writing that is mentioned in Terrence Rafferty’s recent New York Times book review. I’m probably not alone in my disaffection for these types of works, though many will probably disagree with me.

For instance here is an excerpt from Lispector’s story, “The Egg and the Chicken,” quoted from Rafferty’s review:

“In the morning in the kitchen on the table I see the egg…seeing the egg is impossible…the egg is supervisible just as there are supersonic sounds. No one can see the egg. Does the dog see the egg? Only machines see the egg. The construction crane sees the egg. When I was ancient an egg landed on my shoulder…”

Etc., ad nauseum. Did she write this with a planchette? This isn’t a bad translation, but it just seems pretty loopy to me. Her fans will disagree: they have called her the Brazilian Franz Kafka.

For those of you curious to learn more about her, there is the biography, Why This World, by Benjamin Moser, that was published in 2012.

The lyrics to Caetano Veloso’s “Clarice.”

Há muita gente apagada pelo tempo

Nos papéis desta lembrança que tão pouco me ficou

Igrejas brancas, luas claras nas varandas

Jardins de sonho e cirandas, foguetes claros no ar

Que mistério tem Clarice

Que mistério tem Clarice

Pra guardar-se assim tão firme, no coração

Clarice era morena como as manhãs são morenas

Era pequena no jeito de não ser quase ninguém

Andou conosco caminhos de frutas e passarinhos

Mas jamais quis se despir entre os meninos e os peixes

Entre os meninos e os peixes, entre os meninos e os peixes do rio, do rio

Que mistério tem Clarice

Que mistério tem Clarice

Pra guardar-se assim tão firme, no coração

Tinha receio do frio, medo de assombração

Um corpo que não mostrava feito de adivinhações

Os botões sempre fechados, Clarice tinha o recato de convento e procissão

Eu pergunto o mistério que mistério tem Clarice

Pra guardar-se assim tão firme, no coração

Soldado fez continência, o coronel reverência

O padre fez penitência, três novenas e uma trezena

Mas Clarice era a inocência, nunca mostrou-se a ninguém

Fez-se modelo das lendas, fez-se modelo das lendas

Das lendas que nos contaram as avós

Que mistério tem Clarice

Que mistério tem Clarice

Pra guardar-se assim tão firme, no coração

Tem que um dia amanhecia e Clarice

Assistiu minha partida chorando pediu lembranças

E vendo o barco se afastar de Amaralina

Desesperadamente linda, soluçando e lentamente

E lentamente despiu o corpo moreno

E entre todos os presentes

Até que seu amor sumisse

Permaneceu no adeus chorando e nua

Para que a tivesse toda

Todo o tempo que existisse

Que mistério tem Clarice

Que mistério tem Clarice

Pra guardar-se assim tão firme, no coração

here is the translation: i hope it’s not a case of “poetry lost in translation” as the old saying goes:

There are a lot of people

Erased by the time

On the papers of this memory

That so little stayed with me

White churches

Light moons on the verandes

Dream gardens and cirandas*

light rockets on the air

What mistery does Clarice have

What mistery does Clarice have

To keep herself so strong, in the heart

Clarice was a brunette

Like the mornings are brunettes

was small in the sense

of being of almost nobody

She walked with us through paths

of fruits and little birds

But never wanted to undress herself

between the boys and the fish

between the boys and the fish

between the boys and the fish

from the river, from the river

What mistery does Clarice have

What mistery does Clarice have

To keep herself so strong, in the heart

She feared the cold

fear of ghosts

A body that didn’t show

made of guessing

The buttons always closed

Clarice had modesty

of convent and procession

I ask what is the mistery

What mistery does Clarice have

To keep herself so strong, in the heart

Soldier saluted

Colonel bowed

the priest did a penance

three novenas and a trezena

But Clarice

was the innocence

Never showed herself to anyone

Made herself a model of the legends

Made herself a model of the legends

of the legends tha our grandmothers told us

What mistery does Clarice have

What mistery does Clarice have

To keep herself so strong, in the heart

So in a day

the sun would rise

And Clarice watched me leave

Crying asked for souvenirs

And seeing the boat going far from Amaralina

Desperately pretty, weeping and slowly

and slowly undressed her dark skinned body

and between all the gifts

until her love disappeared

She stayed on the goodbye crying and naked

So she’d have all

all the time that existed

What mistery does Clarice have

What mistery does Clarice have

To keep herself so strong, in the heart

(Taken from http://lyricstranslate.com/en/clarice-clarice.html#ixzz3hxt2mKSZ)

A trailer for Hour of the Star, followed by an interview with Clarice Lispector.

below isA trailer for Rocha’s surrealistic last film, A Idade da Terra (1980)