The Hour of the Star by Clarice Lispector

With this story I'm going to sensitize myself, and I am well aware that each day is a day stolen from death. I am not an intellectual, I write with my body. And what I write is a moist fog. Words are sounds transfused with unequal shadows that intersect, stalactites, lace, transfigured organ music. I hardly dare shout out words at this vibrant and rich, mordant and dark web which has its countertone in the thick bass of pain. Allegro con brio. I'll try to wrest gold from charcoal. I know that I'm putting off the story and playing ball without a ball. Is the fact an act? I swear this book is made without words. It is a mute photograph. This book is a silence. This book is a question.