Yes, I know the air, the air! But it was no use, it didn't explain things.

Between her and the objects there was something, but whenever she caught that something in her hand, like a fly, and then peeked at it-though she was care ful not to let anything escape-she only found her own hand, rosy pink and disappointed. She closed her eyes and walked, hands outstretched, until she came to a piece of furniture. She walked on tiptoe only treading on the dark floorboards.

She twirled around and stopped still, watching without cu riosity the walls and ceiling that spun and melted away.But suddenly the day was wound up and everything spluttered to life again, the typewriter trotting, her father's cigarette smoking, the There was a great, still moment, with nothing inside it.And she could smell as if it were right beneath her nose the warm, hard packed earth, so fragrant and dry, where she just knew, she just knew a worm or two was having a stretch before being eaten by the hen that the people were going to eat. Leaning her forehead against the cold and shiny window pane she gazed at the neighbor's yard, at the big world of the hens-that-didn't-know-they-were-going-to-die.

The three sounds were connected by the daylight and the squeaking of the tree's little leaves rubbing against one another radiant. Amidst the clock, the type writer and the silence there was an ear listening, large, pink and dead. What did the wardrobe say? clothes-clothes-clothes.

HER FATHER'S TYPEWRITER WENT CLACK-CLACK.

Narrative epiphanies and interior monologue frame the life of Joana, from her middle-class childhood through her unhappy marriage and its dissolution to transcendence, when she proclaims: “I shall arise as strong and comely as a young colt.Near to the Wild Heart is the debut book by Brazilian writer Clarice Lispector the book was launched in 1944. The book was an unprecedented sensation ― the discovery of a genius. Near to the Wild Heart, published in Rio de Janeiro in 1943, introduced Brazil to what one writer called “Hurricane Clarice”: a twenty-three-year-old girl who wrote her first book in a tiny rented room and then baptized it with a title taken from Joyce: “He was alone, unheeded, near to the wild heart of life.”

Near to the wild heart book