“I want the God in whatever comes out of the roach’s belly”

There’s not really much I can say about Clarice Lispector’s ‘The Passion According to G.H.,” except you must do everything in your power to get your hands on a copy and engulf yourself in it. The basic story is that a sculptor kills a cockroach in their maid’s room. Very simple premise right? Why would anyone write a story about this? It’s because this story becomes more than the killing of a cockroach—it becomes a one sided philosophical discussion of class, beauty, womanhood, and more.

I feel so ashamed for this being the only Lispector book I’ve read as of this date, but I will surely read more of her.