The Hour of the Star

Two stories unfold: The young Macabéa lives in Rio de Janeiro working as a typist. Her life passes in quiet obscurity, a series of moments she cannot fully grasp. Meanwhile, the narrator, Rodrigo S. M. is reflecting on her life as he writes, realizes her story is more than that of an unnoticed woman – it’s about his own search for meaning in storytelling. The two narratives intertwine, each questioning the significance of life and the act of narration. The closer the narrator gets to her, the more the lines between observation and participation blur, leaving him to confront her and his own role in the telling of her story.

Clarice Lispector was born in 1920 in Chechelnyk, Podolia (now Ukraine), as Chaya Pinkhasivna Lispector. She was born into a Jewish family affected by the pogroms that erupted following the dissolution of the Russian Empire. Seeking safety, the family fled first to Hamburg, Germany, where they struggled to find work. In 1922, they emigrated to Brazil, settling initially in Maceió, Alagoas, where they adopted new names. Tragically, Lispector’s mother passed away not long after their arrival. Her father then moved the family to Rio de Janeiro, hoping to find better job opportunities and build a more stable life.

Though the youngest of three daughters, Clarice was the first to master Portuguese in her family, quickly adapting to her new environment despite the family’s poverty. In Rio de Janeiro, she pursued her studies, graduating in law and worked as a teacher and journalist.

In 1943, she married Maury Gurgel Valente, a Catholic diplomat, despite her family’s disapproval. Following her husband’s diplomatic assignments, Lispector lived in Naples, Bern, and Washington D.C.

After being introduced to literature at the age of 13 through Hermann Hesse's Steppenwolf, Clarice Lispector published her first book ten years later, at the age of 23. Her first novel, Perto do coração selvagem (Near to the Wild Heart), received immediate acclaim upon its publication in 1944. After divorcing in 1959, she returned to Rio with her two sons and continued writing prolifically, producing novels, short stories, and columns for Brazilian newspapers.

In 1967, her life changed after she accidentally caused a fire in her apartment by falling asleep with a lit cigarette after taking tranquilizers. While attempting to save her manuscripts, Lispector suffered severe burns and injuries, especially to her right hand, resulting in chronic pain. Nonetheless, she continued to write.

Lispector’s works, renowned for their introspection and existential depth, frequently explored themes of identity, isolation, and the human condition. Her 1977 novel, The Hour of the Star, remains probably her most famous. Drawing on her own experiences and observations, the novel vividly portrays the struggles of Macabéa, a poor typist from Brazil’s northeast — an echo of Lispector’s own roots in the marginalized region. The book’s focus on poverty reflects her socialist leanings and deep concern for Brazil’s overlooked communities.

»Write what you know.« ― Mark Twain

Lispector passed away in 1977, shortly after the publication of The Hour of the Star, leaving behind a remarkable literary legacy as one of Brazil's most influential writers. An interview from that same year captures her  reflections on life, highlighting her intellectual freedom. By then, she was already battling ovarian cancer, which claimed her life months later. (Interview with Clarice Lispector - São Paulo, 1977 with English subtitles)

The following quote comes from the interview with Clarice Lispector, where she discusses her recently finished novel, which would months later be published as The Hour of the Star. The quote actually continues, but I find this specific part a fitting entry point into Macabéa's world, which we will explore in the following paragraphs:

» The story of a girl,
who's so poor that all she eats is hotdogs.«

Before diving into Macabéa’s character, I want to look at the narrator, Rodrigo, and his role in the novel. From the outset, he is aware of his role as the storyteller, and his self awareness is almost overwhelming. The early part of the novel is dominated by his voice — filled with introspective musings and constant commentary on the act of storytelling. Rodrigo’s struggles with how to present Macabéa’s life, questioning whether he can do it truthfully. His frequent yapping sessions reveal a narrator who is in constant dialogue with himself and with the reader.

Rodrigo’s narrative style matches Lispector’s own approach, which feels almost like she’s writing for the first time. She goes beyond traditional boundaries of storytelling, resetting them for herself, embracing the complexity and messiness of it. This is also seen in the 13 titles of the novel, each offering a different perspective on the themes.

At times, Rodrigo openly admits the difficulty of telling Macabéa’s life, questioning whether he should even tell her story. Yet, despite the challenges, he’s drawn to her because her life reflects a kind of tragic, existential truth. His storytelling feels voyeuristic, as if he’s fascinated by the human condition through the lens of this powerless character. At first, Macabéa is almost nameless to him, but as he tells her story, he grows closer to her. He starts using her name more and nicknames her Maca. This shift shows his growing engagement with her, while also sowing the tension between his role as a storyteller and his recognition of her humanity.

»She makes me so uncomfortable that I feel hollow. I’m hollow of that girl. And the more uncomfortable she makes me the less she demands. I’m angry. So enraged I could smash cups and dishes and break windows. How can I avenge myself? Or rather, how can I make up for it? I’ve got it: by loving my dog who has more food than that girl.«

Now, Macabéa. Lispector and the narrator introduce us to a young woman whose poverty isn’t just material but also emotional and existential. She lives in a cramped apartment in Rio, with her only moments of solitude coming when she calls in sick to stay home while her roommates are at work. Set against the vibrant backdrop of Rio de Janeiro, Macabéa’s life contrasts with the energy of the city. Her job as a typist, where she earns below the minimum wage offers no escape from her economic stagnation, trapping her in a cycle of poverty.

Maca’s name itself gives us insight: The name Macabéa is unusual and references the Maccabees, a Jewish group who fought for religious freedom and national independence. This historical reference stands in contrast to Macabéa’s life, which is one of passive endurance rather than active resistance. It's also worth noting that Lispector, despite being born Jewish, rarely incorporates Jewish references in her work. This is similar to Kafka, with whom Lispector is often compared — though I resist this comparison, as it feels overly obvious & boring. Like Kafka, Lispector subtly weaves her Jewish identity into her writing in ways that demand careful attention.

In The Hour of the Star, the theme of the body is undeniably central, and the question of Macabéa’s ugliness is a complex one. Rodrigo, the narrator, repeatedly calls Macabéa ugly and emphasizes her unattractiveness, but it’s worth questioning whether she is truly ugly or her appearance is a reflection of the poverty and social exclusion she endures. Rodrigo’s cruel remarks, as well as the dismissive attitudes from those around her, highlight the role that society plays in shaping her identity — particularly in terms of how her body is perceived.

Macabéa’s appearance contrasts with the beauty ideals that society in the 1950s to 60s promotes. At that time, women were expected to be attractive, find a man, and start a family. Macabéa does not fit into this narrow role. But not in a Marilyn Monroe kind of way, where someone stands out for being bold, but in an outsider typa way, where someone is simply overlooked. Her failure to meet these ideals adds to her growing feelings of worthlessness.

Macabéa’s diet of hot dogs symbolizes the conformity to minimal, basic needs that defines her existence. It is clear that Macabéa’s relationship with food is complicated and points to a deeper issue, which can be interpreted as an eating disorder, though it is never explicitly stated. Rodrigo provides brief glimpses into Macabéa's difficult childhood marked by poverty and an evil aunt raising her, with the mention of a roasted cat.

She enjoys eating sweets when the opportunity arises, but often experiences stomachaches as a result. An ambivalence emerges as she tries to hold back the urge to vomit, considering it too valuable to waste. She also once mentioned that she would like to eat skin cream, a remark that many might find relatable, as it appears surprisingly tempting.

Her small pleasures — listening to the radio, drinking cola, and going to the cinema after payday — are fleeting escapes from the limitations of her life. She exists on the margins of society, both physically and emotionally, her worldview shaped by simple, often misguided beliefs.

When a doctor suggests Maca to try Italian pasta, she has never heard of it and therefore cannot imagine eating it. She believes in angels, so they exist. She knows no god, so she doesn’t believe in one, yet she still prays. She finds beauty in advertisements, captivated by their promises and imagery. Her beliefs aren’t based on formal systems of thought but are instead shaped by the need to hold on to something.

»Every morning she turned on the radio lent by one of her roommates, Maria da Penha, turning it on as low as possible so as to not disturb the others, turning it on to Clock Radio, which broadcast ‘the right time and culture,’ and no music, just dripping in sound of falling drops — each drop a minute that passed. And especially this station used those drops of minutes to run ads — she loved ads.«

»There was something slightly idiotic about her, but she wasn’t an idiot. She didn’t know she was unhappy. That’s because she believed. In what? In you, but you don’t have to believe in anyone or anything — you just have to believe. That sometimes gave her the state of grace.«

The narrative offers no true higher class counterpoint to her; even her toxic boyfriend Olímpico, belongs to the same social class as Macabéa, despite his belief that he is somehow superior. Unlike Macabéa, Olímpico understands the dynamics of class and works to climb the social ladder. In contrast, Macabéa remains unaware of the social forces that trap her in poverty and despair. This lack of class consciousness prevents her from imagining any way out of her circumstances, underscoring the structural barriers that define her life.

»On Sundays she got up early in order to have more time to do nothing.«

Macabéa’s social circle is small, consisting primarily of her co-worker Glória, her boyfriend (later ex-boyfriend) Olímpico, and her boss. For Macabéa, these relationships do not provide support or meaningful connection; rather, they reinforce her sense of being unimportant. She frequently makes mistakes and often misinterprets what she’s supposed to type, because she doesn’t understand the meaning of many words.

There’s a moment when Macabéa hears Caruso and starts crying — something she almost never does. It’s as if the music touches a part of her that she didn’t even know existed, stirring up emotions she can’t name. Then, when Olímpico breaks up with her, she laughs. But it’s not because she finds it funny — she just doesn’t know how else to react. We witness the tears in response to Caruso and the laugh at being dumped.

♪ M'ama! Si, m'ama! Lo vedo, lo vedo. ♪

Her relationship with Olímpico was marked by indifference and exploitation. Olímpico represents the ideals of masculinity but treats Macabéa with coldness. His behavior reflects how society devalues women, especially those from impoverished backgrounds. Olímpico exploits Macabéa and later Glória, for his own gain.

»Sorry for asking: does being ugly hurt? — I never thought about it, I think it hurts a little. But I should ask you if you hurt because you’re ugly. — I’m not ugly!!! — Glória howled.«

Macabéa’s relationships with Olímpico and Glória further illustrate the exploitation and power imbalances that define her life. While Glória seems to occupy a higher social position, she too exploits Macabéa, using her as a source of amusement and as a way to reinforce her own self worth. Though Glória's behavior is less cruel than Olímpico's, she is still part of the same system that reduces Macabéa to an object, rather than recognizing her as a person with desires, needs, and a sense of self.

Macabéa’s desires present a fascinating contrast to her harsh reality. Her vision — rooted in beauty and love and looking like Mailyn Monroe — is largely shaped by the advertisements and media she consumes, which offer idealized versions of happiness. Her inability to articulate or pursue her desires underlines her powerlessness, as she depends entirely on external influences to define what she want.

Sometimes it becomes difficult to decide who deserves more pity: Macabéa, the innocent victim of life, or the narrator, the deeply biased victim of his own failure. The one who knows too little, or the one who knows too much.

As the narrative unfolds, Macabéa experiences an ecstatic moment in front of a massive tree, so large that she cannot wrap her arms around it. This inability to embrace the tree becomes a symbol of her limitations, reflecting her yearning for something beyond her reach. The absurdity of this is further compounded when she witnesses a UFO, intensifying the surreal atmosphere in contrast to the harshness of her reality.

These absurd, surreal experiences are capped off by Maca’s visit to the fortune teller Madame Carlotta. Interestingly, Lispector herself had an interest in mysticism and often visited fortune tellers, which adds a layer of personal connection to this part of the narrative. Madame Carlotta predicts a rich, blond gringo named Hans who wants to marry Maca, but the prophecy turns out to be false when Hans is revealed to be a yellow Mercedes that runs her over, leaving her to die.

Explosão! Lispector’s decision to have Macabéa’s life end tragically — through an pointless death — is a commentary on the absurdity of her existence. It emphasizes the theme of life’s inherent meaninglessness, a central concept in existential philosophy.

Chance and fate play significant roles. Maca’s early death in an accident feels like a random break in an already fragile existence. At the same time, one could argue that Macabéa’s life was determined by some kind of providence from the start. Her marginalization suggest that society has considered her unimportant, leading to an equally unimportant end.

Through Lispector’s brilliant writing, Macabéa becomes a symbol of the silent, invisible struggles that define so many lives. By confronting the harsh realities of poverty, loneliness, and despair, Lispector invites us to question our own assumptions about life, love, and being human. Rest in peace, Maca. You would have loved Brazilian Funk and BBLs.

One off topic observation I’ve made is that, if one were to compare Lispector to Kafka there is one similarity: the repeated use of uninspiring photographs for book design. I can understand this with Kafka, as few images of him exist, but with Lispector, there are actually plenty.

Yet, in the BTB edition I have here, the same youthful type shi portrait  is used. By the time she wrote The Hour of the Star, Lispector was nearing the end of her life. At the very least, they could have selected a more recent photo or a completely different cover. Perhaps I’m the fool for buying the German edition. The design is awful. Moving forward, I hope publishers of classic books will avoid settling for the first idea or easiest option when releasing new editions.

With The Hour of the Star, I felt compelled to engage with Macabéa analytically. Her character, along with the themes surrounding her life, provides rich material for deeper exploration. I hope you enjoyed this journey through Lispector's work and found the analysis insightful.

The Hour of the Star is a novel that continues to resonate today, urging reflection on social inequalities and human nature. Lispector masterfully tells a universal story that challenges our thinking. And on top it is short and quick to read!