My first Lispector. Her writing feels like a kind of tangled thinking. The text frequently "clarifies" itself with dependent clauses. Her sentence structures are very interesting. There's a unique rhythm (or anti-rhythm) to them. 

And as her style develops over the collection, she incorporates more and more jarring devices in her work. Not that they feel like "devices" necessarily, because the writing flows in a bizarrely organic, disorienting way.

A lot of the stories explore the inner psychologies of women in various forms of exile. Characters overanalyze things until thoughts turn in on themselves. The narration wraps itself up in knots. But not without a kind of clarity. It reminded me of Sarraute in this way.

With collections like this, a reader is always tempted to trace the development of the author over time. As noted in the introduction (and the translator's note), Lispector gets more and more concerned with aging. This is made sadder in light of the obsession around appearances earlier in the collection.

And there are some unsavory elements here; Lispector clearly prizes a thin figure. The bourgeois "ruminations" around class, wealth, and guilt can be a little exhausting. Not every story worked for me. Particularly the more fantastic ones in the middle of the collection. But I don't mean to complain. Her prose is incredibly unique at every turn.

I particularly enjoyed "The Imitation of the Rose" as a psychological portrait of someone aware of her own illness and how she might appear to her partner.