The Hour of the Star

The book is narrated by Rodrigo S.M., an invented writer, who warns right at the start that he will tell the story of a young woman from the Northeast whom he saw on the street. He doesn't want to dress it up: he says he writes with few words and a lot of discomfort, and that the subject frightens him because almost nothing happens in this girl's life.

Throughout the pages, he doubts himself, interrupts the story, talks about toothaches and guilt, offers several alternative titles, and asks whether he has the right to tell another person's life. The novel is, at once, the story of the young woman and the diary of a writer trying to get close to her.

Readers have to accept this game: Macabéa's story comes filtered through a man who considers himself unable to explain her. It's like hearing an acquaintance talk about the neighbor in his building, stammering, ashamed of knowing so little.

Macabéa is nineteen and came from Alagoas, in the Northeast, to live in Rio de Janeiro. She was orphaned young and raised by a harsh aunt, who hit her and taught her to think of herself as a nuisance. She grew up with little schooling, little food, and almost no affection.

In Rio, she shares a boardinghouse room with four other young women, all named Maria, who work in stores and have noisier lives. Macabéa goes unnoticed even in the space where she lives. She herself doesn't quite know who she is, and the idea of asking herself that seems strange to her.

Nothing about her draws attention: her looks are ordinary, her body is thin, her voice is quiet. That is exactly where the book aims: the life of someone who is nothing special in anyone's eyes, and who nonetheless has an entire life.

A detail about her name helps in understanding the character: Macabéa carries a strange name that nobody knows the origin of, and the book makes a joke of it. Even her name is an extra burden, in a world where people with common names get through doors more easily.

Macabéa works as a typist in an office, even though she makes many mistakes in her writing. She copies letters and documents carefully, but misspells words and leaves smudges. Her boss, Mr. Raimundo, keeps her on the job more out of pity than merit.

She likes the work, in spite of everything, and takes pleasure in drawing the capital letters, as if it were a small luxury. Outside of work, her pleasures are humble: drinking soda, eating hot dogs, and listening at night to a radio station that gives the exact time and random trivia, without caring whether any of it is useful.

Today, she would be the call-center operator who eats a packed lunch on a park bench, or the assistant who clocks in without anyone knowing her name. The book respects these small gestures and shows that a whole life fits inside them.