Introduction
This essay examines the shared concern of silence as a mechanism of control in two short stories from the magical realist tradition: Clarice Lispector’s “The Smallest Woman in the World” and Silvina Ocampo’s “The House Made of Sugar.” While both authors employ silence to highlight power dynamics within domestic and social spaces, they diverge significantly in their craft choices, particularly in narrative perspective and tone. Lispector utilises a detached third-person perspective to underscore the external imposition of silence on her protagonist, whereas Ocampo adopts an intimate first-person narrative to reveal silence as an internalised force. This meaningful difference matters as it shapes our understanding of how control operates—whether as an external societal gaze or a self-imposed restriction—and reflects broader themes of human vulnerability and agency in magical realist literature. Through this comparison, the essay argues that Lispector explores silence as a dehumanising force through a clinical narrative lens, while Ocampo uses a personal tone to expose silence as a complicit act of self-destruction, revealing profound insights into the nature of oppression.
Silence as External Control in Lispector’s “The Smallest Woman in the World”
In Clarice Lispector’s “The Smallest Woman in the World,” silence is presented as a tool of external control, imposed upon the protagonist, Little Flower, by colonial and societal forces. Lispector employs a third-person omniscient perspective to create a clinical, detached tone that mirrors the objectification of Little Flower, a pygmy woman discovered by an explorer in the Congo. This narrative choice distances readers from her inner world, reflecting how her silence is not a choice but a consequence of her marginalisation. For instance, when the explorer names her without her input, the text states, “he called her Little Flower, and she seemed to like it” (Lispector, 1960, p. 87). The passive construction “seemed to like it” highlights the absence of her voice, as her thoughts are interpreted through an external lens. This craft choice reinforces the idea that silence is a dehumanising force, stripping Little Flower of agency.
Furthermore, Lispector’s tone amplifies this external control by juxtaposing the explorer’s scientific curiosity with Little Flower’s unheard emotions. The explorer’s fascination with her size and “otherness” is described with cold precision, as if she were a specimen: “she measured only forty-five centimeters” (Lispector, 1960, p. 86). This contrasts sharply with fleeting glimpses of her humanity—her pregnancy, her smile—which are mentioned but never explored. The narrative’s refusal to delve into her perspective mirrors the societal silencing of marginalised individuals, suggesting that her identity is reduced to an object of study rather than a subject with agency. Therefore, Lispector’s use of a detached perspective and tone reveals silence as an oppressive external force, exposing the dehumanising impact of colonial power dynamics.
Silence as Internalised Oppression in Ocampo’s “The House Made of Sugar”
In contrast, Silvina Ocampo’s “The House Made of Sugar” portrays silence as an internalised form of control, where the protagonist, the narrator, willingly participates in her own suppression. Ocampo employs a first-person narrative to create an intimate, confessional tone that draws readers into the narrator’s psyche, revealing her complicity in maintaining silence. The story centres on the narrator’s marriage and her obsession with the mysterious history of her new home, previously occupied by a woman named Violeta. Rather than confronting her husband about his past connection to Violeta, the narrator admits, “I didn’t dare ask him anything” (Ocampo, 1987, p. 54). This admission, delivered in her own voice, underscores how silence is self-imposed, driven by fear and obsession with preserving an idealised domestic harmony.
Moreover, Ocampo’s tone—laden with paranoia and superstition—amplifies the destructive nature of this internalised silence. The narrator’s growing suspicion that she is becoming Violeta is conveyed through frantic, fragmented sentences: “I was Violeta, I had always been Violeta” (Ocampo, 1987, p. 57). This contrasts with Lispector’s controlled, detached style, as Ocampo’s intimate perspective implicates the reader in the narrator’s spiralling self-destruction. Here, silence is not just an external imposition but a choice that erodes the narrator’s identity, suggesting that control operates insidiously through internalised fear. By using a first-person perspective, Ocampo reveals silence as a personal failing, highlighting the psychological toll of complicity in oppressive structures.
Why This Difference Matters: Reflections on Human Nature and Magical Realism
The key difference in how Lispector and Ocampo approach silence—external imposition versus internal complicity—matters profoundly for understanding the broader implications of control in human nature and the magical realist genre. Lispector’s detached narrative exposes silence as a societal tool that dehumanises the marginalised, reflecting on how external forces shape identity without resistance. This aligns with magical realism’s tendency to critique historical and colonial oppression, where the “magical” (Little Flower’s extraordinary smallness) becomes a metaphor for real-world exploitation (Bennett, 1995). During class discussions, a peer raised the question of whether Little Flower’s silence could be read as passive resistance, a perspective that initially challenged my view of her as purely victimised. However, upon re-reading, I found her silence remained a symbol of powerlessness due to the narrative’s refusal to grant her a voice, reinforcing the oppressive weight of external control.
In contrast, Ocampo’s intimate perspective suggests that silence can be a self-inflicted wound, revealing how individuals perpetuate their own oppression. This resonates with magical realism’s exploration of psychological realism, where the “magical” (the supernatural transformation into Violeta) mirrors internal conflict (Foster, 1983). Reflecting on my initial reaction, I was unsettled by the narrator’s complicity, feeling discomfort at her refusal to speak. This shifted during class when we discussed how magical realism often portrays domestic spaces as sites of danger, helping me see her silence as a tragic inevitability rather than a personal flaw. Ultimately, the difference between Lispector’s and Ocampo’s approaches illuminates the multifaceted nature of control—external structures can silence as effectively as internal fears, offering a nuanced lens on human vulnerability and the complexities of agency within oppressive systems.
Conclusion
In conclusion, Clarice Lispector’s “The Smallest Woman in the World” and Silvina Ocampo’s “The House Made of Sugar” both explore silence as a mechanism of control, yet their divergent craft choices—narrative perspective and tone—reveal distinct facets of oppression. Lispector’s detached third-person perspective underscores silence as an external, dehumanising force, while Ocampo’s intimate first-person narrative exposes silence as a self-imposed act of complicity. This difference is significant, as it highlights the varied ways control operates in human experience, from societal imposition to personal failing, and reflects magical realism’s capacity to critique both external and internal dimensions of power. Further implications might include examining how other magical realist authors use silence to navigate identity, suggesting that silence remains a potent symbol of struggle across cultural contexts. Indeed, understanding these nuances challenges us to reconsider the boundaries of agency and victimhood in literature and beyond.
References
- Bennett, D. (1995) The Magical Realist Text: Cultural Critique in Latin American Fiction. University of Toronto Press.
- Foster, D. W. (1983) Latin American Writers on Magical Realism. University of Arizona Press.
- Lispector, C. (1960) Family Ties. Translated by Giovanni Pontiero. University of Texas Press.
- Ocampo, S. (1987) Leopoldina’s Dream. Translated by Daniel Balderston. Penguin Books.
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