i soaked an hour and a half reading clarice lispector, the chandelier, in the tub. my notepad fell in the water, just as r. said, your notepad is falling! but i caught it before it sunk. 
i read this line: she lived on the verge of things. while i swear my left foot was emitting tiny bubbles. i could feel them bubbling out. i couldn't actually see them, so i don't know if it was just the tinea playing with my mind. i can't believe the tinea is real, it's making everything seem more unreal. my skin is foreign to me.
the true life is a secret i doubt that i can ever relate. actually i suspect my true life is secret even to me. will i ever know?
for some reason while reading i started to think of my father's house, the character's thoughts sparked a feeling-memory, and i wrote down, i was always like a guest in his house, no matter what he tried to do to make believe it was home, and it seemed he too was just doing time there, or playing at living. though his house was definitely always his, no matter how temporary, at ours, i couldn't forget, he was never home. it seemed the same after he left for his new life with his new wife and his new rich stately old home. he didn't seem to own it, it was a thick shell, like a hermit crab would pick, absurdly big, so he can feel expansive, maybe grow into it. he looked small holding his cognac by the giant blue stone hearth. the house was full of ghostly presences more at home than he. that's why i think i never have quite made a home for myself, i always felt i was between homes, or houses. i always felt like a squatter, though i made homey squats. i always felt kind of like his ghost kid. i always felt unhomed; he was never at home.

i'm surprised reading the chandelier in the bath would lead to this. i wonder, who would want to read this? do most people just say ah, skip it?