Who am I? What am I doing here? Am I a monster? Where did I put my keys? Just a typical day, right? For all that these questions of identity are huge, paralyzing, and potentially life-altering, they're questions that we all ask ourselves. And if we don't—as Macabéa seems not to—then we risk being subhuman in some way. Even if we don't like the answers, they're questions we have to ask in order to live in the world authentically. (Hint: you're probably not a monster.)
For all that she's ignorant and impoverished, Macabéa is the only one in the novella who truly knows herself.
Lispector suggests that we all face the central crisis of finding out who we are and why our existence matters.