La surna de los días

Lees ik haar nieuwe woorden. Eén pagina maar. Zuinig, want na drie zinnen weet ik: dit is het weer. Hier heb ik vast wat ik niet meer lossen wil. Een B-boek. Beleven, bewonen. B als in to be. Isabel Allende heeft me op m’n zestiende eerst met ‘Het huis met de geesten’ de reis van mijn leven bezorgd. In woorden kunnen wonen, in dromen geloven. Een continent aan emoties, haar continent van verhalen. Twee jaar later had ik met Paula mijn eerste echte B-boek te pakken. Tien jaar, en vele boeken later, deel ik haar met miljoenen lezers. Opgehemeld, verguisd, is ze ‘common good’ geworden, bepoteld in het hoekje ‘wereldliteratuur’. Massacommunicatie verbreekt intimiteit allicht.

Heb ik nu haar ‘de som der dagen’ vast.
Haar verhaal -intiem, intens- ‘reis’liefdes verleer je niet.
To love, to be, to travel.


Isabel over Isabel:
Writers are like good thieves, they take something that is real, and by a trick of magic they transform it into something totally fresh. That is the best part of writing: finding the hidden treasures, giving sparkle to worn out events, invigorating the tired soul with imagination, creating some kind of truth with many lies.

Good fiction is not only the thrill of a plot, at its best it is an invitation to explore beyond the appearance of things, it challenges the reader's safety, it questions reality. Yes, it can be disturbing. But there may be a reward at the end. With some luck, the author and the reader, hand in hand, may stumble upon some particles of truth. Usually, however, that is not the intention of the author in the first place. The writer merely suffers from an uncontrollable need to tell the story. There is nothing more to it, believe me.

Language is essential to a writer. and language is as personal as blood.

My life seems to be about pain, losses, love and memory. Pain and losses are the teachers, they make me grow. Love helps me to endure and gives me joy. (I know it sounds corny!) Memory is the raw material for all my writing.

I have been travelling always, I don't really belong anywhere. My roots are in my memory. Every book is a journey into the past, into the soul, and into memory.

For me life becomes real when I write it. What I don't write is erased by the winds of oblivion. I forget a lot, my mind betrays me, I can't recall places, names, dates or faces, but I never forget a good story... or a significant dream. Writing is a silent introspection, a journey to the dark caverns of memory and the soul. Fiction, like memory, moves from revelation to revelation.
I write because I need to remember and overcome. It is from memory and a sense of loss that the passion to create emerges. Every book is an act of love, an offering that I prepare with great care, hoping that it will be well received.