The dangerous little stories
For nine months in 2020, the strangely short time it took me to write a novel, I lived in two places at once. On the one hand, in the unpredictable world of the pandemic, whose rules of the game changed every day to the despair of those who tried to tell what was happening, and whose uncontrolled entropy gave us the feeling of always being one step behind a plot unhinged. And on the other hand, I lived in the world of my novel, which tells the true life of a family derailed by the onslaught of history: a story that passes through the Spain of the Civil War, the exile of the Republicans in Latin America, the Cultural Revolution in Mao’s China and the armed movements of Colombia in the sixties. The writing of the novel consisted of imposing order on a foreign past, and I have already written that I could not have found a better way to neutralize the chaos of my present; But now, when the book has already been published and I have begun to understand something better what I have done, I notice a brutal contradiction – and for me unforeseen – between the world that my novel tells and the world in which its readers live.