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Writing was an interior palace with secret sites, gorgeous places, a complex of unlimited spaces. He explored them, laughing, running barefoot, and stopping to touch the beautiful treasures stored there.
There’s a type of open grief that’s public, one of tears and mourning; and there’s another, immense and silent, that is a million times more powerful.
Somehow he’d managed to convince himself that the death of their parents had filled their quota of catastrophe, and somewhere there was a book that recorded the accumulated disasters and hurts until they reached a level that couldn’t be exceeded.
The palace was the site of ritual expiation, the healing place where wounds were cured.
he felt the walls that restrained his grief yield violently in so many pieces that he’d never be able to put them back together. The rush of his desolation, like a tsunami of mud and rock, swept everything before it, ravaging the narrow confines of his soul.
Manuel smiled, enraptured, admiring at every step the studied carelessness of the garden, the serenity of its beautiful chaos, the sylvan taming of that leafy glade. He imagined a happy childhood in this place.
He’d said it because he believed it, because he’d lived it. He knew that writing is driven by human necessity and erupts from the poverty of the soul, from an interior hunger and cold that can be tempered by writing, if only for a time.
Manuel was fishing for information and decided to let out a bit more line.
Of all the depraved monsters he’d seen, he hated none more than the child abusers and those who covered up for them.
The Baztán Trilogy, a successful crime series set in the Basque Pyrenees that has sold over 1.5 million copies in Spanish, has been translated into more than thirty-five languages, and was adapted into a popular film series.
