Paula

by Isabel Allende

Silence before being born, silence after death: life is nothing but noise between two unfathomable silences.

In the most difficult moments of the past, I also sought solitude in a forest.

I more than ever needed some contact with nature—the peace of a forest, the silence of a mountain, the whisper of the sea—but women were not expected to go alone to the movies, much less somewhere in open country where anything could happen.

I realized only years later that blindness in the face of reality was the strongest facet of his character;

“You don’t have to marry your lovers”—and

“Don’t ever admit an infidelity, even if you’re caught in bed, because you’ll never be forgiven for it,”

I realized that I felt great affection for this prudent man who offered faithful love and represented stability and hearth. Our relationship lacked passion, but it was harmonious and secure.

I celebrate his bursts of masculine energy because he compensates for them with a boundless reserve of gentleness, which he can summon at any moment.

I also try to live my life as I would like it . . . like a novel.

Paula planted vigorous seeds as she passed through the lives of others,

When that time comes, I try to be alone and silent for several hours; I need a lot of time to rid my mind of the noise outside and to cleanse my memory of life’s confusion.

At moments, I felt I touched a lover’s soul, and even dreamed of the possibility of a deeper relationship, but the next day I took another plane, and my enthusiasm dissolved among the clouds.

The problem with fiction is that it must seem credible, while reality seldom is.

I felt that our love could renew us, return a certain innocence to us, wash away the past, illuminate the dark corners of our lives.

The contract was based on good faith: neither of us would ever intentionally do anything to wound the other; if hurt was inflicted, it would be by error, not malice.

If I write something, I fear it will happen, and if I love too much, I fear I will lose that person; nevertheless, I cannot stop writing or loving. . . .

My life is one of contrasts, I have learned to see both sides of the coin. At moments of greatest success, I do not lose sight of the pain awaiting me down the road, and when I am sunk in despair, I wait for the sun I know will rise farther along.

Perhaps we are in this world to search for love, find it and lose it, again and again. With each love, we are born anew, and with each love that ends we collect a new wound. I am covered with proud scars.

Am I the feminist I thought I was, or the frivolous girl who appeared on television wearing nothing but ostrich feathers? The obsessive mother, the unfaithful wife, the fearless adventurer, or the cowardly woman? Am I the person who helped political fugitives find asylum or the one who ran away because she couldn’t handle fear? Too many contradictions. . . .”

Not one cell of the girl I was remains in the woman I am today, only memory, enduring and persevering.