Paula

by Isabel Allende

Writing is a long process of introspection; it is a voyage toward the darkest caverns of consciousness, a long, slow meditation.

I always believed I was different; as long as I can remember I have felt like an outcast, as if I didn’t really belong to my family, or to my surroundings, or to any group.

Remember that all the others are more afraid than you.

I see the world differently, and I like myself more because I see myself through Ernesto’s eyes.”

The future does not exist, the Indians of the Altiplano say, we can only be sure of the past—from which we draw experience and knowledge—and the present—a brief spark that at the instant it is born becomes yesterday.

God is what binds, what holds together the fabric of life . . . what you call love,”

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.