I fell in love with books at a very young age. Every character, every plot, every end crawl into my skin and become, some way or another, part of me. I remember reading One Hundred Years of Solitude on my way to university. It was a rainy day, heavy traffic and a crowded bus. And I felt every single emotion Raimunda felt. The yellow butterflies on her stomach. The smell of ocean breeze. I was her, in some way.
My favorite authors wrote letters. I wish I could see all their letters – what did they talk about? Was it only the things that tormented them? Was is about pain, and fear, and love and addictions? Was it about new ideas, new characters, new plots?
García Marquez gave me Raimunda and the Buendía family. Carlos Heitor Cony gave me Francesca (Mona, for those who know her) and Augusto – he gave me intensity and the pain it can bring. Gaiman gave me Black Cats, Gods and boys – he gave name and faces and expressions to all my monsters. Old Buk gave me freedom – just be yourself, girl. Llosa gave me a different approach on love – and its meaning. How could you? Amado – Amado gave me my favorite book. He gave me raw feelings and raw characters. He showed me the value of religion and the beauty of believing. Amado made me cry – not just once. He gave me Guma, made me fall in love with him – and took him away. But “that’s how the men of the sea tell stories”, he would say.
I wish I could write each and every one of my favorite authors a letter. To tell them they thaught me how to live and feel and think and overthink and lose my mind and get it back. To be me and Raimunda and Mona and Lívia and Julia and Sarah and so many others all at once. To write. Even if it’s not as good as them.
letters for us 