The first sound I heard was my mother's heartbeat. That, and the whistle of the wind among the mulberry leaves (the mulberry tree they planted right in front of our garden which is still only a shrub). In that first memory, I must be about one week. My brother says it's impossible, that people start to record memories only when they are three or four years old. I have a privileged hearing and memory, I tell him. You always make thing up, he replies. I live in a city called Temuco.
After her successful poetry collection Il segreto delle cose, María José Ferrada is back with a novel, also translated by Marta Rota, about her childhood in Chile, with the delicate, intense touch that distinguishes her writing.
[Text in Italian]
- recalling an adventure from childoohd and trying to write a story out of it;
- thinking about friendship and the connection with our homeland;
- remembering what made us feel good and bad as children.