Last Thursday my mother launched her first novel, “maria” – written like that, with lower case. The font size beginning a proper name on the cover of her book is just another of my mother’s peculiarities, which usually fascinate most people who know her, whether they like her or not.

The story she tells in “maria” comes to life with those peculiarities. At times I blush at her honesty in sharing her complex humanity, thinking I would never have the courage to exhibit my flaws in public like that. Most of the lines, however, liberate me as they portray an admirable woman, courageous enough to assume herself and to stand for her beliefs.

Besides the insights on herself, “maria” vividly details characteristics of other humans and ties senses together when bringing me to a scene, enriching the story and forcing the reality of each event described into my perceptions: I see, I feel, I smell and I hear what the protagonist lives. As a consequence, my body reacts with true first hand emotions, rather than empathetic ones.

Her talent wakes up my sensibility to observe life around me. Appearances acquire smells, emotions become tinted, sounds gain image. All that intensity is transferred to my world, bridging the real-outside-world and the fantastic-inside-world and feeding my own imagination with the desire to digest life through words.

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