Cold, evil, fear. The line bad Elvira Lindo uses to describe the moment she first faced the world lingers with her. From that instant, a delicate yet chilling cloak seems to descend, through which children glimpse the adult fears that later creep into their fantasies, like restless vermin. Reading the book leaves a mark. It centers on a girl who tests the limits of adults who can barely move, discovering a way to place herself beyond their reach. A girl for life who ends up running. This escape shapes the novel’s very syntax.
In the lion’s den, the novel appears under Seix Barral’s imprint. The interviewer is met in the dim light of a home, where she is always watching Elvira Lindo, as if the questions to come are already etched on her face. She seems to foresee or desire them, carrying the alert air of a bird that takes in every letter of what it hears.
There is a strange, almost unsettling calm in the house, as if Lindo has never fully relaxed. Even when nothing else seems to move. This is the interview.
Q. At the start, one sentence defines the entire book: Evil is part of our beautiful world.
r. This is not a personal declaration. It comes from the poet Mary Oliver, chosen because she embodies a spiritual dimension that fits the unfolding story. The book carries a dialogue between souls. The characters, at a critical life juncture, speak truthfully. The line resonates with a tone that weighs each word, in a time when many words seem light. When the author speaks of evil, it does not imply that everyone is bad. It signals a facet of human nature.
Q. Where does evil appear today?
r. An overlooked form of evil lurks in indifference. In moments when a few control plenty while many lack enough, indifference spreads. That is where the true harm hides.
Q. How did you imagine the girl at the book’s opening?
r. The idea began with a simple question: who becomes us after leaving childhood and the places that defined that phase. Later, nostalgia for simpler childhood days and the helplessness of children whose parents fail them deepened the vision. Conversations with two people who have endured homelessness informed the development. A psychologist could have guided the craft, yet a lived testimony revealed truths more clearly. I read about a boy from La Rioja who suffered a grievous crime, and in that hearing I placed myself in the parents’ shoes, listening to all the suffering their son endured. There was no option but to honor the justice process, while reporting in the media required care because it involves injured lives. The approach blends tale and experience, emphasizing that these people carry a wound but are not condemned to misfortune.
Q. Does your own childhood show up in the book’s world?
r. The setting, atmosphere, and humanity of the author’s upbringing are part of this. The writer remains neutral about the girl’s life, while fear from childhood leaves its mark. The childhood was fed by frightening tales told by adults who believed fear did not intrude into dreams. They spoke of lost children, abductions, and even cannibalism, perhaps to warn of danger. The author does not fully know what they hoped to achieve, but fear left its imprint.
Q. Do threats to children persist today?
r. Yes. There has been a retreat of childhood freedom. Madrid offered sprawling open spaces, and today that freedom feels diminished. Adults often shield children too much, though sometimes for good reason. The writer comes from a large family, and now many children grow up in households with only two or three adults, which changes childhood entirely. Parents are more aware of what their kids see and hear, and the world feels louder. It is a relief that childhood felt simpler before, because today the landscape is overwhelming, with constant stimuli that can exhaust young minds.
There is a public life that keeps bringing up a fear: someone who wants to hurt the writer, someone who seeks attention through harmful acts or words.
Q. Do fears from the girl you portray echo in your life?
r. Yes. Unreal fears from childhood linger, ghosts and the like. Those fears extend into adulthood. Today, the writer still fears people who wish to hurt others. Living in the public eye means facing those who crave attention through wrongdoing.
Q. What does literature mean when it tackles a sensitive topic?
r. The novel opened a new inner life. Writing about family history helped shape the author’s sense of the past.
Q. Has fiction eased fear?
r. Writing this book felt like returning to childhood paradise—the people, the landscapes, the scents I knew. It was a pure celebration—like watching a bird in flight, leaves falling, animals and humans living side by side. It felt liberating.
Q. What sparked the urge to tell this story?
r. The region is familiar. A visit to a highland village during a Valencia TV news report revealed extraordinary beauty, prompting a return. The second visit deepened the characters and a sense of joy followed. The place is rich, with water and variety, perfect for reflecting on childhood afternoons when journeys wandered between places. Thoughts of unseen spirits grew louder.
Life has been busy and complicated since childhood. The other day a question arose: did I forget to mature because there were so many experiences? Yet innocence remains in many ways, now understood as the pressure to do everything and keep moving that drove me.
Q. Is that still the case?
r. No. Life now feels calmer, more peaceful, with a natural rhythm for work, family, friends, and personal time.
Q. It’s striking that joy rarely makes an appearance here.
r. Yes. Endings that lean toward fear seem more valued in literature than hopeful ones, which feels unfair. It isn’t right to condemn people for past misfortunes.
Listening to the radio and reading the morning papers gives a sense of living in an uncontrollable world, especially as AI enters broadcasting with sounds created by machines.
Q. What else surprises you now?
r. A lot. Morning radio and newspapers read like a window into an unpredictable world. The news about an American company planning AI-generated radio sounds unsettles the writer. Artificial Intelligence will shape humanity, perhaps beyond recognition.
P. A stubborn grudge, right?
r. Clinging to a grudge corrodes the bearer and the target. Some grudges are warranted, but they nourish the soul poorly. Forgiveness is often deserved, though not always; clinging to a grudge never helps.
Q. The field carries quiet, yet music remains—Patti Smith and Italian tunes that echo here.
r. Patti Smith and those Italian songs anchor the mood. They were tunes heard at town festivals. The countryside never truly stays silent—if one listens closely, it hums with life.
Q. The hero has something to say that even the author might be asked: How am I and how is my life?
r. Defining the kind of person one is proves tricky. People often describe themselves with a swelling ego. The writer would rather others describe them. How is life? This question has been asked many times. Sometimes the past felt grim, but now the present holds the greatest peace and happiness found in maturity.
Anyone who has experienced homelessness as a child carries that wound into life. It opens and closes, fueling fear and anxiety.
Q. What are the consequences of bullying against children?
r. In the future, childhood bullying leaves lasting scars that can stigmatize a person for life. The word trauma is overused today, but the girl’s trauma was real. Those who endured homelessness carry it with them, a wound that reopens now and then, provoking fear and anxiety.
Q. Anyway, this is a scary book.
r. Yes, and it feels deeply satisfying. The aim is for readers to sense from the first page that something is off, hidden, and to slowly uncover what the behavior means. The goal is for two people to recognize why there is pain and why a wound remains tender, while grasping that life is worth living.
Q. At the end, the question I underlined asks, When do we leave places for good?
r. That is a difficult question. Places can be left, yet two or three never vanish entirely. New York does not disappear from life, nor did the writer’s mother’s town or the Madrid neighborhood of youth. They are not fully parted with; they are carried forward in memory and sentiment.