This remarkable woman, born in Zaragoza in 1979, authored a singular book titled Infinity in a Reed. Written during a period of hospital anxiety after the birth of her son, the work wields literature as a tool to examine history and humanity. The author faced uncertainty about her child’s health, and the book became a worldwide triumph, nourished by reading as her essential sustenance. Joy accompanies her, her son Pedro, her husband Quique, and a circle of friends. Today, her friendships span many nationalities, drawn by her invitation to share books together.
Reading is her passion, and she invites others to accompany the journey. This lifelong devotion to literature led to earlier works, including a collection of stories titled The Legend of the Gentle Tides, illustrated by a friend. The Legend, drawn from a treasury of classical writings, reappears in the catalog of a renowned publisher known for reviving classic authors. A graphic novel edition of Infinity in a Reed also appeared, with illustrations by Tyto Alba.
Listening to her speak evokes the cadence of her writing, as if she processes thoughts with her left hand. Here is a chance to hear her voice as though addressing listeners who have yet to hear her in public. She seems timeless, yet she laughs like a girl learning to read beside her mother.
Can you see her face in the drawing that opens the book?
Yes, it is indeed a portrait. This book carries weight and was preserved by the publisher after a period of being out of print. It had initially appeared in 2015 through a small Aragonese publisher, and the rediscovery brought gratitude for the saving of the work. When this project began, the author sought to write it as part of mourning for a father’s death. It became a literary exercise in detailing moments of life’s difficulty and great challenges. The aim was to craft a story that speaks to loss, but also to transformation, to reunion with what was left behind, and to embark on a future adventure. The idea sprang from a memory of a classic, Ovid’s Metamorphosis, which guided the author to create a children’s or teenage narrative weaving death with change, not as fear but as metamorphosis, a path back to life. The collaboration with Lina Vila, an Aragonese painter, intensified this process, as the painter’s world seemed to host the tale’s universe. The two artists later described their shared mourning, channeling it into the story through a powerful synergy of text and image. Lina’s work also included photographs by her brother, a bird photographer, enriching the book’s visuals with a photographic layer.
What does Irene Vallejo convey about that portrait?
Looking back, a trace of sadness lingers from the difficult period. The portrait places a cloak of stars around the narrator’s shoulders. It may reflect dreams expressed during a time when literature felt like an unreachable vocation. The memory is tied to travels to small book fairs and libraries in the real world—times of effort, dreams, and idealism. That essence, she suggests, lives in the image.
Did writing this story, and writing in general, help ease pain and grief?
Pain and grief are stages that cannot be ignored. They cannot be erased or hurried. Yet literature has always accompanied the author through both sorrow and joy. The act of reading and writing feels interconnected, offering escape from the fixation that often accompanies hardship. Hospitals, death, grief, emptiness, and suffering can pull a person in, like a black hole. Literature helps resist the weight of injustice on the mind and thought.
Infinity in the Reed emerged during a painful period. How is that moment remembered now?
It was a time when parental loss and the birth of a child with serious health concerns intersected with long hospital stays. Support came from creativity and language, the very tools that can sometimes feel like lifelines. For nearly a decade, caregiving for a father and later for a child demanded resilience, health, and steady guidance to avoid being pulled away by the tides. The pandemic added a layer of farewells and unspoken goodbyes, given the rush to return to daily life. Literature remains a compass for navigating tough conversations about lived pain. Metaphors and stories help make unseen pain bearable, and this book, like Infinity in a Reed, aspires to offer some sense of light.
What does writing mean personally?
Writing began as a way to free the self and combat silence. After years of global travel, meeting readers and editors at numerous fairs, the author realized this is a shared, communal activity. Literature builds communities, and reading groups across Latin America use books to help heal societies scarred by violence. The hope is that stories and fiction might soften a polarized world.
Could the success hinge on readers not just reading, but reading together?
The author hopes the written word carries a voice that speaks softly alongside the reader, fostering a sense of closeness. Reading should feel like a conversation that finds the reader, guiding their own voice in turn.
The last work includes danger and death, yet hints at later compensation. Does the author feel calm within the storm?
Metaphors were chosen to echo the suffocating spirit felt during the pandemic. The stories touch on expectations and challenge them, with the drama redistributed across the narrative to create a dreamlike journey toward reunion with past life and a bridge to what lies ahead. Lina Vila’s watercolor approach adds a powerful layer of meaning, with blue tones that speak to the book’s mood and the artist’s own eloquence.
You are a rare figure in contemporary letters.
The author notes that a deep-rooted passion for the classics has given her a distinct perspective. Still, every writer arrives with a unique and personal worldview; ultimately, one becomes part of a sisterhood of unconventional voices.
Debate is now presenting Infinity in a Reed as a graphic work, interpreted by Tyto Alba. How did this shift shape the project?
Freedom in the artwork was encouraged, with the artist offering his own interpretation. The collaboration raised questions about image fidelity and reconstruction, with fresco-style engravings and family photos woven into the pages. The process became a shared, intimate album where writers and illustrators explore both literature and drawing. The experience was exhilarating, as the artist moved from monochrome to color, and from single-page illustrations to expansive compositions. The result is a volume that blends text and illustration in a way that feels like a conversation with a friend.
What is the first word the author recalls saying to her earlier self? What would she say now?
To listen. To listen is to discover oneself. Listen to people, even for brief moments. Listen, listen, listen.