He sits at the far end of the table, hands clasped as if rehearsing a quiet air battle where the person opposite hopes for a win. This gesture, he will repeat many times, connects eyes, mouth, and every line of the face, driven by a wish that the other person’s life go well beyond the present exchange. Readers have encountered pages about those who wrestle with the evils of the twentieth century, characters filled with conflict and mischief yet longing for justice and moments of happiness to endure. One figure emerges as a journalist with a sharp instinct for life, yet tempered by a hopeful belief in humanity since 1953, and the way she looks at the world reflects that hope; her career is no longer defined by political reporting but by a faith in people and their capacity for better days. As the conversation flows, the expressions and glances invite questions about origins, as if no one has heard us before.
The German poet Michael Krüger once wrote, “Sometimes childhood sends me a postcard. Do you remember?” What postcards does childhood send you now?
We cannot separate ourselves from childhood. We grow into people who realize they have been collecting postcards from those early days. For instance, many afternoons are recalled when a grandmother taught the art of reading: repeat, begin again, sing aloud. The child only wanted to play, yet those lessons became the seeds of a lasting reading habit that shaped the reader’s life.
What did she read to you?
She asked him to read everything. Even books that were difficult. The point was simply to read daily, to let reading become a necessity, and that has proven true: the habit became pure pleasure, a lifelong companion.
Many years have passed since then, especially since October 8, 1953.
It is a mistake to say that birthdates define a person. The internet sometimes repeats a date for convenience, but the truth can be something else entirely. Still, the day is a reminder of the joy of sharing small celebrations with friends, even if those occasions are never perfectly aligned with school calendars or vacations. The sentiment remains valid: it is wonderful to celebrate with a crowd on a date that feels true.
And what explains this error in online remembrance?
Often nothing more than what people decide to post. The world online lets everyone choose a narrative, and that choice may not match reality. In light of childhood postcards, it matters that the joy of reading often happened around a grandmother, a balcony, and the sense of stepping into others’ lives through stories. The desire to read every day and to feel that reading is a necessity has proven enduring and joyful.
What did learning to read mean to you?
It opened a door to unknown paths, a feeling still alive today. It is like stepping through a mirror, a sense of wandering toward somewhere else entirely.
What was the first book that caught your attention?
In childhood, classics drew him in. A grandmother encouraged exploration of comic adventures and Helen of Troy, then introduced him to authors she believed would spark curiosity, including Jane Austen. He was seven or eight when that deep engagement with literature began.
What did those books reveal about you?
They expanded the world beyond the balcony. From that perch, there were visions of distant places and wondrous things to explore. The reader found a broader horizon, and that shift still resonates.
When did you realize that life is serious, as Jaime Gil de Biedma once suggested?
Perhaps in adolescence, a moment when innocence starts to fade and one confronts what lies beyond home. The point is not fear but a clearer sense that the world is larger and more demanding than it once seemed.
But danger grows with knowledge, right?
From a bright childhood, the need to face responsibilities grows. The sense that someone or something is guiding you becomes evident. A decisive literature teacher helped direct a young mind toward journalism. Physics may have drawn him, but the mentor insisted that writing was where his talents lay. Stories began to form, almost like experiments with language and meaning.
Do you remember any of those early stories?
Yes. There was a tale about a dog and a lamppost, a quirky moment when imagination ran wild. The author also dreamed of being a fairy who could talk to animals and objects, a belief that nearly led to disaster. A vivid moment with a red umbrella from London crystallized that childhood fantasy, as a world of play collided with the adults watching from balconies and the fear of falling from pride into reality.
With a fairy mindset, nothing could surprise him, right?
Surprises were constant. The wish to remain a fairy persisted, but the adult world, the streetlights, and the trees refused to talk. The magical world could not withstand the test of growing up, and that recognition had to be accepted, even if it meant letting go of a cherished fantasy.
How did this encounter with reality unfold?
It was hard. When the others laughed and waited for failure, the belief in magic faced ridicule. Yet that moment did not erase wonder; it redirected it into a more grounded form of imagination.
How was the relationship with parents at home?
There was a close family circle: a mother, a grandfather, cousins, a grandmother, and a beloved dog. Those ties framed a happy childhood wrapped in warmth and companionship.
What did you learn as a teenager?
Pain. Adolescence brought upheaval and intensity. Things changed fast, and some moments hurt deeply because the self was being redefined in the crucible of early adulthood.
How did he cope with that pain?
Learning to live with it became the skill. Life itself was a school that taught resilience, and the mind found ways to bear the weight while continuing to grow.
Can you share a memory from that time?
A friend from school, a long time unseen, came to a book fair and recalled him as the student who read more than he played. The joy of reading remained stronger than the lure of other activities, a sign of a deep, enduring commitment to the written word.
What books shaped you at that moment?
Grandfather insisted on classics, which sometimes felt like a game and sometimes a burden, but always valuable. The freedom to choose what to read was real, and the novels offered different roads into other ways of living and thinking. It was a period when reading opened doors rather than simply filling hours.
Were there writings at that time besides reading?
Yes, he kept diaries. The separation from childhood was painful, and writing offered a sanctuary, a way to anchor experience and preserve memory.
What was the hardest part of puberty?
Infidelity and the realization that people around you are not always what they appear to be. Losing friends and facing disagreements without a glue to mend things felt like a fracture that needed time and care to heal.
Did he know that he would fall deeply in love in adolescence?
Yes, that was part of the discovery. Adolescence is the vast landscape where everything feels possible.
Did he also see that journalism would not be a bad path?
There was confusion and disappointment. Growing older meant giving up something, and circumstances often seemed to pull the strings. Eventually, journalism won because it offered tools to write, to meet people, and to bear witness to a defining period in history. The transition to democracy stood out as a moment of pride and purpose.
It was a remarkable era to witness as a journalist. So where did journalism begin to falter?
Things change. New generations report differently, and investments shape media landscapes. The sense of job security erodes, and technology introduces fresh pressures. Yet looking ahead, past times aren’t necessarily better, but there is a need to acknowledge that the media should serve truth and curiosity, not merely profits.
When he left journalism…
He stepped away because the fit had grown uncomfortable. The clash between passion and a prevailing trend, the friction between meeting facts and chasing sensation, made a shift feel inevitable. Substantial storytelling remained, though in a new form.
He moved toward fiction anchored in reality, drawing on a journalist’s sensibility to illuminate truth through crafted narrative. The habit of observing and listening became a key tool for writing—stories that reveal more about people and the human condition.
What has been learned by approaching reality through fiction?
To be more generous toward others and toward oneself. The essential lesson is a deeper understanding of the human condition and what binds people together in moments of doubt and courage.