Cold, eerie fear. Evil threads through our beautiful world, a truth echoed by Elvira Lindo during a memorable first encounter. From that moment, the atmosphere tightens, wrapping readers in a delicate yet unsettling cloak where children confront adult-made fears, projecting them into fantasies that feel like restless vermin beneath the surface. The act of reading the book leaves a lasting impact on a reader; it centers on a girl who clings to a sense of self while adults struggle to move with clarity. This is a story about a girl for life, always running toward a doorway of escape, a route that in itself becomes the novel’s guiding syntax and rhythm.
In the lion’s den, the book holds its title at the heart of Seix Barral’s list. A conversation unfolds in a dimly lit home, with Elvira Lindo ever vigilant, as if the questions poised to her are already reflected in her own gaze. The atmosphere is calm, yet an alarming calm lingers, suggesting that Lindo is never fully at ease—even when circumstances appear still. This is the texture of the interview.
At the outset, a sentence crystallizes the book’s mood: “Evil is part of our beautiful world.”
This is not the narrator’s own line. It is a choice inspired by Mary Oliver, a poet with a spiritual sensibility who suits the tale about to unfold. The book thrives on a dialogue between souls, with characters standing at a juncture where only honesty remains possible. The sentence, chosen for its weight, aligns with a tone that recognizes evil as an element of human nature rather than a blanket judgment of people.
Where does evil reside today, the interview explores?
The response points to a subtle, widespread evil: indifference. In a world where disparity grows and many have little, a quiet apathy becomes a force that hurts as much as any overt act. The interview insists that indifference is a shadow that haunts society and demands attention.
What impression does the girl at the start of the book leave?
Initial impressions lean toward something simpler, a reflection on childhood’s borders and the moments when growing up fixes certain places in memory. Yet the author shifts toward a sense of childhood nostalgia and the vulnerability of children whose care is lacking. Personal experiences and conversations with people who have faced homelessness inform this perspective, suggesting that testimony from lived hardship offers insights that formal reports cannot capture. In considering a case from La Rioja, the narrator reflects on the complexities of justice and media coverage, emphasizing the need to approach injury with care while not letting past wounds define the future.
Does childhood belong to the world described in the book?
The environment, atmosphere, and humanity of the narrator’s own upbringing seep into the narrative, though the focus remains on the girl’s story itself. Fear from childhood—imagined threats and ghosts—lingers, shaping a lifelong vigilance. The author speaks of stories told to children to warn them that danger might strike at any moment, stories of frightened kids who are lost, abducted, or consumed by fear. The point is not to glamorize danger but to acknowledge its presence in memory and imagination.
Have threats against children intensified over time?
There is a sense of diminished freedom in childhood. The move from wide-open spaces to more restricted, monitored environments mirrors broader social changes. The author notes a shift toward more protective parenting, alongside evolving family structures that alter how childhood is experienced. In the present, there is a perception that children face more stimuli and pressures, making freedom seem more fragile and stress more likely.
Are there inherited fears from the girl’s perspective?
Yes, fear of unreal threats lingers from youth—ghosts and other figments. Those fears often persist into adulthood, especially for someone whose public life invites scrutiny or aggression. The speaker acknowledges a constant awareness of potential harm and the toll it can take on personal safety and peace of mind.
What value does literature offer when addressing sensitive subjects?
The novel provides a means of internal exploration, helping the author process personal and family histories. Writing becomes a second life that clarifies past experiences and offers new perspectives on how to live with them. Literature, in this sense, becomes both a mirror and a shelter, enabling a more cohesive sense of self.
Did fiction ease the fear?
Writing this book felt like stepping back into a childhood paradise, returning to familiar places, scents, and the natural world. The process resembles a conscious journey through memory, blending the life of animals and humans with the author’s own history. It was a joy, a release, a form of celebration that turned fear into something manageable through storytelling.
What sparked the need to tell this story?
A deeper acquaintance with a place known for its richness and variety inspired the author. A visit to a high village tied to a local feature about the author on Valencia television reinforced the desire to return and revisit the characters. The journey revealed abundant landscapes, rivers, and a sense of movement that echoed childhood afternoons spent roaming from one place to another. The sense of spirits and atmosphere became central to the character’s development.
Has that early, restless life stayed with the author?
From childhood onward, life has carried a mix of activity and innocence. The author recalls a pace that constantly urged doing more, driven by a restless impulse to cover ground quickly. Yet there is a later sense of calm, a life balanced by work, family, friends, and personal growth that has settled into a steadier rhythm.
Why is joy rarely named in the pages?
There is a sense that scary endings carry more cachet in literature, a perception the author challenges. Fear is not the sole path to meaning, and the author rejects the notion that misery should be the default lens through which life is viewed. A more balanced view sees pain as part of life, not the entire sum of it.
What about today’s world and the surprises it holds?
Listening to the news and reading the morning papers can feel like living in an uncontrollable world. The rise of AI-driven media and the prospect of machines shaping sound and content prompt reflection on how humanity might change. The author senses that technology could alter what it means to be human, a shift that invites careful consideration rather than fear.
Is resentment ever a useful emotion?
Resentment is a toxin that harms both sides. It can be justified in certain circumstances, but it tends to corrode the person who harbors it. Forgiveness may be possible in many cases, though some situations remain unforgivable. In any outcome, dwelling on grudges is counterproductive and, in a sense, bad nourishment for the spirit.
There is quiet here, but music also lingers. Patti Smith and several Italian songs play a role in the atmosphere of the book, a reminder that sound and memory intertwine in meaningful ways.
What should be asked of the author about the hero’s voice and life?
It is difficult to define a complete self-portrait. People often reveal too much ego, so the author prefers to let others see the person. The question of how life is lived invites reflection that can be honest yet humble. The present moment, the author believes, holds the key to peace and happiness as one ages into maturity.
What consequences does bullying leave on children?
Bullying leaves lasting marks that extend far beyond childhood. The term trauma is widely used, and while it should not be trivialized, the wounds from harsh experiences can resurface as fear and anxiety. A child who is displaced or made homeless carries a lifetime burden, a wound that continues to shape choices and reactions long after the event itself has passed.
That’s a concise portrait of a scary book—also deeply satisfying. The aim is to pull readers in from the first page, hint at the hidden, and gradually reveal the reasons for pain in the lives of the characters. The book invites two people to understand why there is hurt, why a wound remains tender, and why life, despite its shadows, is worth living.
When is it appropriate to leave a place for good?
The question is remarkably difficult. Some places are left, some are not. The author has never completely left New York, though the decision was significant. The ties to the mother’s hometown and the adolescence neighborhood in Madrid remain, and they are not easily shed. The choice to depart or stay is a constant negotiation between memory, attachment, and the realities of life that keep pulling a person back or propelling them forward.