In literature, as in cinema, there are topics that touch the deepest nerves of life. Not because they lack merit, but because they expose a pain many would rather not face. The loss of a child is the most unnatural wound a person can endure. No parent should outlive a child. The ache is so immense that only a resistant heart can endure it. When such tragedy arrives, the world seems to fracture. The heart bears scars that may not be visible, yet a parent’s gaze is forever altered. Though the author will never become a father, he has witnessed events that disturb the ordinary surface of life. Faces lose their old luster, and the eyes seem to drift into far, dark caverns that reach the soul.
The Purple Hour, published by Alfaguara, Sergio del Molino’s imprint, stands as a remarkable achievement in mourning literature. It is a work that reveals itself as one of the most fragmented, profound, and intense explorations of grief. Some critics compare it to renowned mourning narratives, yet this book possesses a distinct power. Del Molino does not merely portray pain in its rawest form; he seeks to uncover meanings and, in doing so, offers guidance to readers who share the burden of loss. A writer known for sharp sensitivity from Zaragoza turns the universal experience of grief into a global meditation, reminding readers that suffering knows no borders and that life itself carries this universal weight.
The tone of the book is vibrant with life despite the heavy atmosphere it conveys. Del Molino dedicates his son Pablo not only to honor him but to affirm his humanity in all its complexity. Too often illness leads to the dehumanization of patients, but this work gives that humanity the seriousness it deserves. In The Purple Hour, the author grapples with the meanings of words themselves. Language becomes a crucial tool in the attempt to understand pain. When words are spoken with intention, they can serve as balm, yet they can also pierce the heart. The author notes that there is an expression missing in Spanish for parents who lose their children. Orphan is a common term, yet there is no equivalent for the bereaved parents left behind. It is as if the absence itself resists naming. The purple hour is, in essence, a search for this very name, a way to acknowledge the profound failure and the pain that every mother and father fears and often tries to deny.
Alfaguara managed to reissue this work. Reading the book for the first time can feel destabilizing, capable of leaving a reader adrift for days. Yet the author’s voice remains a beacon through that darkness. In the author’s perspective, The Purple Hour emerges as one of the most brilliant contributions to mourning literature. It is not a small or merely intimate reflection; Del Molino adds layers that invite readers to suffer alongside him while also seeking a path through the grief. The experiences described may echo personal losses, and that resonance can be deeply felt. The author’s observations about those dull, tired looks and the search for the exact terms to describe loss show a relentless commitment to truth. The Purple Hour becomes a doorway to an abyss no reader willingly approaches. If one word were to capture the essence of the book, it would be courage. Facing a monstrous, life-altering absence requires bravery, especially when what is at stake is humanity itself. The stories of Pablo and his mother Cristina reveal a raw, undeniable truth. This study speaks as a cry for help and as a voice for parents who have walked this same road. It stands as a weathered heart transcribed into a book, inviting readers to confront what many would rather forget.
(Source: Threshold)