The Purple Hour, a work by Sergio del Molino, born in Madrid in 1979 and rooted in Zaragoza, unfolds as both embrace and shudder. It asks readers to feel the raw force of nature and the ache that follows when a life abruptly shifts, leaving behind the child who was once cherished and laughed with through sleepless, fragile nights. The text suggests that to interview a writer about such an autobiographical, unflinching book, one must seek the author’s gaze as if to verify that the past no longer haunts it, yet it is unmistakably present. In Del Molino’s world, the preferred response seems to be closeness and conversation over blunt questions. A journalist known for a compassionate heart, he has authored many books, among them decisive works like The Empty Spain and The Skin and Un tal González. He writes with a lyrical clarity that distills autobiography into weaveable strands, allowing other names and passages from his broader literature to surface naturally. It is clear that his journalistic instincts are paired with a rare warmth for his craft, a warmth that shines through in how he reads and engages with his own life on the page. The volume was read with an almost ceremonial reverence, its pages underlined as if memory itself could be fortified by ink. The book’s author portrait appears beneath the hair above the eyes, a look that feels colored by curiosity, wit, and a quiet, almost stubborn joy.
The reader may feel as though they are turning the pages alongside a companion, tracing the same lines with a shared heartbeat. The act of reading becomes a communal act of marking life—an ongoing conversation between life and literature. Literature, Del Molino contends, is inseparable from lived experience; what is learned from living becomes the wellspring of what is written. The death of a son, his own son Paul, is described as a deeply painful experience that illuminates the silences and ellipses present in Mortal y Rosa and in other works. This revelation of pain through personal memory creates a cathartic tone that anchors The Purple Hour to a particular truth about how writing can capture and transform grief into something bearable, even meaningful.
It was as if I was reading the book with you and underlining it.
Books are built from life itself; they are like underlining life on the page. The divide between literature and life becomes blurred, a fusion where one informs the other. The author explains that much of what he knows has come from living and reading. The death of Paul intensifies the pain, making the silences in Mortal y Rosa palpable and driving a throughline of ellipses. This pain, once hidden, is revealed through the personal narrative, shaping the tone of The Purple Hour into a raw, resonant honesty that readers recognize as inevitable and necessary.
Did another author or person prepare this book for you, or did events change you?
The facts are clear. The book marks a transformation in the author’s outlook, a shift toward viewing the world from a different vantage point. Writing it felt natural, yet it involved struggle. It is not a piece of pain journalism; the pain itself is what yields the article’s vitality and meaning. The act of telling remains more burdensome than the act of living, and that tension is what gives the work its edge.
Will the pain go away?
No, pain does not vanish. It changes form, reshapes itself, and finds new channels through which to speak. The sorrow of a child’s death endures—there may be different sorrows, but this one never fully dissolves. Yet from this enduring ache emerges a surprising resilience, the capacity to carry on while honoring what was lost.
How have other writings aided your journey?
Literature offers companionship in suffering, a sense that someone else has stood in the same place and understood. This shared recognition helps readers feel understood when their experiences become celebrated in others. The author notes that literature, like music, can pull readers back into the human fold, reminding them of commonality and the fragility of the human condition. Books do not console so much as they reaffirm solidarity, inviting readers to reconnect with humanity through the voices of others.
Is the music in your work a form of literature?
If composing music were within reach, writing might lose its pull; literature comes from a different impulse, one that cannot be replaced by melody. Yet music finds a significant place within his books, because it offers a rhythm that mirrors literary cadence. He respects music’s power and believes literature should carry its own soundtrack, guiding readers to seek sounds and songs that deepen the work’s impact, long after the last page is turned.
The book’s connection to music is undeniable. Is that intentional?
Yes, music threads through most of the author’s books. It often functions as a landscape of mood and emotion, akin to how cinema uses sound. He argues that Spanish literature has sometimes undervalued music, and he strives to give his writing a musical identity. A reader should sense a personal soundtrack embedded in the prose, turning the act of reading into an experiential, almost sensory experience.
How did the next work arise after this one?
The road to the subsequent piece was shielded at first, but Purple Hour opened the doors to a new directness. It reduced shy tendencies and revealed the power of autobiographical writing, the immediacy of the first person. Without this trauma, the author concedes, he might never have discovered the compelling honesty that comes with exposing pain. Such candor redefined his approach to storytelling.
What kind of person has this ongoing event made you?
It is difficult to separate the writer from the person. The experience permeates his gaze, shaping both political and ethical sensibilities. The work helped him recalibrate priorities and determine what matters most, influencing his novels, essays, and columns. The initial self-critique that runs through Empty Spain is a touchstone for understanding his growth, including how he perceived social changes as they happened. The author notes that missing a pivotal moment in public life can color later art as distinctly as it colors private memory.
When reading the book, one instinctively underlines passages. What remains the highlight for you?
The author cannot name a single highlight because the act of crossing out is part of his discipline. He describes underlining various entries with a sense of fierce honesty, and sometimes he chronicles how his most vehement markings paradoxically honor the author more than gentle praise would. The more intensely he engages with a text, the more he elevates its value in his own eyes.
The son, Pablo, remains a constant presence in life and in memory.
That presence does not fade. In fact, it appears in many moments and pages, coloring reflections on illness, health, and the fragility of life. Pablo’s memory lingers as a defining element of the author’s existence and of the book’s writing, a continuous touchstone that shapes how both life and literature are understood.
There is a stark sense of coldness in the narrative. The world feels cold, and fear had its roots there.
To a large extent, that impression is accurate. The emotional climate remains austere, yet the author does not surrender to dread. He confronts fear and uses it to fuel honest storytelling rather than to mute it. The early weeks following loss are described as brutal and essential, a period of resilience where one must stand upright and face the consequences without retreat.
Has writing helped you shed fear?
Fear gifted him with a new approach. He no longer drowns in fear; instead, fear recedes as a force that once overwhelmed him loses its grip. This shift does not erase courage but redefines it, enabling him to sustain the rigorous honesty his work demands.
How does the writing of this book compare with earlier and later works?
A more serious register emerged, though irony and sarcasm never fully vanished. The Purple Hour carries humor and irony amidst its gravity, signaling a transformation from the writer of old to one who embraces a broader, more nuanced voice. Life and literature together redirected his path, leading him toward new lands and tones. It was not a matter of choice but an inevitable evolution, and a wish to be less solemn while remaining true to his discoveries.
What was the process of writing like? Did events unfold simultaneously or later?
Notes were gathered over time, not as a formal diary but as notebooks filled with fragments. The author then sat down to assemble them. The final decisions were governed by a core impulse rather than by simple recollection or chronology.
The death of Paul and the subsequent book changed everything. How did that transformation manifest?
Completely. The author no longer recognizes the person he was before. Some friends even find this shift difficult to accept, a testament to how deeply the experience altered him.
There is a palpable tenderness beneath the surface, yet a loneliness remains. How did one approach the child in those early days?
In those first weeks, endurance was the rule. Parents in similar situations describe the same challenge: to respond with steadiness even when the heart feels broken. The obligation to be present, to stand upright, to provide explanations, to hold the family together, becomes the central, almost sacred act. There is no room for evasion; this is the enduring impulse that defines those beginnings.
Cris, the child’s mother, is described as a castle in the story. What does that image signify?
The metaphor speaks to her constant presence and resilience. Over time, the book became a shared artifact, a living memory that grew stronger and more precise. Decade later, The Purple Hour continues to accompany them, refined and clarified as life moves forward. The work, once fixed, remains a tether to the past, a reminder of how life and art can evolve together and sustain a family through time.