Violet Hour: Pain, Memory, and Literature in a Personal Chronicle

Violet Hour — A Conversation with Pain, Memory, and Literature

The book Violet Hour by Sergio del Molino, born in Madrid in 1979 and raised in Zaragoza, opens as a book of embrace and shudder. It leans into pain, inviting readers to feel the hurt as if it were their own. Nature intrudes and then withdraws, leaving a sense of orphaned tenderness in its wake, even in the midst of sleepless nights born from impotence. Yet there is laughter shared with a partner, brief glimpses of light, and a fleeting vanish that both spouses experience together.

To meet the author is to encounter a work so autobiographical and unvarnished that the gaze of the reader seems to require a direct look into the author’s eyes. Questions fade, and the impulse becomes to hug rather than interrogate, to stay with the truth rather than dissect it.

Del Molino stands alongside a number of decisive books, including Empty Spain, The Leather, and Another González. He appears to condense his autobiography into a form that gathers others and episodes from his life, weaving good literature with journalism. In this profession, he is celebrated for a generous heart, a rare blend of warmth and seriousness that many readers find compelling.

The journalistic reader who revisited Violet Hour, now in its tenth anniversary edition published by Alfaguara, underlined nearly every page as if to render the wisdom more durable, more necessary. A memory claimed by the text, this author is pictured with messy hair and eyes bright with words and curiosity, yet touched by a quiet joy.

It felt like reading the book together, with underlining as a shared act.

Books become extensions of life, and life itself seems to be underlined. Literature and life blur into one experience. The death of a son was a wrenching event that deepened silence and opened space for new understanding. The book honors that pain, turning it into a kind of catharsis that shaped the tone of Violet Hour.

Did someone else shape the book, or did personal events alone transform the author?

The events themselves catalyzed a change that could not go back to what existed before. Writing became a natural act, though it often proved difficult. The piece is not a mere report of suffering; it is an honest account of transformation through narrative.

I am not a coward and I think if I were I wouldn’t be the writer I am today.

Will the pain go away?

No. Pain reshapes itself and survives. It may alter form, but the core of loss endures. The death of a child leaves an imprint that never fully disappears.

How have other authors helped you?

They accompany the reader through suffering. Literature offers companionship when one feels isolated, a way to belong to the human condition even in deep distress. Violet Hour may not deliver comfort, but it provides a sense of not walking alone in the ache. Music and literature share this communicative power, pulling readers back into shared humanity.

Is music in your work a form of literature itself?

If he knew how to create music, he would not pursue literature, which is a different craft born from not being able to make music. Yet music finds a home within his books, a landscape that mirrors moods and occasionally blends with cinema. Spanish literature often feels distant from music, but for him books need their own soundtrack so readers can revisit familiar songs and sounds that intensify the reading experience.

How did the next book arise after this one?

Violet Hour prompted a new humility and a stronger belief in the power of autobiographical writing. The vulnerability of the first person voice revealed its own potential, nudging him toward a form of naked truth that he would not have discovered otherwise.

What kind of person has this ongoing event made you?

The line between author and person blurs. The experience influences views and priorities, shaping ethics and aesthetics in his work—novels, essays, and columns alike. It also echoes the earlier work, with an awareness of how social and political shifts intersect with personal life.

The great power of literature is companionship. How did you approach underlining Violet Hour?

Underline or not, the act of reading becomes an act of participation. The writer cannot answer what exactly should be highlighted; what matters is the presence of the act itself. Certain passages may feel especially poignant, and those edges reveal how a reader interacts with the text.

The boy named Pablo appears repeatedly in the story. What remains of him?

All events gain meaning through memory and their ongoing significance. Illness, health, and the writer’s own life recur, with Pablo’s presence a constant thread in the narrator’s life and memory.

There is a reserve and coldness in the book. How does fear factor in?

In large measure, fear is present. Writing helps move past it without erasing it; fear becomes part of the landscape rather than a separate force to be avoided. The experience of loss compels a harder, more resilient stance as a parent and a writer.

Has writing dulled your fear?

Fear recedes through its own transformation. It does not vanish, but the author does not see himself as a coward. The path of writing is inseparable from facing fear head on.

How did the writing process unfold this time around?

Notes were kept as a habit rather than a planned diary. The notebooks formed the core, and later decisions emerged from them, guided by a sense of command rather than a strict chronology.

If I knew how to make music, I would not choose literature, so intertwined are they in your work. What happened next?

The shift is complete. The author does not recognize the person he was before. Some friends cannot cross that boundary, and the change is visible even in relationships and work. In the early weeks, the hardest period was a test of endurance, as one tries to stabilize life while still feeling the ache of loss. It requires a careful mix of presence and restraint to keep moving forward.

The mother, Cris, stands as a constant presence in the narrative. How does the collaboration evolve?

Cris remains ever present. Over time, the book takes on a life beyond its creation, becoming a shared memory that continues to accompany the readers and the family. The life inside the pages matures and stays with them as a living text.

The enduring power of literature is companionship, a sense of not standing apart from human experience.

When rereading, how would you approach underlining Violet Hour today?

Underlining is inseparable from reading for this author. The act reflects a commitment to engagement rather than a fixed criterion. Some passages are highlighted with particular intensity, while others remain simply experienced, allowing the text to speak in its own right. Books you highlight reveal how they influence you; the more a book invites scrutiny, the deeper the relationship becomes.

Pablo remains a constant presence. What about his memory today?

Memory retains Pablo as a continual presence, seen in moments when the author writes about illness, health, and family. His son’s memory keeps surfacing as a living part of daily life and writing alike, a thread that persists through time.

There is a stark coldness in the book alongside fear. How does fear shape the narrative?

Fear marks the landscape, but it does not imprison the writer. The act of writing channels fear into a form that can be faced, inviting readers to confront their own vulnerabilities without flinching. The work remains a testament to resilience amid loss.