Photographs deceive time, freezing it on a piece of cardboard where the soul is silent.

The success occurs in a place outside of me, and doesn't touch me on an intimate level. I live in my own skin, I have not changed greatly, I remain the same woman.

I write to understand my circumstances, to sort out the confusion of reality, to exorcise my demons. But most of all, I write because I love it!

The library is inhabited by spirits that come out of the pages at night.

I'm living in California but I have a place that is mine in Chile and I belong there. I am no longer an exile.

Seated by her side in the narrow cabin, pressing cold compresses to her forehead and holding her while she vomited, he felt profoundly happy.

The two moments are much alike: birth and death are made of the same fabric.