Which book ruined your ability to enjoy “light” literature forever?
The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho. I gave in so as not to appear arrogant, and ended up repeating like Poe’s raven: “nevermore.”
Which author would you like to invite to dinner, just to contradict them for three hours?
Generally, if you invite an author to dinner for three hours, it’s not exactly to contradict them. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Which book did you pretend to have read with the most conviction?
In Search of Lost Time. I couldn’t finish it, but I convinced my sweet literature teacher that I had, and it seems I did a good job because I don’t remember failing. At that time, more than the madeleines in Marcel’s exquisite tea, my attention was focused on a book that had just driven me crazy, Steppenwolf, which, incidentally, was not part of the curriculum.
Which literary character would you kill yourself?
I would give Williams Figueras, from Boarding Home, a dignified death, far from those evil slums of Miami. A death in the style of Aldous Huxley, for example.
Which “classic” book do you consider a punishment to read, yet still defend in public?
Thoreau’s Walden. It’s one of my most beloved books, let’s say because of its symbolic capital. Reading it can be very harsh at times. Not so the book Cartas a un buscador de sí mismo, which collects correspondence from the same author and is a delightful read.
What is your guilty literary pleasure, the one you hide behind a fake copy of Proust, Kafka, or Joyce?
Cartas a María Mantilla by José Martí, which I brought back from Cuba like a treasure. I hide it, but only so that no one will think of “moving” it.
Which book do you treat as a sacred object, but whose first page remains more untouched than your new Kindle?
The Secret Doctrine by Helena Blavatsky. I hope that a favorable alignment of the planets will finally lead me to get involved in reading it.
Which author would you trade lives with, even if only to have a scholarship at the Sorbonne?
Ernesto Sábato, to know what it feels like to give up a brilliant career as a scientist and move into the “enemy” camp of literature with the total conviction that it cannot be otherwise.
Which bookstore has stolen the most money from you with your consent?
The Canelo bookstore on Reina Street in Havana. Considering that I was a girl who sold empty bottles at the grocery store to buy used books, you can imagine what it meant to take home Oros viejos, a book by Tagore, The Count of Monte Cristo…
Which books have you started more than three times without getting past page 40?
I’ve started Francois Jullien’s In Praise of Insipidity a couple of times, but I can’t quite get a taste for it. I’ll try a third time someday, to see if I can conquer it.
Which literary character would you like to have as a therapist, knowing that they would ruin you emotionally?
Myrna Minkoff, from A Confederacy of Dunces. Behind every antagonist hides a good therapist.
What is the most absurd edition you bought just for its aesthetics?
Before leaving Cuba, I bought The Adventures of Pinocchio, illustrated by Fabelo.
How many books do you have waiting to be read, and how many do you continue to buy each month?
I have Van Gulik’s The Sex Life of Ancient China, two novels by the writer Gerardo Fernández Fe, Margaret Atwood’s Paper Boat… Lately, I only buy books that my friends are releasing.
What literary scene made you close the book and stare at the ceiling as if you had experienced something?
Many, many, but recently it was the final scene of Paul Auster’s Baumgartner, when, after having an accident to avoid hitting a deer, he arrives bleeding, in the middle of winter, at an unknown house. The car’s engine is stuck, and he doesn’t know how to fix it. The curious thing is that he has been writing a philosophical book called Mysteries of the Wheel for years, full of metaphors about the car in relation to human beings, life, and death. It’s an overwhelming paradox that made me not only stare at the ceiling but also look inside myself.
What book would you give as a gift just to test whether someone is worthy of you?
Letters to a Young Poet, by Rainer Maria Rilke, has helped me find soul mates.
What is the most heinous literary crime? Dog-earing pages, underlining books, or not reading?
The most heinous literary crime is confusing authors with characters. I know it happens much more than we would like.
Do you read the author’s blurb before starting a book, or do you prefer to ruin the experience for yourself later?
I read everything, including the cover illustration.
Have you ever stolen a book? Which one(s)?
I confess that I stole How to Change Your Mind by Michael Pollan, The Women Who Look at Men Who Look at Women by Siri Hustvedt, and some others that I can’t remember now.
What book would you have liked to write just so you could sign it and show it off?
Among many, Memoirs of Hadrian by Marguerite Yourcenar.
Which secondary character deserved more prominence than the main character?
The character of Paloma in The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery.
How many bookmarks do you own, and how many do you actually use (besides the lottery ticket that you didn’t win, of course)?
My favorite is a gift from a friend: a fish made of leather, decorated with motifs from a typical Portuguese mosaic. I really enjoy navigating the pages of books with it, and I hope it will accompany me for a long time on these immersions.
Which author do you think is brilliant, but would rather not have at dinner?
Jack Kerouac. Three of his novels captivated me, but people, authors or not, with alcohol addiction depress me greatly.
If your life were a book, on which shelf in the bookstore would we find it: “unnecessary drama,” “pretentious fiction,” or “essay on disappointment”?
I would like to be placed in the travel section, because that’s what life is, a journey.
