I was very intrigued by the answers to my question about the language in which people are reading The House of the Spirits. I especially did not expect to see Estonian on the list! The answers led me to wonder … where are you from and/or where do you live? For what it’s worth, I’m American, but I have been living in Eastern Finland for the past year and a half. What about you?
Sir David interviews Isabel Allende about her memoir, The Sum of Our Days
I’m sorry for the lack of posts the past few days! I embarked upon my holiday travels earlier in the week and have been (rather unsuccessfully) fighting off jet lag since. Happy holidays to those who are celebrating something this December! Has anyone got interesting plans for the holiday season?
Isabel Allende at the Opening Ceremony of the 2006 Winter Olympics
Q. Do you work closely with your translator? I notice that Margaret Sayers Peden has translated most of your books into English.
A. Margaret and I are always in touch; I believe we have a psychic connection. She does a splendid job. I do not dream of correcting her! In most other languages, however, I don’t even know who translates my work. The publishers take care of that. Margaret retired in 2010 and now my translator into English is Anne McLean.
Check out more of Allende’s answers to faq here.
In 1993, The House of the Spirits was adapted into a film starring Antonio Banderas, Jeremy Irons, Meryl Streep, Winona Ryder, and Glenn Close. It was critically panned for several reasons, not the least of which was the casting of white American actors in Latin American roles.
(picture via shuichiamy)
Isabel Allende speaks about women, feminism, and passion.
Have you already started reading the book? If so, how far along are you (page number or percentage preferable - remember NO SPOILERS)?
What is True?, Isabel Allende
In The Book of Embraces, Eduardo Galeano has a short story that I love. To me, it is a splendid metaphor of writing:
There was an old and solitary man who spent most of his time in bed. There were rumors that he had a treasure hidden in his house. One day some thieves broke in, they searched everywhere and found a chest in the cellar. They went off with it and when they opened it they found that it was filled with letters. They were the love letters the old man had received all over the course of his long life. The thieves were going to burn the letters, but they talked it over and finally decided to return them. One by one. One a week. Since then, every Monday at noon, the old man would be waiting for the postman to appear. As soon as he saw him, he would start running and the postman, who knew all about it, held the letter ready in his hand. And even St. Peter could hear the beating of that heart, crazed with joy at receiving a message from a woman.
Isn’t this the playful substance of literature? An event transformed by poetic truth? Writers are like those good thieves. They take something that is real, like the letters, and by a trick of magic they transform it into something totally fresh. That is the best part of writing: finding the hidden treasures, giving sparkle to worn out events, invigorating the tired soul with imagination, creating some kind of truth with many lies.
(Source: isabelallende.com)
Isabel Allende with her husband, Willie Gordon
Are you reading The House of the Spirits in English or in Spanish (or perhaps in another language altogether)?
A Spiritual Letter, Isabel Allende
My fate changed on January 8, 1981. That day we received a phone call in Caracas that my grandfather was dying. I could not go back to Chile to bid him farewell, so that evening I started a sort of spiritual letter for that beloved old man. I assumed that he would not live to read it, but that didn’t stop me. I wrote the first sentence in a trance: “Barrabas came to us by sea.” Who was Barrabas, why did he come by sea? I didn’t have the foggiest idea, but I continued writing like a maniac until dawn, when exhaustion defeated me and I crawled to my bed. “What were you doing?” my husband mumbled. “Magic,” I answered. And indeed, magic it was. The following evening after dinner, again I locked myself in the kitchen to write. I wrote every night, oblivious to the fact that my grandfather had died. The text grew like a gigantic organism with many tentacles, and by the end of the year I had five hundred pages on the kitchen counter. It didn’t look like a letter anymore. My first novel, The House of the Spirits, had been born. I had found the only thing that I really wanted to do: write stories.
(Source: isabelallende.com)
