has the magical gift of
beauty, a breath, an
impulse, a secret
ensconced in words.
Few writers have this.
When she talks about
something, it is lit up
from the inside, and
when she writes novels,
they become essential
moments in our lives.
Why? Because she
knows how to put
herself in that place.
For her tenth birthday Charlotte got to choose a
doll from her uncle's collection. It was impossible
to pick one, and then suddenly, there she was: the
perfect doll, with her beautiful, sad smile, her eyes
that rolled, and her shiny human hair.
At night in the dark of her bedroom, Charlotte
and the doll talked to each other. They loved each
other. They resembled one another, like two sisters,
like a mother and her child.
Charlotte's friend, Marianne, knew things that
made you mature. Adult stories. How dolls are
made, for example, with dead people's hair.
Marianne told Charlotte things, but Charlotte
didn't understand. It wasn't possible. All of those
horrors, the words tumbling out, images that
damage you. Charlotte had to find out the truth.
But the doll, this child of the dead, was still there.