I have learned by now, after thirty years of trial, that I will write and rewrite, each time differently, the same book. That I will die with the same obsessive idea: the ability or not of man to capture with self-awareness and honesty his discounts on the journey from what he deserves to what he claims. I also learned something else: a novelist is not only the storyteller entertainer of his readers, nor only the thinker in his hole, nor only the craftsman in his workshop, but he, mainly he, who resists complacency, seeking the essence of life beneath the fact and behind the image. The true novelist, whatever his worldview, whatever his relationship with writing, confronts daily the language outside of power, with his consciousness of collective responsibility and with his decision to consciously exist, observer and observed, transmitter and receiver of the dynamics and contradictions of his time.
(M.D.)
Details of a woman who confesses? Fragments of a writer who discreetly cuts her techniques and experiences?
M. Douka, wearing the black patent leather of memory and writing, swirls in front of the mirror of herself, of History, of its heroes, of the blank page.