"The novel is the time of memory, the time of silence, the moment of imprinting. But every thing, to be placed in the memory, must live. I capture moments of life on my paper, so I can't write a novel."
When I met the Paper Woman in the 1990s, she confided in me the material she had gathered to write a novel: moments of life that continued to breathe revealing sensations that did not fit into the known dimensions of space and time, fragments of a dying man's thoughts that he hurried before he left. ' leave her mortgage, images that shatter on prison walls from memories that managed to become definitive and from strange dream states.
I tried to reconstruct everything that inescapably ensnared her thought. But the hand that wrote became paper, and it too followed the direction of the wind. Then the wind left the open window and the memories were left speechless lying on the paper insisting on postponing the time of their death.
Memories built moments even if they didn't transform into a novel. But today, when they are read again filtered by the distance of time, they come alive strangely.
"The Paper Woman" is always reconciled with her memories.