top of page


Anchor 1
El Gaspar

          El Gaspar is one more of the many immigrants who have left their families and roots behind to try their luck in another country. The course of his life changes several times when he decides to settle in a small town in the north of Costa Rica. Capable of developing a special love for nature and for the animals that he finds there, his social abilities are hampered by his impulsiveness and the lack of perspective regarding his place, and that of others, in the world.

        Happiness knocks on his door, personified by Anita, a jovial and cheerful mulatto who introduces him to worlds unknown to him. However, the opportunity for a dignified and complete life can be wasted if the young person is confined to his limitations and pays more attention to his instincts than to the voice of his reason. 

Anchor 2
Suburban Tales

         In these stories the author seeks to portray the harsh and difficult reality of the urban neighborhoods of Costa Rica, where the notion of the Tico as a good-natured and hard-working peasant has been displaced by drugs, prostitution, and the insecurity experienced by its inhabitants.

          Pimps, addicts, traffickers, murderers and rapists are the protagonists of the stories that try to illustrate an existing reality, but one that is alien to the majority, who insist on perpetuating the image of yesteryear of a rural, ecological country full of good-hearted people.  

Anchor 3

     What would you say if are asked to tell a story that illustrates your personality? Fifteen fictional characters accept the challenge and try to project themselves through the stories that best describe them.

    Leaving aside that most of human beings  portrayed themselves as they perceive themselves, the book seeks to show that in each narrative there are clues for the reader to search and create for himself or herself an image of the subject that "speaks".

      If we had the chance to listen to all living beings, we could find their own uniqueness in their respective stories and, perhaps, that is a common denominator that we all share. 

Anchor 4

      My sister was lucky enough to belong to that small group of people that perpetuates the oral tradition of stories that populate the Earth generation after generation, and die until the last person who knows anything about them ceases to exist. In the case of Latin America, it seems that it follows in the footsteps of those patriarchal societies whose official history is that of men, while that of women is rarely told. If they are told, it is within the four walls of the private sphere, where coffee and biscuits prevail. They do not even earn the secondary space of a seedy bar. No. At a drinks table, when talking about women it is not to exalt them, quite the contrary, it is to reduce them, minimize them. The practice of drinking guaro is a practice of vindication of macho values, even though women participate in it. So it wouldn't be in a corner tavern where my mother's story would be discussed. No. It would be on a Sunday afternoon, with the smell of cheese tortillas with custard and dripping coffee. And my sister was there since she was a child, to hear about my mother, my mother's mother, and the latter's mother. My sister was still there making tortillas with custard and dripping coffee while her two daughters (my mother's two granddaughters) and the daughter of one of them, take care of my mother in the last days of her life.

      The lines that follow are my sister's stories. Of these stories, I have heard different versions from different people during the course of my life, but I transcribe what she began to tell me the night she passed. I do not add or subtract anything, I do not exaggerate or devalue any of the narratives that follow, nor their protagonists. My sister's memory sometimes fails, but since we met again on several occasions, always to continue talking about my mother, and about seven generations of women who with love and desire to care for their fellows, allowed me to be who I am, and that many people are who they are, thanks to the fact that, for some reason (which could be justified by any cosmogony, or none), they passed close to my mother's life.   

bottom of page