Mara's Reviews > My Invented Country: A Nostalgic Journey Through Chile

Isabel Allende's writing flows like a story that your grandmother would tell you about a time long before you were born, but that still has an intricate connection to your world and flickers into existence only to be half seen or intuitively perceived as a lingering presence. These are the stories about a past that does not belong to you, but that seems so familiar because of the wonderful voice of the author who, inadvertently perhaps, but nevertheless compellingly, makes you a part of her history through the act of telling.

This is the nostalgic recollection of Chile, Allende's country of origin. The writing lets itself go, lingering on some aspects of day to day life only to drift away toward memories of eccentric uncles and mysterious distant relatives. It is a powerful tale of nostalgia that dilutes and distorts, but paradoxically perhaps, is the main mechanism that makes remembrance possible.

A world traveler to say the least, daughter of diplomats and exiled after the military coup in 1973, Allende talks about her mother land with a mixture of sadness, ironic criticism and heartfelt longing. She tells all, admitting that many of her novels, much like this work, have displeased her all too bashful relatives, but accepts that what she depicts is, to some degree, an invention. Personal memories become intertwined with what others have told her, a keen journalistic eye that notices even the slightest details is thwarted by a subjectivity that is openly acknowledged. What makes this book special, a mixture between a travel log, a novel and an autobiography, is the voice that tells the story. Allende has humour and a talent for narration that has attracted a wide audience and that has made each of her books wonderfully immersive reads.

It is stated, somewhere in the first chapters, that in order to understand Chile and Chilean life as a whole, one must read Pablo Neruda’s poems. It got me thinking about countries and their writers, be they poets, novelists or otherwise. Perhaps countries need their writers just as much as writers need their countries – be it a matter of outright rejection or patriotic devotion, each author is defined by the space in which he has lived. Through his work, he or she implicitly tells its story. This may be a plain and generally obvious point to make, but I believe it is something that comes through Allende’s pages. She tells the story of her country and, thus, also describes herself in a manner that is authentic and believable. She acts as a guide or as an inviting host and I was definitely driven to cross her threshold.