Roots spread across the foundations: trees and walls become one with the surrounding hills. Chickens peck at the remains of the cupboards, bugs nest in the hollows of dried-out shoes, and dogs curl up in abandoned sheets that still smell of their owners.

Soldiers from different wars and the ill-fated lover prowl the surroundings: at dusk, the whispering wheel of their troubles can be heard. But the family that the house longs for is silent: Lucero, his wife, and their four children—why don’t they come back?

Precise and delicate, this novel combines the poetry of the coast with a bawdy repertoire of anachronisms.

Selva Almada achieves the feat of making the passage of time audible and nature’s stubbornness to recover what men took centuries ago palpable.

Selva Almada goes one step further and embarks on a true linguistic experiment. Leonardo Padura, Babelia, El País

And whilst her previous novels had already established a language of impeccable oral tradition (…), this novel puts that language at the service of a bolder undertaking: narrating from a non-human perspective without losing narrative intensity. Carlos Aletto, Radar Libros

There is a certain beauty that runs through the entire novel, even though the settings are hostile and the characters are tough. Debora Campos, Clarín

With talent and captivating prose, Almada manages to delve into Argentine history, the voices that go unheard, and the ever-present violence surrounding land ownership and exploitation. Agustina Larrea, El Diario Ar

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