A Hymn to Life

Love is not dead, I am not dead, I still have faith in people. Once that was my greatest weakness, now it is my strength, my revenge.

It's not courage, but willpower and determination to change this patriarchal and sexist society.

And yet the feeling persists: love is not dead. I am not dead. I still have faith in people. Once, that was my greatest weakness. Now it is my strength. My revenge.

Today, looking back on the moment I made the decision, I am aware that had I been twenty years younger, I probably wouldn’t have dared request that the case be heard in open court. I would have been too afraid of the looks: those damn looks that women of my generation have always had to contend with; those damn looks that make you waver in the morning between a dress and trousers, that follow you or ignore you, flatter you or embarrass you; those damn looks that seem to tell you who you are or what you’re worth, only to forsake you as you age. It was exactly that nerve Dominique pressed when he told me I should be glad my husband still desired me whenever he photographed me coming out of the bathroom. I was, no doubt, still susceptible to it. It’s foolish, but that’s how we were freer, more autonomous women, yet still afraid of being abandoned, still longing to be saved. Maybe the shame lifts once you hit seventy and no one looks at you any more. I don’t know. I wasn’t afraid of my wrinkles or my body.

I now know that it comes from a deep wound within me that makes me vulnerable. But I accept that fragility, that risk, still. To fight the emptiness, I need to love.

I still need to believe in love. I received it intensely and too briefly from my parents, and for a long time I believed that it protected me from everything. I even believed that I knew how to give it.

You don't get a second chance at life. If I erased everything, it would mean I was dead. And had been for years.

I am not fighting the truth, but the fall.

my entire life had fallen apart, but I was fine.

She must have seen my mother in me, my father's great love with whom she could never complete, the beautiful face that surely haunted his long silences.

All I read in his violence and anger was the strength of our bond

Words have more power to hurt at that age than any other, and childhood shame is not soon forgotten.

a menina que nada nem ninguém jamais conseguiu consolar, nem o amor, nem a amizade, nem a maternidade.

Me he pasado la vida llenando el silencio con música, he combatido el insomnio con la radio y he rellenado los huecos del día a día cocinando, ordenando la casa y persiguiendo el polvo, las migas, el desorden, las arrugas y las malas hierbas, seguro que parezco una maniática, pero limpiar es fundamental para mí, el más mínimo grano de arena podría echarlo todo a perder y los miedos de una niña podrían alcanzarme.

But what’s the point of going in search of a life I never had, trying to pinpoint the moment I took a wrong turn? I understand only too well the sequence of events that led to our first meeting, which was so powerful that I found myself talking about it in the office of Deputy Sergeant Perret as if it had been just the day before. There’s no point getting lost in regret.