Eight, by Rebeca Stones

In order to write the perfect novel, we would have to find the magical balance that the round work could create. It would then be appropriate to compensate the insolence, vehemence and emotionality of the youth of the writer or writer, with the grounds, the profession and the intellectuality of the adult writer.

And since it is impossible for us to achieve that virtuous balance of what the past gave us and the future anticipates us, the present ends up shaping our imperfect history. Except that imperfection can provide a great flash of beauty that leans one way or the other, with the advantages of maturity or youth.

Rebeca Stones is an insultingly young writer, all emotions, all passion. Youth always overflows with that juice that is left over from the glass with the rattle of the years lived. But she still has it, and manages it perfectly in this book eight.

Mine is that barely disguised alter ego of the author, a brilliant being, willful in looking for essences when there is still time to find them (that of the divine treasure of youth, which was nothing else, friend Rubén Darío, that time understood like an inexhaustible tomorrow)

Mia offers eight days to every soul stunned by circumstances. His protocol of action towards the integral recovery of the individual extends during that little more than a week, with doses of placebo (the only real medicine) and discovery of the good lost emotions.

Max needs Mia more than anyone. Her parents hire her, assuming that particular praxis of medical nothingness. Denial, the rejection of happiness is the annoying virtue of many of the most valid and intelligent beings. It is only a matter of arriving at that contradictory notion of life as a space from which one is expendable.

Meeting Max and Mía is like entering the heavens and the hells of each one of us. Under the prism of a juvenile novel, we can all delve into what we were and what we are ...

You can now buy the novel Ocho, the new book by Rebeca Stones, here: