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On Sale: August 25, 2009
Pages: 384 | ISBN: 978-0-307-27193-8
Published by : Vintage Knopf

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On the first day of the year 1900, a small town deep in the Uruguayan countryside gathers to witness a miracle—the mysterious reappearance Pajarita, a lost infant who will grow up to begin a lineage of fiercely independent women. Her daughter, Eva, a stubborn beauty intent on becoming a poet, overcomes a shattering betrayal to embark on a most unconventional path. And Eva's daughter, Salomé, awakens to both her sensuality and political convictions amid the violent turmoil of the late 1960s.
The Invisible Mountain is a stunning exploration of the search for love and a poignant celebration of the fierce connection between mothers and daughters.


Montevideo, Uruguay, 1924: Pajarita grew up in the country and first arrived in the city as a seventeen-year-old bride. Now, her husband has not been home for days, leaving her alone with three small children and a house that has run out of food. Her friend Coco, the butcher's wife, has come over to visit.

"First of all," Coco said, pushing a hefty package into Pajarita's hands, "you're taking this meat. I don't care what you say. I know your husband's gone—the desgraciado." She sat her ample body down at Pajarita's table. Pajarita stared at the gift.
"I have no way to thank you."
Coco continued as if she hadn't heard. "Secondly: your plants. They're strong. You should sell them."
"To women in the barrio. You can start in the store, behind the  counter with me. Look, once word spreads about your cures, better than  a doctor and cheaper too, you'll be putting food in those boys' bellies." It had never occurred to her, but she couldn't think of a reason not to try. She took her children and a basket of leaves and roots and barks to the butcher shop. The boys resumed an epic pretend game of gauchos-in-the-campo, riding imaginary horses among the chunks of flesh that hung from the ceiling. In one corner of the room, between the chopping block and meat hooks, Pajarita arranged two small wooden stools and sat down on one. Ignazio, she thought, I want to kill you, to kiss you, to carve you like a flank; just wait and see how I'm going to live without
you by my side.
Coco served as a living advertisement. Women began to come. Some of them just needed to be heard; they told sprawling, unkempt tales of  death in the family, brutal mothers-in-law, financial pressures, wayward  husbands, violent husbands, boring husbands, loneliness, crises of faith,  visions of Mary, visions of Satan, sexual frigidity, sexual temptation,  recurring dreams, fantasies involving saddles or bullwhips or hot coals.  She offered them teas for comfort, luck, or protection. Other customers  came with physical conditions—pain in their bones, a stitch in their  side, numbness in hips, ears that rang, forgetfulness, sore knees, sore  backs, sore hearts, sore feet, cut fingers, quivering fingers, wandering fingers, burns, headaches, indigestion, excessive female bleeding, a pregnancy that wouldn't come, a pregnancy that had to end, cracked bones, cracked skin, rashes no doctor could diagnose, aches no doctor could cure. There were housewives, maids, sore-handed seamstresses, sweaty-handed adulteresses, great-grandmothers swaying with canes, young girls swooning with love. Pajarita listened to them all. She sat still as an owl as she listened. Then she handed them a small package and explained what to do with its contents. Word spread. Women came to see her from all corners of the city. She could barely keep up with harvesting from cracks in the sidewalk, nearby parks, and the pots in her own house. To Coco's delight, the seekers often picked up their daily beef along with their cures. Pajarita set no price. Some gave her pesos, others fruit, a basket of bread, a ball or two of handspun wool. Anonymous gifts appeared on the Firielli doorstep—baskets of apples, jars of yerba mate,handmade clothes for the children. They had enough.
She had developed a peculiar sort of fame. Her name was whispered through the kitchens and vegetable stands of Montevideo. Pajarita, she cured me, you should go see her too. And when I almost. You saw me then. If it hadn't been for her. Strange, she thought, that all of this should grow from something as familiar as plants, such ordinary things, opening new worlds, drawing the souls and stories of this city to her doorstep, unveiling a startling thing inside her: a reach, a scope, adventures with no road map, forays into the inner realms of strangers where
she roved the darkness in search of something that bucked and flashed and disappeared, slippery, evasive, untamable.
One sweltering afternoon, as a hunchbacked woman who smelled of garlic confessed her infatuation with the new priest, Pajarita felt something stir inside her body. Her mind reached in to feel. She was pregnant. A girl. She filled with the memory of conception, that final night, the clawing, Ignazio's torn and hungry skin. And he was gone. She almost imploded from the sadness.


Montevideo, Uruguay, 1938: Eva is thirteen years old. After two years of working for a shoe salesman who abused her, she has rebelled against him and her parents, found a job in a fashionable café, and begun to spend her evenings with a group of aspiring poets.

Months and years would stretch and turn and she always pined for this: these nights; smoky, electric, succulent, ineffable; the feel of the red table under her hand (chipped and glossy, sticky underneath) as the poets dreamed and joked and boasted; the way the air stretched and shimmered after her second glass of wine; the conversations that coiled intricately through war to recent essays to the deepest meaning of life. A light shone through those nights that Eva could not define, that vanished if she sought it too directly, that gilded everything it touched—voices, faces, wineglass, table, words—with numinous honey. She grew to rely on it, trusting its power to ward off all that must be kept away—drabness,
boredom, nightmares, the rage of home, the terror inside shoe stores and of Nazis in faraway lands. She was free inside its unseen sphere, and life became more possible. Surely the other poets felt it too: Joaquín, with his meticulous verses, knotted forehead, and arsenal of freshly sharpened pencils; Carlos, who smelled of shoe polish and stole moments at his father's law firm to scrawl odes on legal files; the Well-Known Poet, with his amiable laugh and unkempt gray hair; Pepe, with his pointy chin and fast martinis; Andrés, with his lucid voice, sharp thoughts, sharp smile; and Beatriz, the kind of girl whose laugh poured like molasses, whose poems brimmed with maudlin nubile shepherdesses yearning for their errant gaucho men. Eva could have borne her poems if she did not also
sit so close to Andrés.
"We're changing the world, right, Andrés?" Beatriz said, twirling her hair on a slow finger.
"Poetry alone won't change the world," Andrés said. "But without it, where would we be? Stripped of mystery, passion, everything that urges us to stay awake despite the shit and pain of living. In a world full of war, we need it more than ever."
Joaquín and Carlos murmured their agreement. The Well-Known Poet nodded behind his cigarette smoke. Andrés' words mixed with the smoke, swirling around the table, imbibed on each poet's breath. In a world full of war. Eva felt the smoke and bulk of the Admiral Graf Spee within those words. It had been only a month since the German battleship had dragged its huge hard broken body into the port, seeking refuge, trailing fire and smoke and the toxic scent of battle. Uruguay was neutral. Uruguay was far from Europe. Uruguay had not been invaded the way Poland had last spring. But the Graf Spee came anyway, and so did the British ships that set it on fire. War's fingers were very long and they stretched over the Atlantic and shook up her city the way a ghost's cold fingers reach through a window and shudder you awake in your own bed. That's how it was when Eva woke to Papá in the hall telling Tomás about the Graf Spee: the smoke was thick like—well, like—a big black blanket, all over the port, and up on the crane we were coughing like crazy, and I saw the Nazis standing on deck rigid like fucking toothpicks, like everything was fine, like they were breathing air from the fucking Alps. After the German captain gave up and sank his battleship to the bottom of the river, Eva dreamed of dead wet Nazis smashing her windows and
crawling into her bed, cold and dripping, cutting her with shards of glass and ship and with their fingernails.
Andrés had written a sonnet called "Graf Spee's Ghost" and it occurred to her that he might understand. She tapped his foot with hers. He smiled without looking at her.
"The things you say," she told him later on their walk home. "The way you say them. Everybody listens."
"It's just talk."
The heart of things, you touch it when you speak; somehow you shake and shift the flesh reality is made of. "It's more than that."
They walked home together every night, but never all the way to the door. They did not want to be discovered. Eva came to dread buying the family meat, because of the way Coco pinned her with doleful eyes. "What happened to that son of mine? You, Eva, tell me! He barely even lives here anymore."
 We are told, Andrés wrote, that the world is made of burlap: / Coarse, enduring—when really it is gauze, / Layer upon layer, fine, fragile, infinite, / We can see our fingers through it in the light.

Montevideo, Uruguay, 1966: Salomé is fifteen years old. She has watched the nation become increasingly repressive, as well as admired the Cuban revolution from afar. Her best friend, Leona, has just led her to a clandestine meeting.

They entered a cramped dark room with no windows. Four people sat inside: Leona's sister, Anna, with her long face and gold-rimmed glasses; a young man in a starched collar; another man in his late twenties with a square face and bushy beard; and a broad, large muchacho with hair that wisped into his face, who looked older than Salomé, about seventeen. He looked familiar, but she couldn't place him, couldn't think, because they all were staring at her.
Leona motioned for her to sit down. Salomé arranged herself carefully on the freezing floor, regretting that she'd rushed out in her knee-length school skirt. She tasted the mingled breaths of six people and two oil lamps.
Bushy Beard nodded toward Leona, who closed the door.
"So," Bushy said, "you're Salomé."
She nodded. All eyes were still on her.
"She can really be trusted?"
Leona's nod was decisive.
Bushy stared at Salomé. His eyes were dark green, shaded by a ledge of brow. "What do you know about the Tupamaros?"
She cleared her throat. So here it was. "They plan to liberate Uruguay."
"Where did you hear that?"
"In the papers—"
"The papers are much less favorable."
"And my family talking."
The wisp-haired boy grinned and now she placed him, the grandson of Cacho Cassella, the magician from Abuelo's youth. Tinto Cassella. He winked at her in the low light.
Bushy continued. "What do you think about the Tupamaros?" She had rolled that question through her mind all day. "That they're important. And brave."
"What would you say to a Tupamaro if you met one?"
She saw Leona in her peripheral vision, lifting her chin, leaning forward, and Salomé could almost smell the eucalyptus, feel the stippled light of their lawn. " 'I admire what you're doing and I want to be part of it.' "
Bushy Beard was impassive. "What if that Tupa told you that liberation is only achieved by action—including force, when necessary?"
That was when she saw the guns. They almost blended into the dark walls: rifles in the corner, a pistol at Anna's knee. She'd seen guns before, on policemen, in soldiers' hands, in photos of the Cuban Revolution—but never so close, and not in the lap of a university girl, not within reach of a man giving her a test. Her body felt like a cup full of crushed ice, so tight and cold. But guns, of course, were necessary, weren't they? A dirty need that you don't want but can't ignore, like defecation. She thought of Che, luminous Che, embracing a sleek rifle in his sleep. The air hung thick, unventilated, pressing.
"I'd agree."
Bushy Beard leaned closer. "How old are you?"
"You understand what's being asked?"
"You don't think you're too young?"
He stroked his beard. He glanced around the room. "Any comments?"
Tinto raised his hand. "I know her. Our grandparents are friends. She's a good person, reliable."
Leona added, "I would trust her with my life."
"That's good," Bushy Beard said. "You may have to. Any concerns?" The room was silent.
"All in favor?"
All the members raised their hands. Leona hugged her tightly. "Welcome, friend."


From the Hardcover edition.
Carolina De Robertis|Author Q&A

About Carolina De Robertis

Carolina De Robertis - The Invisible Mountain

Photo © Michael Lionstar

CAROLINA DE ROBERTIS was raised in England, Switzerland, and California by Uruguayan parents. She is the author of two previous novels, Perla and The Invisible Mountain (a Best Book of 2009 according to theSan Francisco Chronicle, O, The Oprah Magazine, and Booklist), the recipient of Italy's Rhegium Julii Prize, and a 2012 fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. She has spent the past year living in Uruguay, but her permanent home is in Oakland, CA.

Author Q&A

A Conversation with

Carolina De Robertis

author of

The Invisible Mountain

Q: When did you first have the idea to write The Invisible Mountain and was there a particular event or idea that was its genesis?

A: Books often begin out of the need for a text that does not yet exist. It is difficult to pinpoint a single moment when this book began. Though it took eight years to write, the search for it started many years before.

I began as a gatherer of stories. When I was twelve, my father told me all the stories he knew of our family, reaching back to great-great-grandparents in Italy. He was going through a personal crisis, spurred by his own father's death. My grandfather had been a distant, eminent parent, and my father had spent his whole career trying to emulate him, only to learn upon his death that he had written his children out of his will. Years later, my father would repeat history by disowning me for not conforming to his views—but for now, he poured out stories, hoping that one day I would turn them into a book. He chose me to tell, rather than my siblings, because, he said, I was the one most like his mother, the poet, who was said to be crazy, and who always loomed enormous in our family as the prototype of what an artist is and what a woman should never be. I listened to the stories and carried them inside me like radioactive seeds.

When I was thirteen, I managed to find Gabriel García Márquez, Salman Rushdie, Milan Kundera, and others who exploded open new universes of what a story could be, and how it could be told. My fate was sealed as both a very nerdy teenager, and a person indelibly in love with the written word. But over the years, I couldn't find one thing I was looking for: a novel that could open the gates to Uruguay, a country at the root of me, that I knew little about, and yet that was essential to knowing who I was. In my mid-twenties, I became obsessed with the idea of writing a book about Uruguay, as a way of understanding this country I hungered for and longed to know; I awakened to the possibility of writing my way back into a heritage I'd lost. I didn't have to look far for a place to begin: the seeds had been waiting for years.

The novelist Annie Dillard has said it beautifully: “There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.”

Q: Are any of the characters in the novel based on your own family? Is there a particular character in the novel that interested you most? Or with whom you most identify?

A: Although The Invisible Mountain is certainly a work of fiction, it draws from the stories of my own family. I took the pieces I knew from my mother and father's lineages, and combined them to create a new family in the Firiellis. Pajarita is modeled after my great-grandmother on my mother's side, Robustiana María Reyes, who grew up in the Uruguayan countryside, and at the age of seventeen was whisked to the city by an Italian immigrant in a traveling carnival who declared her the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. They raised six children, and she stayed faithful to him when he disappeared for days or months at a time to engage in what, in family lore, was called “adventures.”

Eva is inspired by my paternal grandmother, Tonita Semelis, who was actually from Argentina. She was a poet who published two collections in her life. She was also a clinical hypochondriac who suffered occasional, inexplicable paralysis. Like so many women of prior generations, her condition was chalked up to mental infirmity rather than seen as potentially having an understandable psychological source. When she met my grandfather, Tonita was in a wheelchair in a Buenos Aires hospital and he was her physician. My grandfather was a well-known researcher, credited with discovering synaptic vesicles, coming close to winning the Nobel Prize twice in his life, and writing the first textbook on cell biology, which is still a bible of the field in Argentina. When he gave my grandmother placebos, she rose and walked. He married her instead of the far more respectable woman his family (of immigrant Italians, humbler than the fictional version) was rooting for. They were exiled by Perón, though for other reasons than in the book, and moved to Uruguay, where they divorced in the mid-1950s. Tonita, my grandmother, stayed in Uruguay for the rest of her life, raising her son and daughter, writing copious poems, and wearing black pants and bohemian turtlenecks when most women kept to skirts.

Salomé is based on a school friend of my mother's, a teenage Tupamara who spent fourteen years imprisoned under the dictatorship and bore a child while inside. I remember when the dictatorship ended, in 1985, and my mother learned her friend had been released; I was ten years old. My mother learned from her sister that their old schoolmate had lost half her teeth, and looked much older than she really was. An unspoken weight hung in our home around this news, as though we'd collided with forces that had never been explained to me, and yet were at the heart of what was happening in Uruguay. The weight stayed with me.

Choosing a favorite character feels like choosing a favorite child. It's impossible. However, I identify with Eva and Salomé the most, for the various forbidden terrains they inhabit in their quests to live authentically. Though I have not lived their lives, I can see myself, and my own trajectory, in their stories.

Q: Where does the title The Invisible Mountain come from?

A: According to national lore, the name “Montevideo” comes from an early Portuguese sailor who, on sighting the land that would become Uruguay, called out “Monte vide eu,” or “I see a mountain.” The great irony in this story—which is something of a national joke, as well as a potent parable of this little nation's self-perception—is that the city of Montevideo lacks elevation. The mountain the man was referring to is actually a low, unassuming hill. I see the themes of this story running though the characters' lives as they hunger and strive for intangible entities they cannot see.

The title also resonates for me because I see this book, in a sense, as a sprawling love letter to Montevideo—a salute to a small, inimitable city that, against all odds or visual evidence, dares to bear a name that evokes mountains. I have always lived in regions where no one knows about the tiny nation of Uruguay, where people rarely know how to find it on a map—it often feels, globally speaking, like an invisible place, as so many smaller nations do in an increasingly globalized world. Perhaps Uruguay, itself, is the invisible mountain, the complex and stunning terrain that goes unseen. I don't think writers hold monopolies on interpretation; readers have just as much right to unfold meaning in a text, so I leave it for them to decide.

Q: Why did you decide to make this story a generational saga following the lives of three generations of women over 90 years?

A: The shortest, most direct answer is that this is the book that needed to be written, the book that insisted on coming through. I'm not sure that I ever made such a decision; it feels more as though the story chose me.

It's certainly true that, among the family narratives I inherited, the women's stories fascinated me the most. The men in my lineage tended to leave an elaborate oral legacy, while the women were often glossed over with a sentence or two. It seemed to me that there must be a great deal of treasure buried in that silence, and the beautiful thing about fiction is that it can recreate such treasures, even when the factual details have been lost forever.

Creating room for women's unheard voices has also been a passion of mine beyond the world of fiction. In my early and mid-twenties, in the period when I began writing this book, I spent five years working as a full-time rape crisis counselor. I founded a program for Spanish-speaking Latinas, and listened to over a thousand rape survivors and their loved ones as they delved into and grappled with their experience with sexual assault. I simply don't have words for how much I learned from my clients, both about the harrowing traumas they endured and the immense resilience they drew on to survive and recover. While none of their individual stories are told here, they taught me more about violence, silence, and human strength than I could have found in a hundred libraries, and I could not have written this book without them.

Q: This novel spans 90 years! How did you go about planning out a novel so epic in scope?

A: I didn't. Not at first, anyway. It wasn't so much that I planned writing something so epic; rather, I became caught up in a vision that happened to have this scope, and set out to find a way to realize the vision. I was so very new at novel-writing that I had no way to gauge, at the outset, what this project would require. This saved me from getting daunted. I doubt that first novels are ever begun with full knowledge of what it will take to finish them. We begin because we're enraptured with something we can't yet see, can't yet hold in our hands, but long to. We don't know how we'll arrive at it, but the urge is tremendous-and so we leap. If we're fortunate, we don't get terrified until it's too late to turn back.

Once I was in the thick of the novel, I was amazed at how much math could be involved in storytelling, in order to align various characters' ages and lives with the timeline of historical events. I did a lot of jumping back and forth between writing, research, and rewriting so that history and imagination and language could find their nexus. In the end, the novel took many, many drafts and eight years to complete, in part to accommodate this process.

It also took eight years for another reason: I worked full-time most of those years, and the life realities of getting the rent paid are always bound to slow down the first-time novelist. Unless we have a trust fund or a wealthy spouse, we rely on “spare” time and long hours to make it happen-in other words, the writing life begins as an obsessed, relentless moonlighting. I spent countless weekends behind closed doors with the phone off and exciting events unattended, clocking in hours that I recorded diligently on spreadsheets. It was hard work; it was also exhilerating, and the best way I could have spent those years.

Q: The Invisible Mountain is so vivid in its descriptions—one can really see, smell and hear everything from the butcher shop to the prison cell. How did you bring your settings so vividly to life? Have you spent much time in Argentina and Uruguay?

A: I have hazy memories of my first trip to Uruguay, when I was four and my maternal grandfather was dying of cancer. On the next trip, I was sixteen; my parents sent me by myself, and that journey changed my life profoundly. I came home brimming with images and sounds and smells and textures and relationships that changed the way I approached the world, and my place within it. Since then, the longing to return has never left me.

As an adult, when the need to write The Invisible Mountain became urgent, I returned to Uruguay on my own. In the years that I wrote this novel, I had very little money, as I was working at non-profits and, later on, working at non-profits and paying my way through graduate school; nevertheless, though I rarely bought a new article of clothing, I managed to go back to Uruguay three times. On each trip, I deepened my connections with my extended family there, and did the kind of research you can only do with your whole body: smelling the streets, watching strangers, listening to the songs of a neighborhood. Some of the explorations were more focused: for example, my cousin Andrea and I took a road trip north across the Río Negro to Tacuarembó, and the Montevideo City Hall provided me with historical photographs that I returned to over and over in portraying Montevideo in the earlier years.

Q: The Invisible Mountain is a story about family and the power of love and legacy yet it also a gripping portrait of a nation very much shaken by the upheavals of the twentieth century. There is much actual history that runs through this novel—from the early days in Montevideo to the days of Peron in Argentina to the Tupamaros revolutionaries in Uruguay. Did you have to do any research into these events or was much of it drawn from embraces of family who lived through them? Do you have family still living in Uruguay now?

A: I did an enormous amount of research. I went to many libraries, pored over books, and consulted with people who knew more than me. Toni Morrison, whose historical novels are a great inspiration, once said, “I'm just trying to look at something without blinking, to see what it was like, or it could have been like, and how that had something to do with the way we live now.” It was incredibly important to me to look the history of Uruguay in the eye, without blinking, and do my best to explore its implications for everyday life through the worlds of my characters.

I have a wonderful extended family in Montevideo, and my cousins Andrea and Oscar were particularly generous with information, conversation, and help finding the answers to strange questions-not to mention a place to stay. I also drew on friends in Montevideo, like Evelyn, who gave me a stack of history books that proved immensely valuable. I also have an amazing extended family in Buenos Aires, on my father's side. The last time I visited them, they sent me home with a huge suitcase crammed with books; the customs agents were floored. I've been using those books to develop my second novel.

Q: What is Montevideo like today?

A: It's a completely unique city of one million people, that manages to at once be the metropolis of the nation and feel like a small town. You can walk on the street at 3 a.m., as a woman, without fearing for your safety; in fact, I've been with people who have run into friends at that hour, and had a spontaneous chat with no trace of hurry or surprise. The architecture is lovely, utilitarian, and often falling into disrepair. There are marvelous little bars and eateries that stay open late into the night, and corner grocers who remember selling cheese to their customers' grandparents. There are also shut factories with broken windows. Many youth have emigrated in order to pursue economic opportunity, so many, in fact, that some stores sell greeting cards expressly for the occasion of a loved one leaving the nation. Youth also crowd the cyber cafés that dot all commercial districts, a phenomenon that is rapidly shifting the culture, as it is around the world.

There's very little violent crime, but plenty of theft, as unemployment rates and economic trouble have affected the population. Like many Latin American countries, Uruguay watched its infrastructure become gutted by the neoliberal policies of the 1990s and early 21st century, and because the economy is closely linked to Argentina's, the crisis of 2001 has been extremely painful for the nation. Cantegriles, or slums, are plentiful along the edges of the city, and at dusk downtown rings with the sound of horseshoes as the poor ride dilapidated horsecarts through the city, gathering trash to forage through. A lot of graffiti is visible on the streets, most of it political, in the vein of “el sur también existe” (the south also exists).

Uruguay has also been part of South America's sweep toward the left. In 2004, the nation elected Tabaré Vázquez to the presidency, the nation's first-ever head of state from the leftist third party. He continues in office today.

Q: What is next for you?

A: More writing, above all. I'm currently working on my second novel, which is set in Argentina in the early twenty-first century, and follows a young woman who discovers an explosive secret that links her origins to the disappearances of the 1970s. I have various ideas for my third novel, but it's hard to tell which one of them will dig in its heels and demand to stay.

In addition, I'm passionate about literary translation-for the thrill of it, for the way it sharpens a writer's tools, and for the crucial role it has in making literature accessible across borders-and I hope to keep finding time to bring Latin American fiction into English, as I did with Alejandro Zambra's lovely novella Bonsai. I've also enjoyed writing some very short stories, what are known here in the U.S. as flash fiction and what the masterful Japanese writer Yasunari Kawabata called “palm-of-the-hand stories.” There's an immediacy to the form that I find very compelling, and a refreshing shift of gears for a novelist. I hope to explore this genre further in the future.

On a personal note, I'm currently pregnant with my first child, who will be born a few months before The Invisible Mountain is published. So I'll also be diving into the grand, ambitious, vastly creative project known as motherhood.

From the Hardcover edition.




An O, The Oprah Magazine 2009 Terrific Read
A San Francisco Chronicle Book of the Year

“An incantatory debut. . . . [A] sweeping and lushly lyrical saga that spans three generations of women. . . . Boldly poetic. . . . This visionary book beautifully, bravely breaks open all the old secrets.”

“A galloping saga. . . . Its ensemble of women and men [are] bent on living every moment as if on fire. . . . The kind of novel you stay up late to finish.”
The San Francisco Chronicle

“Beautifully told with rich details and a plot that is finely woven. . . . Pulls you in from the first page and holds you until its last.”
Dallas Morning News
“Passionate. . . . De Robertis has created a vivid new landscape, both internal and external, and provided the reader with a glimpse of the country of her ancestry, a land haunted by a mountain that is not really a mountain.”
The Philadelphia Inquirer

“Marvelous. . . . Carolina De Robertis brings to vivid life the history and culture of Uruguay. Bold, passionate, and filled with songs both ecstatic and tragic, The Invisible Mountain tells the stories of three generations of women whose lives transcend the ordinary.”
—Cristina García, author of Dreaming in Cuban
“The brainiest dynastic novel in years. A high-end story full of sex, politics and family.”
—Sara Nelson, The Daily Beast
“Stunning. . . . The Invisible Mountain has the body of an epic and the soul of a sassy, sexy storyteller.”

“Deeply engrossing. . . . This novel makes us ponder the struggles of our own grandmothers, mothers, and daughters, and gives us the compassion to recognize that the links between us are deeper than the differences. A fierce, wise, and tender tale.”
—Anita Amirrezvani, author of The Blood of Flowers
“Enchanting, funny and heartbreaking. . . . An extraordinary first effort whose epic scope and deft handling reverberate with the deep pull of ancestry, the powerful influence of one’s country and the sacrifices of reinvention.”
Publishers Weekly, (starred review)
“With grace, fluidity and a modicum of magic, an extraordinary and passionate family navigates the social and political landscapes of South America. The Invisible Mountain is a wonderful story; and De Robertis is a writer to watch.”
—Matthew Aaron Goodman, author of Hold Love Strong
“De Robertis is a skilled storyteller, but it is her use of language—from the precision of poetry to the sensuality of sex—that makes this literary debut so exceptional.”
Booklist (starred review)
“Carolina De Robertis is a writer of uncanny wisdom and an alchemist of words. . . . A gifted literary voice mapping the uncharted territories of the Americas in a fearless new way.”
—Alex Espinoza, author of Still Water Saints
“A poetic and absorbing generational epic that pays tribute to a colorful culture and amazing history. De Robertis is a promising young writer, and we can only hope there is much more to come from her.”
“Beautifully wrought. . . . A winning debut.”
Kirkus Reviews
“A haunting novel about an extraordinary family and an evocative tribute to the endurance of women and the spirit of poetry.”
—Diana Gabaldon, author of The Outlander series

Reader's Guide|About the Book|Author Biography|Discussion Questions|Suggestions

About the Book

The questions, discussion topics, and reading list that follow are intended to enhance your reading group's discussion of The Invisible Mountain, Carolina De Robertis's mesmerizing debut novel about three generations of Uruguayan women.

About the Guide

On the first day of the millennium, a small town gathers to witness a miracle—the mysterious reappearance of a lost infant, Pajarita—and unravel its portents for the century. Later, as a young woman in the capital city—Montevideo, brimming with growth and promise—Pajarita begins a lineage of fiercely independent women. Her daughter, Eva, survives a brutal childhood to pursue her dreams as a rebellious poet and along the hazardous precipices of erotic love. Eva's daughter, Salomé, driven by an unrelenting idealism, commits clandestine acts that will end in tragedy as unrest sweeps Uruguay. But what saves them all is the fierce fortifying connection between mother and daughter that will bring them together to face the future.

From Perón's glittering Buenos Aires to the rustic hills of Rio de Janeiro, from the haven of a corner butcher shop to U.S. embassy halls, the Firielli family traverses a changing South America and the uncharted terrain of their relationships with one another.

About the Author

Carolina De Robertis was raised in England, Switzerland, and California by Uruguayan parents. Her fiction and literary translations have appeared in ColorLines, The Virginia Quarterly Review, and Zoetrope: All-Story, among others. She is the recipient of a Hedgebrook Residency for Women Authoring Change and the translator of the Chilean novella Bonsái by Alejandro Zambra. She lives in Oakland, California.

Discussion Guides

1. Regarding the title, De Robertis said, “I see the themes of this story running through the characters' lives as they hunger and strive for intangible entities they cannot see.” What are they striving for? What other meanings does the title have?

2. Were you familiar with Uruguayan or Argentinean history before reading the novel? Would you like to learn more?

3. Reread the epigraphs. When you first read them, what did you expect from the novel? In reading them again, why do you think De Robertis chose them?

4. The novel opens with Salomé's letter to Victoria, in which she writes, “Everything that disappears is somewhere” (pp. 3). How does this notion play out over the course of the novel?

5. All three women go to great lengths to remain true to themselves, to find authenticity. How does each suffer for it? Who is most successful?

6. Which mother-daughter relationship did you most relate to?

7. How does each woman's name help to determine her life story?

8. Pajarita's story begins with a miracle. Are there other miracles in the novel? What do they signify?

9. What role do Pajarita's herbs play in the novel? Why are they so important?

10. How does the oldest generation's ignorance of politics lead to the youngest generation's activism?

11. There are several different types of male-female relationships in the novel, among them father-daughter, brother-sister, and lovers. In which type are the men most supportive of the women? Why do you think that is?

12. Discuss the power of words, as it applies to the main characters. Does Pajarita revere them as her daughter and granddaughter do? For whom are they most important?

13. What do you think causes Eva's paralysis?

14. After the first rape, why does Eva return to Pietro's store?

15. Discuss Eva's time in Argentina. How does it change her?

16. How does the character of Andrés/Zolá relate to De Robertis's notion of authenticity? Did Eva's response to her surprise you?

17. Why does Eva keep her children's shoes?

18. Throughout the novel, the women carry great secrets. How does secrecy affect each of their relationships?

19. On page 349, Salomé thinks, “People do not suspect what they cannot imagine.” How does this apply to Pajarita and Eva, too?

20. Why does Salomé refuse Leona's offer of a knitting needle?

21. How does Salomé survive her years in prison? What helps her most?

22. Discuss the ending. Why does Ignazio insist on a gondola? Where do you think he takes his wife?

23. How do you imagine Victoria will react to Salomé's letter?

24. Which character did you like the best? Who would you like to spend more time with?

Suggested Readings

One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez; The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera; Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie; Jazz by Toni Morrison; Soulstorm by Clarice Lispector

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