The dangerous little stories

MARTIN ELFMAN

For nine months in 2020, the strangely short time it took me to write a novel, I lived in two places at once.

On the one hand, in the unpredictable world of the pandemic, whose rules of the game changed every day to the despair of those who tried to tell what was happening, and whose uncontrolled entropy gave us the feeling of always being one step behind a plot unhinged.

And on the other hand, I lived in the world of my novel, which tells the true life of a family derailed by the attacks ...

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