Genre Fiction
![Marta Orriols - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B07L5C26NP.jpg)
Learning to Talk to Plants
"Between rage and sadness, Orriols presents a journey towards maturity in a story full of hilarious moments and tenderness." --Diari Ara
An immersive, moving novel about complex grief: a woman attempts to rebuild her life after her boyfriend leaves her for another woman, then dies hours later--perfect for fans of Cheryl Strayed
Paula's partner has died in a car accident - but no one knows her true grief. Only hours before his death, Mauro revealed that he was leaving her for another woman.
Paula guards this secret and ploughs on with her job as a paediatrician in Barcelona, trying to maintain the outline of their old life. But all of Mauro's plants are dying, the fridge only contains expired yoghurt and her mind feverishly obsesses over this other, unknown woman.
As the weeks pass, vitality returns to Paula in unexpected ways. She remembers, slowly, how to live. By turns devastating and darkly funny, Learning to Talk to Plants is a piercingly honest portrayal of grief - and of the many ways to lose someone.
An immersive, moving novel about complex grief: a woman attempts to rebuild her life after her boyfriend leaves her for another woman, then dies hours later--perfect for fans of Cheryl Strayed
Paula's partner has died in a car accident - but no one knows her true grief. Only hours before his death, Mauro revealed that he was leaving her for another woman.
Paula guards this secret and ploughs on with her job as a paediatrician in Barcelona, trying to maintain the outline of their old life. But all of Mauro's plants are dying, the fridge only contains expired yoghurt and her mind feverishly obsesses over this other, unknown woman.
As the weeks pass, vitality returns to Paula in unexpected ways. She remembers, slowly, how to live. By turns devastating and darkly funny, Learning to Talk to Plants is a piercingly honest portrayal of grief - and of the many ways to lose someone.
Editorial Reviews
"Marta Orriols debuts with a brilliant novel" -- Time Out
"Marta Orriols is an exceptional writer" -- El Periódico
"Marta Orriols has the ability to put into words the brevity and the unforeseen circumstances of everyday life" -- El País
"A beautifully written novel about complex grief and a woman's attempt to rebuild her life after the sudden death of her long-time partner… a small but rich and profound story, and I would strongly recommend it for anyone who loves beautiful writing and a very introspective, revealing story." --Lily Bartels of The Open Door Bookstore on Northeast Public Radio
"Marta Orriols is an exceptional writer" -- El Periódico
"Marta Orriols has the ability to put into words the brevity and the unforeseen circumstances of everyday life" -- El País
"A beautifully written novel about complex grief and a woman's attempt to rebuild her life after the sudden death of her long-time partner… a small but rich and profound story, and I would strongly recommend it for anyone who loves beautiful writing and a very introspective, revealing story." --Lily Bartels of The Open Door Bookstore on Northeast Public Radio
Readers Top Reviews
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
"Pili, check the equipment, fast! Is she breathing?"
"No."
"Let's start positive-pressure ventilation."
I repeat the baby's vitals in a whisper, like a litany. I know,
little one. This is no way to greet you on your arrival into this world,
but we have to get you breathing, you hear me?
"Thirty seconds." One, two, three… there's a woman lying over
there, your mum, and she needs you, you see her? Come on, you can do it,
ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen… come on, breathe, you got this, I promise
that if you can do this, things'll change, this world is a good place to
be. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Living is worth the effort, you
know? Twenty-three, twenty-four… sometimes it's hard, I won't lie,
twenty-six, twenty-seven, come on, sweetie, don't do this to me. I promise
it's worth it. Thirty.
Silence. The baby girl doesn't move.
"Pili, heart rate?"
My eyes meet the nurse's vigilant gaze. This is the second
time this has happened recently and I know that warning
look. She's right, I shouldn't raise my voice so much,
I shouldn't raise it at all, in fact. I'm not comfortable. I'm
hot and my right clog is rubbing against a little blister I got
from my sandals in the last few days of my summer holiday.
In these crucial moments, right after birth, the blister and
this heat are the last thing I need. Our absolute priority for
the baby is to keep her from losing body warmth. Perhaps it
wasn't such a good idea to travel at the crack of dawn and
go straight to work without stopping by the house to unpack
and shake off the strange sensation of having spent almost
two weeks away, far from work, from my babies' medical
records, from the blood work, from the lab, far from everything
that makes me tick.
New decision. With short, quick movements, I stimulate
the soles of the baby's feet and, as always happens when I do
that, I curb my desire to press harder, with more urgency.
You can't do this to me, little one, I can't start September off like this,
come on, breathe, pretty girl. Reassessment.
I try to concentrate on the information on the monitor
and on the girl, but I need to close my eyes for a second since
I can't cover my ears, and the questions launched at me by
her mother, which sound like a disconsolate moan in the
delivery room, throw me off worse than ever. Other people's
suffering now feels like an overloaded plate after I've eaten
my fill. I can't take in any more and it sends me running
in the opposite direction. Every pained cry and whimper
becomes Mauro's mother's sobbing on the day of his burial.
It ripped at the soul.
Breathe, pretty girl, come on, for the love of God, breathe!
I furrow my brow and shake my head to remind myself
that I shouldn't stir up all that. Not here. Here you shouldn't
make waves. Here you shouldn't remember. Not here, Paula.
Focus. Reality hits me like a pitcher of cold water and
instantly puts me in my place: I have a body weighing only
eight hundred and fifty grams that hasn't taken a breath,
laid out here on the resuscitation table, and its life is in my
hands. My sixth sense kicks in, guiding me more and more.
That sense somehow maintains a balance between the most
extreme objectivity, where I retain protocols and reasoning,
and my shrewd ability to harness my intuition, without which,
I'm convinced, I couldn't aid these tiny creatures with their
arrival into the world.
Listen, little girl, one of the things worth living for is the sea.
"Pili, I'm turning off the ventilation. I'm going to try
tactile stimulation of her back."
I take a deep breath and let it out like someone preparing
to leap into the void. My mask acts as a wall and holds in
my exhalation, a mix of the fluoride toothpaste I found this
morning in my father's bathroom and the quick, bitter coffee
I drank in a motorway service station. I miss my things, my
normal life. I...
"Pili, check the equipment, fast! Is she breathing?"
"No."
"Let's start positive-pressure ventilation."
I repeat the baby's vitals in a whisper, like a litany. I know,
little one. This is no way to greet you on your arrival into this world,
but we have to get you breathing, you hear me?
"Thirty seconds." One, two, three… there's a woman lying over
there, your mum, and she needs you, you see her? Come on, you can do it,
ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen… come on, breathe, you got this, I promise
that if you can do this, things'll change, this world is a good place to
be. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Living is worth the effort, you
know? Twenty-three, twenty-four… sometimes it's hard, I won't lie,
twenty-six, twenty-seven, come on, sweetie, don't do this to me. I promise
it's worth it. Thirty.
Silence. The baby girl doesn't move.
"Pili, heart rate?"
My eyes meet the nurse's vigilant gaze. This is the second
time this has happened recently and I know that warning
look. She's right, I shouldn't raise my voice so much,
I shouldn't raise it at all, in fact. I'm not comfortable. I'm
hot and my right clog is rubbing against a little blister I got
from my sandals in the last few days of my summer holiday.
In these crucial moments, right after birth, the blister and
this heat are the last thing I need. Our absolute priority for
the baby is to keep her from losing body warmth. Perhaps it
wasn't such a good idea to travel at the crack of dawn and
go straight to work without stopping by the house to unpack
and shake off the strange sensation of having spent almost
two weeks away, far from work, from my babies' medical
records, from the blood work, from the lab, far from everything
that makes me tick.
New decision. With short, quick movements, I stimulate
the soles of the baby's feet and, as always happens when I do
that, I curb my desire to press harder, with more urgency.
You can't do this to me, little one, I can't start September off like this,
come on, breathe, pretty girl. Reassessment.
I try to concentrate on the information on the monitor
and on the girl, but I need to close my eyes for a second since
I can't cover my ears, and the questions launched at me by
her mother, which sound like a disconsolate moan in the
delivery room, throw me off worse than ever. Other people's
suffering now feels like an overloaded plate after I've eaten
my fill. I can't take in any more and it sends me running
in the opposite direction. Every pained cry and whimper
becomes Mauro's mother's sobbing on the day of his burial.
It ripped at the soul.
Breathe, pretty girl, come on, for the love of God, breathe!
I furrow my brow and shake my head to remind myself
that I shouldn't stir up all that. Not here. Here you shouldn't
make waves. Here you shouldn't remember. Not here, Paula.
Focus. Reality hits me like a pitcher of cold water and
instantly puts me in my place: I have a body weighing only
eight hundred and fifty grams that hasn't taken a breath,
laid out here on the resuscitation table, and its life is in my
hands. My sixth sense kicks in, guiding me more and more.
That sense somehow maintains a balance between the most
extreme objectivity, where I retain protocols and reasoning,
and my shrewd ability to harness my intuition, without which,
I'm convinced, I couldn't aid these tiny creatures with their
arrival into the world.
Listen, little girl, one of the things worth living for is the sea.
"Pili, I'm turning off the ventilation. I'm going to try
tactile stimulation of her back."
I take a deep breath and let it out like someone preparing
to leap into the void. My mask acts as a wall and holds in
my exhalation, a mix of the fluoride toothpaste I found this
morning in my father's bathroom and the quick, bitter coffee
I drank in a motorway service station. I miss my things, my
normal life. I...
