Overview

En una juguetería de Nueva York, Sonia tropieza con un libro que parece salido de un sueño -o de un recuerdo-. Las Memorias del Pequeño Dragón no debería tener nada que ver con ella y, sin embargo, algo en sus páginas le susurra que esa historia casi fantástica habla de su propio padre. A medida que avanza en la lectura, ls desconfianza inicial da paso a una búsqueda íntima, entre lo real y lo imaginado, siguiendo las huellas del misterioso pero familiar autor: Alexander Salow. Así, su vida cotidiana en Nueva York comienza a entrelazarse con la fábula de un personaje entrañable, El Pequeño Dragón. Cuando éramos felices es un drama íntimo con alma de cuento que navega entre la pérdida y la memoria, entre las preguntas sin respuesta y la ternura de los recuerdos. Una historia sobre cómo, a veces, la ficción es el único lugar donde las verdades más profundas se atreven a mostrarse.

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Alexander Salow is a literary figure wrapped in an almost mythical solitude. Self-exiled in a lighthouse by the sea-more out of inner necessity than geographical banishment-he lives apart from the noise of the world, writing by the intermittent light of a lantern and the waves, as if every word had to fight its way through the fog. His work revolves obsessively around borderline personality disorder, not from a clinical standpoint but from lived experience: intensity, fear of abandonment, fragmented identity, extreme tenderness, and sudden rage. Salow does not write about borderline-he writes from within it. His novels and poems do not explain; they embody what it means to live with a heart without skin. He avoids public life, interviews, and literary circles. For him, language is both refuge and trench. His texts are filled with recurring images-inner children, imaginary creatures, seas, lighthouses, islands, windows, and mirrors-symbols of a mind searching for connection while struggling to tolerate closeness. He is considered a cult author among readers who are not looking for ""pleasant"" stories but for raw emotional truth. His prose is lyrical, sometimes innocent, sometimes devastating, always pierced by a luminous melancholy. To read Alexander Salow is to enter a room where someone has lit a candle in the middle of a storm and chosen to tell, without defences, what it hurts to love.

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