{"id":173649,"date":"2026-05-12T10:00:00","date_gmt":"2026-05-12T14:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=173649"},"modified":"2026-05-11T15:29:49","modified_gmt":"2026-05-11T19:29:49","slug":"sheila-heti-on-andres-felipe-solanos-gloria","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2026\/05\/12\/sheila-heti-on-andres-felipe-solanos-gloria\/","title":{"rendered":"Sheila Heti on Andr\u00e9s Felipe Solano\u2019s Gloria<\/em>"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/p>\n

I love a novel that tells you why it was written, a novel that has a bit of backstage to it. It\u2019s like sitting at the edge of a row of theater seats, in a cheap seat that reveals an actor standing in the wings, waiting to go on. I hate that in the theater, but I love it in a book.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Gloria<\/em>, written by the Colombian novelist and journalist Andr\u00e9s Felipe Solano, and elegantly translated by Will Vanderhyden, is that kind of novel. It is the story of one long night in the seventies, during a brief spell when the author\u2019s mother lived in New York. She was twenty. It was before her marriage to his father, and before Solano was born. But the story of a young woman (not yet a mother) becomes, through a series of very delicate, very sparingly placed interruptions in the telling, also the story of a son imagining the life of a mother he can never meet. He lingers in the shadows, brings her to life, withdraws, and then returns again in brief passages, or stray sentences, offering little hopes, a bit of wonder, tiny narrative gifts, as if from a god in the sky.<\/p>\n

For instance, here, as Gloria stands in a sold-out Madison Square Garden, watching the famous Latin American singer Sandro, whom she adores:<\/p>\n

His tousled head of hair, his long sideburns, his chest adorned with that heavy gold medallion. And his smile. And his eyes, with which he seems to look one by one, face by face, at the thousands who have come to worship him. From here, from my position in the shadows, I force the King to pause for a few extra seconds on Gloria, to make her feel his power in her knees, which shake uncontrollably.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

The first part of the book tells the story of the long night of the concert: her waiting for her boyfriend, Tigre, who is late; the concert itself; snacks at a diner after; going to listen to records at an apartment later, and finally reaching her bed as the dawn breaks. Then we move forward into her future: a vacation with her two small boys (including the author); a motorcycle trip in early old age with a boyfriend; a last residency in New York as the son comes to help her, trying to persuade her to leave the States with him, thinking she must be lonely in New York. She is, but she likes it that way.<\/p>\n

In every scene, one senses Solano trying to win happiness for his mother\u2014and also freedom, and escape from something about her choices or fate that causes him pain. He doesn\u2019t tell us what the pain is, or precisely what he\u2019s trying to change with this tale. Perhaps sadly, as a novelist and journalist who is faithful to life, he cannot refigure her life sufficiently, cannot imagine into her past the kind of unencumbered lightness he most wishes her to feel. He can\u2019t even avoid imagining the tiny oppressions of the boyfriend, the macho Tigre, who is, cuttingly, \u201cgood at detecting swings in her mood and tries to help when he thinks they\u2019re justified or worth paying attention to.\u201d<\/p>\n

There is a particularly beautiful moment early on, in a book of beautiful moments, when Tigre and Gloria race from a diner before the concert, after he was late fetching her:<\/p>\n

At last, they\u2019re just steps away from the glowing entrance of the subway station. They go up the stairs and at the turnstiles insert one of those strange coins that I would find many years later in a drawer, rummaging around for hours to ward off the boredom of vacation afternoons, a coin that wasn\u2019t big and was lighter than any I\u2019d held before. It was stamped with NYC. The Y was actually a slot. One night, when she arrived home from the office enveloped in her typical blend of smog and Opium by Yves Saint Laurent, the perfume she wore for years, I showed her the coin and asked: What can you buy with this? She might have scolded me for having gone through her things. But no reprimand came. Seeing it, her eyes sparkled, she took the little piece of metal and held it in her open palm as if it were a baby bird. It\u2019s a token. For the subway, I heard her say, and it might have been right then, in that moment, that I started writing all of this that I\u2019m writing now.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

His thought that this <\/em>is the moment that he started writing the book comes again later, and again one more time. It\u2019s true: with certain books, you feel like you started writing them when you were ten years old, and again at twenty-four when you had a certain dream, and again when you wrote the first sentence down. Such books feel like they were fated to be written, and also could have been written only at the time they were written, and not a moment before. It\u2019s vanity to think you can start a book whenever you wish: the big orchestrator of art decides. Solano may have wanted to write this book five years before he started, but he needed to be with his mother in New York, in that laundromat, didn\u2019t he? He couldn\u2019t have known that, and might have become frustrated with himself. I\u2019m so lazy. Why haven\u2019t I started on the book about my mother working at the Agfa photo lab when she lived in Manhattan? <\/em>But he hadn\u2019t lived everything he had to live yet.<\/p>\n

Solano is so close to his mother\u2019s private struggles, so intimate with them. Gloria, having entered a friend\u2019s boyfriend\u2019s apartment for the first time, \u201cbends down to pick up a button and sets it on the table, beside the Sandro albums. She can\u2019t stand seeing things lying on the ground, she always has to pick them up and put them on top of something.\u201d When you put something down\u2014even on the floor\u2014it\u2019s always \u201con top of something.\u201d So the phrase sounds a little like teasing. It\u2019s sweetly funny: one imagines her looking for something she can put the button on top of. He continues, \u201cSometimes she struggles when she finds buckles, gloves, batteries in the street. Buttons.\u201d This noticing\u2014on the part of a son toward a mother he loves, which began with his birth and never ended\u2014makes the book thick with a rare kind of feeling. It\u2019s not nostalgic, or homesick, or romanticizing. It\u2019s the feeling (how funny\u2014this image just came to me) of putting on pants: that safe and enclosed feeling of being inside pants. Solano\u2019s eye on Gloria is close, but not overly close, not constricting, not invasive, not a threat to her privacy, but rather a shield around it, somehow respecting it even as he imagines her innermost thoughts and feelings.<\/p>\n

How does he manage to do this? I think it\u2019s simple: love. Although love is not simple, in this book, it feels that way, as if the author\u2019s love for his mother (or at least the character of the mother) is simple and straightforward. He wants what is good for her, which is the essence of any love: you want what is good for the other person, and you care about this deeply. So of course he hovers in the wings\u2014he is reminding us that he is there. It\u2019s a way of protecting her: You may think about my mother, but know that I am here watching<\/em>. Because of this, his interjections don\u2019t feel like a metafictional trick, but like more love. It\u2019s quite a complicated thing he is doing, but he does it with such lightness and elegance.<\/p>\n

Toward the end of the book, when he, now a grown man, suggests to his mother that she return to Colombia, fearing she is isolated, she communicates to him, wordlessly, something about her wish to stay in America; he reads in her eyes: \u201cWhere there\u2019s freedom, there\u2019s no abandonment, where there\u2019s freedom, absolute loneliness doesn\u2019t exist.\u201d Perhaps what he always saw was a mother who carried some freedom within her\u2014carried it as a corner of her being where even her own son couldn\u2019t go. Maybe writing this book was his attempt to go near it, to stand in its wings. He steps onto the stage with her sometimes, just briefly. And then, like a funny little boy, he is off.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Sheila Heti\u2019s next novel, <\/em>The St. Alwynn Girls at Sea, will be published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux in April 2027. She<\/i>\u00a0is the author of eleven previous books, including\u00a0<\/em>Alphabetical Diaries,\u00a0Pure Colour,<\/em>\u00a0Motherhood,<\/em>\u00a0and<\/em> How Should a Person Be?<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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