When Isabel Allende's 28 year old daughter went into a fatal coma, her mother attempted to prolong her life by telling stories. These tales are, of course, wild and extravagant and based on Allende's favourite yarn, her own life. At times moving, it is also disturbingly exploitative. Although Allende's grief, frustration and desperate attempts to save Paula cannot be doubted, one quickly suspects that the mother and daughter were never close. We get far more, indeed, too much, of Allende the flamboyant storyteller and self absorbed, wayward romantic, but very little of tragic, otherwordly Paula. It is a professional writer's exercise. The more one considers this odd, narrative, the more one dislikes it.
