"This is (I know) a strange book. Of course, it is not a mere memory, nor is it a complete biography of my mother, it is better a mixture of narration and prayer, of abrupt dialogue and of a mantra that repeats and obsesses, of a chant that searches with candle in the dark along the roads themselves. It is a prayer and an obsession. There is no love without harm and without ecstasy, and the weakest part is always tremendously helpless. So the scream that resonates is not hers - that she rests placidly - it is mine the heartbreaking and lonely cry that is heard. Steppenwolf, after the loss. Half lyrical, half fervent, half curse, half submissive and sweet prayer, this Mom is an evocation and a whispered prayer. The obstinate memory of an unequaled terrible love, that marked - and still marks - my entire life. Whisper, kiss, litany, howl. Prayer at last.