“The people who treat you well when you're young, you always remember the most.”

I've only spoken with Marina Rossell once. It was eleven years ago, by chance, in the midst of the commotion at a birthday party. We spoke briefly about some acquaintances we had in common. I hadn't heard from them in many years, and I wanted to know how they were doing. After that brief, cordial exchange, Marina blurted out, "You always remember the people who treat you well when you're young the most." We then said our goodbyes, but the phrase stayed with me. It may seem obvious, but she was right. Marina was referring to memory as a space of transcendence. She was talking about the people who treat you well when you don't yet know who you are or who you want to be, when you're vulnerable, when they don't have the obligation to dedicate the energy and time required by kindness, but who nevertheless do so. If someone has the sensitivity to grant you some importance and tenderness when you yourself don't believe you deserve it, that person ends up occupying a special place in your memory.

Now, Albert Om has just published I won't make another book. (Universe), an intimate portrait of Marina Rossell. Reading it, you realize that the singer's ability to offer these kinds of aphorisms, these phrases that express a complex thought in a beautiful and simple way, is a gift Marina possesses beyond her singing. They are small jolts that she unleashes without any intention of being transcendent. Perhaps it's a virtue of that hypersensitivity the singer speaks of, which, despite the extra suffering it generates, perhaps also allows her to possess an intuition that surpasses that of others. The journalist's effort to convey Marina Rossell's mood, life, and reflections is magnificent. Because as you read, it's as if you're listening to her voice, as if you're hearing her speak. It has a genuine tone that makes it unlike other memoirs. It preserves intact a sense of humor that stems from a lack of intention, but which is unusually effective. Halfway between distracted thought and the effort to put things in their place, this portrait is woven with agility and a smile. It's intense, but also delicate. It's a general review, but it knows how to find the essence. It's personal, but not self-centered. It speaks of her, but also of other people. It's daring, but not arrogant. It's intimate, but it has a vision of our time. It demonstrates commitment, but it's not petulant. It's light, but not superficial. It's sincere, but it doesn't pry. It's musical, but it's not a catalog.

Marina is grateful for life and conveys optimism. She speaks of ways to face difficulties, of being at peace with oneself, of finding serenity even when it's not easy, of choosing your path and choosing who you want to walk it with, of the stages of life and the ability to face change. She speaks of success, of love, of kindness, of friends, and of loves.

Marina Rossell recalls a theory by Maria Aurèlia Capmany, who said that "in Catalonia, there are many people who speak and don't want to be understood." Marina speaks and is understood. I won't make another book. It allows us to discover the singer beyond the persona we've seen on stage, but as you progress, she becomes so familiar that it's as if you already knew her.

You don't quite see whether the merit of condensing an entire life into just over two hundred pages belongs to Albert Om or Marina Rossell, but throughout the reading you encounter them both. The meticulousness of one and the clairvoyance of the other. Her sincerity and the truth that Albert provides. One is the melody and the other the background beat. They share a certain mischief and in the story they try to maintain the balance between the relevance of covering an entire career and the art of having a good time in life.