Reading I Gave You Eyes and You Looked Toward Darkness was like being pulled into a dream you’re not sure you want to wake up from—equal parts haunting, poetic, and piercingly alive. Irene Solà doesn’t just tell a story; she evokes a world that feels mythic and immediate, rooted in land, memory, and the unspoken things passed down through generations.

The structure itself is fluid, more like a tapestry than a straight line. Voices shift, time bends, and you start to realize that this book isn’t meant to be consumed passively—it asks you to listen, to feel, and sometimes, to sit with not fully understanding. But that ambiguity never feels like a trick. It feels earned. Organic. Beautiful, even in its darkness.

The characters—human and otherwise—don’t just inhabit the story; they become it. There’s a deep sense of connection between people and place, grief and joy, the visible and invisible. It’s as much about presence as it is about absence—what lingers after someone is gone, what the earth remembers when we forget.

I found myself rereading certain passages just to sit with the language. It’s lyrical without being precious, emotionally raw without ever tipping into melodrama. There’s a quiet power in how Solà writes—something that gets under your skin and stays there.

This isn’t a book that rushes to explain itself. It unfolds on its own terms, and you either go with it or you don’t. I did—and I came out the other side feeling moved, disoriented, and strangely comforted.

If you’re drawn to stories that blur the line between the real and the surreal, that center landscape and language as much as plot, this one is a gift. It’s not an easy read, but it’s a deeply rewarding one.