Allow me to compare Hans Christian Andersen to another immortal artist whose centenary the world celebrates this year, the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda. Like Andersen, Neruda was born in a small town in a small country, in a poor family. Andersen’s father was a shoemaker,  Neruda’s father was a railway worker.  Like Andersen, Neruda found his vocation very early in life, he was a shy boy, introverted, extremely sensitive, a dreamer. Anything would trigger his imagination, a leaf falling from a tree, the smell of freshly baked bread, the sound an ax chopping wood.  His heart would break at the Suffering of others and from that broken vessel compassion flowed in poetic form. Later he traveled extensively gathering images, landscapes, memories, objects and people’s stories, which he transformed into some of the most beautiful poems ever written.  He wrote about common things, odes to an apple, a spoon, a dictionary…  He wrote passionate love sonnets and songs of despair.  He wrote about social justice, imperialism, and war.  His work was translated to every known language and in l971 he won the Nobel Prize for Literature.  Like Hans Christian Andersen, Pablo Neruda has survived the inexorable passage of time and still speaks directly to our hearts. These extraordinary artists have the power to move us profoundly, to change us. Their work, touched by a magic wand, shines forever.

Several decades have gone by since my mother gave me that first book of fairy tales. She is now 85 years old and she still captivates me with her stories.  I have also become a storyteller and now I tell stories to my grandchildren and to a few other people who are kind enough to read my books.  I have never forgotten the debt of gratitude I have to Hans Christian Andersen, master storyteller.