“Félix, who understands that in order to be unique a book has to be a universe in itself but also a game and a challenge for the reader, also shows us that there is no such thing as difficult reader, but rather, in any case, demanding literature in that it demands the reader spend more time with it than with ordinary books. Félix’s novel, which is also a biography, diary, and notebook, becomes a formidable novel: Lengua dormida is the story of a search for one’s own story, and the gestation of a one-of-a-kind language that goes beyond common language (…) one of Lengua dormida’s other virtues is how it brings us to the brink of tears thanks to the ease with which it makes us laugh.”

“A risky and masterful novel. It brought tears to my eyes several times, but I also laughed and suffered and always admired the text for its impudence, wise strangeness, and intelligence.”

“Lengua dormida is an intimate journey to the abyss: discovering why a mother abandoned her previous family when she was young, and, above all, why she always refused to talk about it while she was alive. Félix’s obsession with giving voice to that silence that “stalks and kills and tears you apart at night,” in the words of the protagonist, has driven him to writing a story charged with confusion and humor that sheds its skin. Sometimes it presents itself as a seemingly disorganized chronicle, sometimes it simply appears to be a love letter, and all of this is interspersed with brief digressions on language and time.”

“The book poses the question of how we should read it—like a novel is the first answer, because that’s how it presents itself (...) but we can also consider the fact that the novel is a phagocyte genre—isn’t every literary genre, after all?—that turns to others: in this case, the essay, the intimate diary, and poetry.”

“Emotional but never affected, deep but never solemn, Lengua dormida is a reflexive act in the face of orphanhood, the mental journey of a son searching for his dead mother. The narration is capricious and unstable—analogous to the progression of memory—consisting of the great milestones that mark an existence as well as anecdotes that appear trivial. And yet, nothing is gratuitous in Franco Félix’s writing. He is capable of linking the most decisive moments in the story with the miniature domestic moments that give a life body and personality, even once that life has ended.”

“Franco Félix’s book is an unforgettable farewell to his mother, whom the protagonist pulls closer than ever after her death by piecing together a story she always hid but never forgot. Lengua dormida is a dialogue with that which is alive, found, and integrated as a form of living through grief.”

“This book will break your heart and surely make you shed tears, but it is so well written that you won’t hesitate to recommend it. Because when talking about death, you’re really talking about love, and that is what Mexican author Franco Félix transmits to us in Lengua dormida.”