Some stories don't just sit on a page. They ache. If you’ve ever sat down with And of Clay We Are Created, you know exactly what I’m talking about. It isn’t just a piece of fiction Isabel Allende whipped up to fill a page in The Stories of Eva Luna. It’s a visceral, messy, and deeply uncomfortable reflection of a real-world tragedy that paralyzed the globe in 1985.
I’m talking about the eruption of Nevado del Ruiz in Colombia. Specifically, the agony of Omayra Sánchez.
Allende takes that nightmare and twists the lens. She doesn't just give us a play-by-play of a natural disaster. Instead, she forces us to look at the guy holding the camera—Rolf Carlé—and the little girl, Azucena, who is literally being swallowed by the earth. It’s a story about the limits of technology, the voyeurism of modern news, and how we use other people's pain to mask our own. Honestly, it’s a lot to handle for a short story.
The Real Horror Behind the Fiction
You can't really talk about the depth of this piece without mentioning the Armero tragedy. When the volcano blew, it triggered lahars—massive mudflows—that buried entire towns. Omayra Sánchez was thirteen. She was trapped up to her neck in water and concrete for three days. The world watched her on TV. We saw her eyes grow dark; we saw her try to keep her spirits up.
Isabel Allende saw it too.
In the story, Azucena is the fictionalized version of Omayra. But Allende does something clever. She introduces Rolf Carlé, a seasoned reporter who thinks he’s seen it all. He arrives with his lights and his microphones, ready to "cover" the event. But the mud doesn't care about his credentials. As he stays with Azucena, trying to comfort her while the authorities fail to provide a simple pump to drain the water, his professional armor just... dissolves.
It’s brutal.
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The story is narrated by Rolf’s lover, who is watching him through a television screen. This creates this weird, layered distance. We are reading a story about a woman watching a man watching a girl die. It highlights that uncomfortable truth about news: we consume tragedy as entertainment, even when we think we’re being empathetic.
Why Rolf Carlé is the Actual Protagonist
Most people focus on Azucena because her plight is so visual and horrific. But the emotional heavy lifting happens inside Rolf. He starts the story as a "man of action." He’s got the gear. He’s got the experience. He thinks he can fix it.
Then he realizes he can't.
As the hours turn into days, the physical barrier between Rolf and the mud disappears. He’s kneeling in it. He’s breathing it. And because he can’t save the girl, his mind starts wandering back to his own childhood in Europe—the trauma of the war, his abusive father, the things he buried decades ago. Azucena becomes a mirror. He’s not just trying to pull her out of the clay; he’s trying to pull himself out of the emotional mud of his past.
Allende basically argues that you can't truly witness someone else's suffering without being forced to confront your own. It's a heavy concept. It moves the story from a "disaster flick" vibe into something much more psychological and, frankly, depressing. But in a good way. In a way that makes you think about the last time you saw a "viral" tragedy on your phone and then just scrolled to the next video.
The Problem with the Pump
One of the most infuriating parts of And of Clay We Are Created is the pump. Or the lack thereof.
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Rolf begs for a pump to get the water out so they can dig Azucena out. The bureaucrats promise it. The president shows up for a photo op. But the pump never arrives. It’s a scathing critique of how governments and media organizations prioritize optics over actual human lives. They had the money to fly in satellite dishes and high-tech cameras, but they couldn't get a piece of plumbing to a dying girl.
That’s not just fiction. That’s a direct reference to the logistical failures that happened in Armero. Allende doesn't hold back here. She’s angry. You can feel it in the prose.
Style and Magical Realism (Or Lack Thereof)
Isabel Allende is often lumped in with Gabriel García Márquez under the "Magical Realism" banner. But this story? It’s different. It’s gritty. It’s "dirty realism." There are no yellow butterflies or people floating to heaven here. The "clay" is literal. It’s stinky, cold, and lethal.
The magic, if you can call it that, is in the internal connection between the characters. There’s a moment toward the end where the narrator feels she is "with" them, even though she’s miles away. It’s a psychic link born of intense grief.
Allende’s sentences in this period of her career were often long and flowing, but in this story, they feel heavy. They mimic the weight of the mud.
"He had covered wars and coups d'état with steadfast composure; this time, however, the reporter was overwhelmed by the girl's eyes."
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That’s the core of it. The gaze. When we look at someone in pain, we are changed.
What We Get Wrong About the Ending
People often think the story is a failure because Azucena dies. They want the rescue. They want the Hollywood ending where the pump arrives at the last second.
But Allende isn't interested in a happy ending. She’s interested in the aftermath. The story ends with Rolf returning home, but he’s not the same. He doesn't pick up his camera. He just sits and stares. He’s "waiting" for his soul to catch up with him.
The real tragedy isn't just that Azucena died; it’s that the world watched it happen and then moved on, while the people who were actually there were left broken. It’s a warning about the soul-crushing cost of being a witness.
Actionable Takeaways for Readers and Writers
If you’re studying this story or just trying to understand why it’s a staple in literature classes, here’s how to approach it:
- Analyze the POV: Don't just look at what happens. Look at who is telling you what happens. The narrator is a spectator, just like us. This is a deliberate choice by Allende to make us feel guilty.
- Research the Armero Tragedy: Look up the footage of Omayra Sánchez. It is haunting. Seeing the real-life inspiration makes Allende’s descriptions of the "black mud" and the "scent of death" hit ten times harder.
- Observe the Symbolism of the Camera: In the beginning, the camera is a shield for Rolf. By the end, it’s a useless piece of plastic. Consider how we use technology to distance ourselves from uncomfortable realities.
- Read the Rest of the Collection: This story is the final piece in The Stories of Eva Luna. It acts as a grounding rod for the more whimsical stories that come before it. It’s the "reality check" of the book.
The power of And of Clay We Are Created lies in its refusal to look away. It forces us to sit in the mud with Rolf and Azucena until the very end. It’s uncomfortable, it’s heartbreaking, and it is arguably one of the most important pieces of Latin American short fiction ever written.
If you want to dive deeper into Allende's work, your next move should be her memoir, Paula. It deals with the death of her own daughter and carries much of the same raw, unshielded emotional weight found in this story. She doesn't just write about grief; she inhabits it.