At the beginning of 2022, I interviewed Luis Landero at his home in Madrid, far from his clear inspiration, Extremadura. The house he lives in is as open and sincere as his writings. When they awarded him the National Prize for Literature for the work he has written since publishing Juegos de la edad tardada (Tusquets, 1989), we knew it was time to publish excerpts from this conversation that was born here. for any other purpose. It seemed to us more appropriate to wait until the end of the year to celebrate not only this success of the great writer, but also this farewell to a figure that the doomsday tellers will already describe. I asked Landero some questions again, so I went to that house that was like his (and his wife, Coté’s) spirit, and we had this dialogue that now wraps up with the year he was born.
What memories come to mind when you receive an award such as the National Prize for Literature?
I remember my father But this is repetitive. In some moments I usually say: If my father saw me, if he knew… he would be proud of me. Because… Well… I could never have given him the pleasure of seeing him have a son who works for him. Needless to say, I always get this. He invites me to say something emotional and I respond, but he writes something where I really feel it. Regarding the prize, after being happy you think: why didn’t they give it to so-and-so, who probably deserved it more? But the award is not something that impresses me much. My wife can tell you because she was there when they called me: she was more enthusiastic and happy than I was. I did not say anything. And… I don’t know how to explain it.
So what is literary pleasure for you?
There is a joy in writing, a joy in being recognized. The only time I started to feel truly happy was when I started getting messages from people I love. Then I realized that I was loved and that is something that makes me very comfortable and proud. But it’s a real pleasure to write. For example, I was writing this morning and I saw that something went right for me and… It’s a feeling of joy!… It’s like something filling you up, a light that turns on where you are alone, where you work. And when you get an award and your loved ones join in, it’s another joy.
What were the mountains that you had to climb the most and crowned with the most joy in that joy of writing?
I remember with great passion the moment when I managed to find the mood of my first novel. I started writing it in the third or fourth year and for the first time felt like a writer. I started writing when I was 15, but by then I wasn’t really feeling well. I was already 37 or 38 years old and all of a sudden the Late Age Games started flowing and the characters were already solid. Then… I wasn’t very happy with the next two novels, but I don’t know if they’re relevant.
After the Late Games, Rafael Conte, a benchmark for critics of the time, asked, “Who is Luis Landero?” Who is Luis Landero?
I have the feeling that I haven’t changed much, that I’m the same as always, that I’m taking my childhood away, even though a part of my childhood comes with me. I started writing very early, at the age of 15, and I continue to write with the same impetus, conviction and uncertainty as then, so I maintain this feeling, even the center of my life has been literature because it gave it coherence, it defined. It must be an imaginary feeling because everything I write is trying to answer this question you’ve asked me. I’ve written enough books already, and I’ll never stop questioning more than I could possibly write, and what my life is, what it’s like, this whole inner world that we never knew, could not encompass.
Conte’s question marked his accepted entry into the literary world. What was it like to be a writer, how did you feel back then?
It was October 29, 1989, I was going to a wedding, I saw the review and read it with such devotion that I was almost hit by a car and my literary career was over, I had to hit the brakes hard to avoid being crushed. I was very excited (laughs). When Beatriz de Moura said she was going to publish one of the happiest days of my life, my novel, I aimed to sell at least a thousand copies so they wouldn’t lose money because they had three thousand. And then that there will be some good reviews that will reinforce my profession as a writer. When Conte wrote this review, only he knew I was writing it, and he was vaguely a friend because he hadn’t given anyone anything to read, so Rafael’s question was pertinent: Luis Landero was a high school teacher swallowed by his passion. literature
Then he climbed Lluvia Fine, a very important mountain. Were you aware that you were doing something to make the impact it did?
No, I was not aware. But before that book, there was Balcony in Winter, which I didn’t expect to have. It was easy for me, and it was kind of like a break from what I had done before: I spawned my ghosts directly and simply. Maybe I’ve taken away my humility or I don’t know. And then with Fine Rain… no, I didn’t know it was going to be a successful book. You were the first to tell me at the Café Comercial, remember? He told me and I was really satisfied. It’s a book I’ve written with courage and it came easy for me and I never thought about the effect it would have. Same thing happened to me at Emerson’s Garden. In other words: because it wasn’t a huge effort, I thought there was no value. But you see what happens (laughs).
Has writing taught you to write?
Yes, one learns to write by writing. But people go through different phases according to age and experience. Writing is like a flashlight that guides you at night and teaches you new things about yourself. New ways of saying, new themes. You go to explore. Sometimes you take the side roads, but then you come back to the main road. In other words: writing is what guides me on this path.
How has the figure of the writer in Spain changed for you?
The 80s and 90s were the last chance for writers to be recognized in this country. Then the internet and other things came along and the author has already become a secondary figure. But by that time the prestige of the writer such as Julio Llamazares, Antonio Muñoz Molina and Javier Marías had been given to him by society, newspapers, politicians and philosophers. A writer was a prestigious person who contributed something to society and thus became known. Those who came later… were excluded from the prestige bestowed upon us.
What consequences has this had for the cultural ecosystem?
This is a symptom of the colonization of culture by those who interfere with entertainment. And today social networks occupy a large part of the space that culture has.
So what effect has this had on writing?
That article was cheap. People will say: but Carver or Chekhov always wrote very well. But they have a very strong writing style and… they live in another era. Today, writing has become cheaper: The writer no longer thinks about literature, writing, that dream in his inner world. Now you only think of urgency and success: you have to do something fast, get into fashion and sell. If fashion is historical romance, then let’s make a historical novel. Well, hey, the pride of being a writer is lacking, and I say this: If they read what I think and me well, or not… it’s up to them. This is missing. There are now too many writers who write for the market and write in the language that the market demands. And in part, a style dictated by social networks: short sentences, simple, digestible, uncomplicated themes… Tell me about a new, complex novel! Apparently not. Established writers do, they do more elaborate stuff. Newbies… apparently they just want to adapt to the market. This is a torpedo to the essence of the article.
Today, many well-known writers are lured by commercial awards. You have just received corporate awards and continue in your publishing house. What is your commitment to Tusquets?
Tusquets is my home, everything is settled there and I am at ease. Having to change publishers and talk to more people would ruin my life and… no, no. I’m not arguing for money, what Tusquets offered me looked good and that’s it. The last time I asked for another ten thousand euros, it took me a while to convince them, but they agreed. But the first time I wanted a little more, huh. What interests me is my solitude, my calmness, and these leave me alone to write. It’s all I want. And let the publisher do the rest.