The writer Manuel Vicent, born in Castellón in 1936, once said that life, like a violin, has only four strings: you are born, you grow, you reproduce, you die. He admits that life feeds on yesterday and its melancholy, and his latest book, A Personal Story, gathers Spain’s recent history together with his own memories, seen through a lively, sensory lens.
Tonight he accepts the Pop Eye award for Letters. How did he take the news?
It came as a surprise because it feels very contemporary and approachable. It is a friendly gesture, and they will see how everything unfolds.
Moreover, it coincides with the release of his new work, A Personal Story, in which he explores his memories and Spain’s recent past from a vital perspective.
He explains that the book is not a memoir or autobigraphy in a strict sense, but a shared memory colored by feelings that everyone can participate in. It is a life told through the songs one has listened to, the books one has read, the cars one has owned, the dogs that have traveled beside you, the journeys, the houses lived in, and the towns visited. It is a collective experience. In the end, everyone experiences much the same arc.
How did the author approach diving into these lived recollections?
It felt like a cherry-picking basket. One item leads to another, and soon a broader tapestry appears. It is like a rug with knots. If you flip a rug, the weave is full of tiny knots. Each knot marks a crossroads, a chance encounter that, in a random way, guides you from one place to another. And within that randomness—what it means to be alive each day—small moments can steer you toward an unforeseen ending.
Was it a journey of emotion?
Yes, the book is deeply emotional because it reflects what happened to the author and the surroundings that sustained him. Ultimately, memory and the five senses are the strongest foundations we rely on.
Does a part of the child still live in the person who appears in the story?
It is hard to say. Everyone carries multiple versions of themselves inside, like Russian nesting dolls. A child remains within, as does a young person, a teenager, an adult, a serious man, and a grand elder. The aim is to keep each life stage balanced, layered like the strata of a life within the spirit.
Is there more fear in looking back or ahead?
That is hard to say. He tends to feed on the past. The future feels like melancholy, the time that slips away. One must live what remains and do so with elegance, accepting the misfortunes that may come, yet without losing style.
In the work the life is compared to a violin with four strings and four notes, yet capable of making truly marvelous symphonies.
When the third string is reached, is life seen differently?
Sure. Knowing how to die is an art. Much eastern philosophy teaches that art of dying. The gradual descent toward nothingness, toward nature, is full of wonderful pleasures. Each age has its own cards and its own pleasures. One must learn to play them well.
The author notes that aging should be faced with a touch of melancholy. Is society melancholic?
Yes, but melancholy exists as a literary mood, whereas nostalgia does not. The belief that now you are worse off than you were in childhood or youth can illuminate how life once seemed. If you revisited that happier childhood you might see that it was not entirely rosy. Yet melancholy is the time that flees, the life that ends, the horizon that you glimpse up close. It can still be a living horizon filled with birds, ducks, and gulls.
Does he remember childhood as a happy time despite the historical context?
He had all the elements for happiness: a village ringed by orange trees near the sea, a bicycle, a carefree sense of existence. War was distant and unspoken. There was a mountain to wander, a family with its share of problems but a freedom to grow. Those are the ingredients of happiness. Seen today, it may look like a cardboard horse, but literature feeds on memory refined by imagination. He insists he was a very happy child.
Do today’s generations have a happy childhood?
Today’s kids face an overload of stimuli. The natural adventures of prior eras were birds’ nests, the sea, swimming in open water, a simple church teacher. Now children are bombarded from every side. Inside-out sensations create a different pace and pressure.
Even at 88, he keeps publishing and writes a weekly column. Do the urges for literature and current events still burn?
He frames himself as a professional who sits down to write much like a builder begins a project. When there is nothing left to say or no memory to draw on, he will stop.
He once worked as a parliamentary correspondent. Does political life still matter to him?
He views current politics as a spectacle, sometimes a sinister one. Many politicians could fuel a novel, and the scene he has witnessed provides plenty of material for storytelling. He knows many farmers who, though illiterate, carry themselves with more elegance, wisdom, and decency than many politicians.