Jacobo Bergareche began writing as a way to heal a fracture that split his life, seeking the steady ground the other half once offered. Roque, his closest friend and kindred spirit, died in Luanda, Angola, on October 12, 2012. From that loss, a luminous book emerged: Estaciones de return (Círculo de Tiza, 2019). Readers still carry its memory, recognizing Bergareche as a gifted voice whose prose reads like music. His later work, Perfect Days (Books of the Asteroid, 2021), earned a place among acclaimed books, loved by critics and readers alike. In his new novel, The Vedas, he moves to Menorca in the depth of winter, echoing Camus, and discovers a summer of resilience inside himself. He confronts wounds that feel familiar—love, death, and fatherhood—yet does so from a distance that feels honest and official, not intimate confession.
The author’s path naturally invites reflection on how he began writing again after the success of the previous novel.
He wonders whether the next book will measure up to the last, aware that high expectations follow. He favors shorter forms, partly because his writing time is limited and partly because readers seem to skim less these days.
Does he think people read less nowadays?
He believes that readers who do engage tend to dedicate more time to longer works, while those who avoid reading altogether finish little. A short novel suits many readers, allowing two sessions of immersion. He finds comfort in this form and notes that his approach with the latest book keeps the narrator at a distance from the writer’s own voice.
Yet the self remains present in the new novel.
It exists as a fictitious narrator, a viewpoint separate from the author, yet it was important to step outside the self to prevent the writer-narrator from merging too closely. Bergareche believes there can be excess of self in literature and sought a narrator who drifted away from his life. The character is not a direct substitute for the author.
Did this shift also serve as a form of self‑protection?
Yes, and it required learning to write from a distance. In this third novel, a new character had to be found and developed.
It has been four years since Seasons of Return appeared, a work rooted in self‑fiction. Does he feel more confident in the writer’s category?
Confidence is growing. It remains hard to accept the shift from hopeful beginnings to recognized authorship, especially when the first triumph arrived late after much effort. He focuses less on reputation and more on whether the stories themselves are compelling, noting a long history of writing without consistent publication. The aim now is to tell a strong story, not to chase a writer’s label.
So, does external appearance matter once a good story is ready?
Yes, exposure brings scrutiny. He has felt the ache of negative reviews and, at times, the pressure to share opinions. He acknowledges that opinions become dangerous when they drift into politics or public debate, as if the author’s voice must align with a side. He admires writers like Beckett and Salinger who spoke through their books and avoided constant public commentary, recognizing the challenge of making a living through literature and sometimes needing other media to support a career.
Does the public mood ever exhaust him?
It can be tiring. He worries that reacting to every latest event risks becoming just another voice in a crowded chorus. He believes literature, especially fiction, should serve not a cause but the honest exploration of a subject the writer does not fully grasp. Writing for a cause, he argues, risks losing doubt and sincerity, undermining literature’s integrity.
What is he trying to convey with his books when he quotes Beckett and Salinger?
He is not sure, and honesty remains central. He finds meaning in exploring love, relationships, and death, and the last book treats fatherhood as a lasting legacy. The wounds of life—love, death, and fatherhood—shape his characters and their journeys, and the presence of music in The Vedas underscores memory and emotion as essential forces.
Has his view on death shifted through writing The Vedas?
Death remains a profound concern. He recalls a personal link: a brother who died just before his niece was born, a memory that prompts questions about meaning and acceptance. He has learned that grief evolves, and while he has not embraced suicide, his stance toward it has changed. Fatherhood, whether biological or emotional, has also evolved, shaping how he understands family as a life in progress rather than a fixed unit.
What does family mean to him?
Family, for him, is a shared life that isn’t chosen by blood alone. It is the bond formed through love with people who were not selected, a continuous effort to create connection through circumstance and care.
Another recurring theme is a tribute to lost, idealized love.
Love can be brief yet life‑changing, jolting a reader from routine to awareness. Memories shape what cannot be altered, especially after upheavals that force new perspectives. The two novels reflect this shared thread: the past, detours not taken, and the quiet realism of daily life.
Is memory used as material for writing?
Both personal memory and the memories of others play a role. The novel is filled with real events, and while that can be risky, it grounds the fiction in lived experience. Bergareche references a writer who blurs lines between invention and lived truth, acknowledging a spectrum that includes both methods of storytelling.
Do these approaches affect how readers respond to the work?
Indeed. The sharper the link to reality, the more resonance the stories tend to have. He is drawn to narratives where everyday moments carry weight, because those are the ones that linger in a reader’s mind. The challenge remains: to tell a story where, on the surface, nothing dramatic happens, yet everything meaningful unfolds beneath the surface. Themes like boredom, desire, love, heartbreak, and the dynamics between parents and children keep returning as focal points. Music, too, remains a strong presence in this novel, reinforcing memory and mood.
What role does music play in his writing?
Music is essential, a bridge to memory and emotion. He loves music, though he isn’t adept at performing it. He keeps a personal soundtrack that helps shape the emotional landscape even when not actively listening while writing. The best listening pairings are personal and evocative, such as a powerful Grateful Dead track that invites immersion rather than distraction.
Are there any specific recommendations for reading The Vedas?
Readers might try a song from the book, like Dark Star, to enter the mood, but the aim is to invite a receptive state, letting the narrative unfold like a transforming landscape. Music and literature have always shared a kinship, mutually enriching each other across generations.
Finally, does grief ever disappear completely for him?
Grief changes shape. He recalls a line from a meditation on pain: pain persists, yet a person learns to live with it, sometimes finding a new kind of closeness with those who are gone through memory and song. The ability to let go emerges slowly, and with it a renewed sense of connection to life and to those still present.
The journey through loss, memory, and love continues to define his work, shaping a writer who remains committed to truth in storytelling and to the ever‑unfolding drama of human connection.