In a tranquil residence on Menorca, Sant Lluís, Cees Nooteboom and his wife Simone have spent more than four decades enjoying the island’s hush. The scene feels like a palace of quiet where the Netherlands’ most esteemed writer contemplates life with a poise that softens the clamor of modern times, while still keeping a keen eye on the world. He speaks not only in the familiar language but also in a deeper language that comes from the eyes. When words fall short, he winks, smiles, or places a hand over his heart, inviting a smile back, almost like a Buddha in repose. The conversation marks the fifteenth anniversary of Red Rain, one of Siruela’s cherished books, a tribute to the garden that welcomes them. Orphaned by the Second World War, he remains a traveler who has found peace in writing, weaving poetry and prose into a single breath that seems to carry two lives at once.
The interview unfolds in a studio with Renaissance echoes, crafted by a friend who is an architect. Surrounded by cacti with a single flower, which he pets at the end, the discussion reveals a mind that can move beyond the surface of a subject. It is a portrait of a writer nearing ninety and full of restless curiosity.
In your book you ask, Which house am I returning to? Which house are you returning to?
A forthcoming book will gather articles on music, and half a year later a volume of poems will be released, in the Netherlands. In Germany, four poetry books about Japan have appeared. Even from the cover, a Dutch tile suggests a life of travel.
Yes, but which house is he returning to? Tell me.
There are three houses. An old Amsterdam home from 1730 with two canals and a library. A wooden retreat owned by a German friend near the Austrian-Swiss border, used only a few months a year. The friend once joked that he did not want the writer to die there, and later apologized, a reminder that words can echo beyond their intent. For all that, the writer loves this Menorca gem, a place where trees abound and life feels abundant.
So this is your house. which one does it go back to
This is his house, though he and Simone lead a mostly isolated life here. The couple occasionally returns to Amsterdam, visits exhibitions like an upcoming show by Italian artist Penone, and contemplates the local and broader histories that echo through his work. Winters here feel gentler, and the swarms of tourists retreat. Menorca’s nature remains a constant source of pleasure, even as Ibiza offers a different pace.
I reread this book and thought I could interview him for every chapter, because it is full of reflections on every period of his life. And from Menorca. Menorca is always available.
Many perceive the world as small because everything connects. Yet the world feels vast to a traveler who has wandered across many places. He has learned that some journeys feel endlessly expansive, while others remind him that space still holds mystery. He jokes that a planet of people might exist elsewhere, but so far the universe remains sparsely populated with human footprints.
He says the day will come when his file will be full. But isn’t it impossible for an author’s file to be full?
Mortality looms. At some point, stillness arrives, and ideas surface when there is quiet space to think.
to your own file.
Yes, and so the writing continues. He often reflects on those who lived long ago, believing that memory fades as time moves on.
He says we’re going crazy before we forget.
Indeed, a playful nod to the pace of memory and news alike.
What would you like to forget?
Maybe nothing explicit. He recalls a Catholic boarding school and a first marriage, and speaks with warmth of Simone, a partner for decades. He appreciates the craft of a friend who built the house and who connected with local artisans despite language gaps. In his world, people often mean what they say but may surprise you by acting differently, and that reliability remains a valued trait.
It also says that you associate past trips with future trips.
There is no guarantee. Eliciting memory can be tricky, yet travel’s impact remains evident in his work. He has seen war’s shadow, born from his father’s death and the upheavals of Budapest, Paris, and the German reunification. He looks at history with local curiosity, even here on Menorca.
He talks about the misery of war in many episodes. Does the war continue to wreak havoc on your memory?
A sober sentiment echoes TS Eliot’s honesty about poetry. Sometimes the writer discovers something new within his own creations, a sign that memory and invention stay connected.
But let’s go to war. Now we are in another war that takes place in the same geography with the other.
The war is a tragedy, marked by misunderstandings and shifting alliances. He fears the fragility of European support should power dynamics change, a concern that grows with age. The future remains uncertain, and the writer contends with the state of the world as a whole, including the rising prominence of new powers and shifting coalitions.
Can an intellectual ignore the future?
If that happens, the mind stumbles. Yet even under pressure, he chooses to stay engaged, listening to news from home while also attending to his garden and the simple rhythms of daily life.
You hear them talk and they move.
Trees become a metaphor. The eyes see and the mind interprets, much as a garden reflects a person’s inner world.
Let me continue with your book. At one point, he says, this place has a helped calmness. Because when I was a kid it was a complete abyss…
Sometimes a quiet place sparks a life’s work. A bank job offered an escape and a chance to think. That pause produced an early book, which surprised readers with its originality. Later, other works followed, some meeting expected success, others not as much, yet all contributing to a lasting literary path.
And how is it in Spain?
A sense of happiness pervades the culture; poetry remains a vital force. The writer regards his craft as central to life, a point he returns to often.
In the book, one of the most curious aspects of growing up is that almost everything evokes memory.
Memories accumulate, and a writer learns to find meaning across generations. Family history, education, and travel mingle to shape a voice that has endured many decades and many landscapes.
The garden is a portrait of the soul indeed. Does the garden reflect destiny?
A garden is a steady companion—blooming, stubborn, and willing to endure. The writer sees both the calm and the sharp prick of cacti as part of life’s balance, with nature teaching resilience and humor at every turn.
We visited the cactus garden; he favors the one that blooms. Are these books where you and nature meet the Thoreau of the Mediterranean?
Laughing, he nods. The comparison to Thoreau feels fitting, though he knows he walks a different path. He admires writers who retreat to woods, yet his mind remains a vibrant, restless landscape, always ready to see more.