Alexander Zambra, born in Santiago de Chile in 1975, is celebrated for turning intimate family moments into vivid literary windows. His work frequently maps the unpredictable terrain of fatherhood—whether biological or chosen—into a space where lightness, affection, and a candid masculine education mingle. The Chilean Poet marked a defining moment in his career, a work crafted with a grace that resonates with readers in their thirties who are navigating parenthood. Now based in Mexico, a place tied to his wife Jazmina Barrera and the upbringing of their son Silvestre, Zambra developed a companion project to that novel: a collection that blends the joys of fatherhood with a sequence of stories about shared belongings. Titled Children’s Literature, the book came together with generous collaboration from a close friend, the critic Andrés Braithwaite, and gathers vivid episodes from daily life as a father. It sits alongside Zambra’s ongoing participation in literary events, including a presence at the festival en otras palabras.
Did Zambra design Children’s Literature as an apostille to The Chilean Poet
He explains that the pieces formed during the pandemic, written without a clear publishing aim. Writing serves as a way to understand the world, and sometimes what is written finds a life of its own when shared. He remains committed to exploring ideas that are still in formation, evolving as they find voice in language.
What links exist between the novel and the new book?
When Silvestre arrived, focus shifted from The Chilean Poet to short essays about the experience of fatherhood. Some of these texts found publication in North American magazines, translated into English by Zambra and his close associate, Megan MacDowell. A daily diary had long guided him, but the birth of his son altered the routine. Notes began to speak more directly to the life stage he entered, prompting a sharper focus on real-world fatherhood among friends. That moment braided together the threads of both the novel and the new book, steering his writing toward a transformation that felt unavoidable.
It’s notable that The Chilean Poet portrays a stepfather and his wife’s child, while in real life Zambra’s own fatherhood is biological.
He values literature that embraces contradiction. He wrote The Chilean Poet while becoming a biological father, a work about step-parenting, and a piece written at a moment when daily ties to his Chilean roots and to his Spanish-speaking world were evolving. There was both loss and gain in that transition.
Many memories of childhood are shaped by parental storytelling. If Silvestre’s childhood yields two books—one from his father and another from his mother—that would be fitting, yet the author reflects on how children today consume memories through photos and videos. Literature, in turn, adds nuance and complexity to those recollections. At its core, the book traces how a grandfather, a father, and a son pass down a legacy, and it attempts to do so in a voice that has rarely been heard before.
You mentioned, “Our fathers taught us how to be men, but not how to be fathers.” Is this a missing model you’re thinking about?
As a child, the author experienced moments of physical strength he would not want to replicate for his own son. Parenting feels like an ongoing field of learning, and much time is spent reflecting on it without slipping into static dichotomies about men and women. Simple, old-fashioned divisions are rejected, yet it is clear that men often speak less about their feelings and sometimes withhold problems, a pattern that can hinder honest dialogue and the joy of connection.
What about joy?
Joy is a living presence for anyone who has raised a child. The task is physically demanding, and the portrayal of happiness can feel elusive. In older literary settings, emphasis often rested on male bonding and shared humor, leaving little room for the intimate laughter that comes with parenting. As a child grows, the parent’s role becomes a mirror or a challenge, and early notions of manhood rarely account for the emotional terrain. Many celebrated writers have written about their own childhoods without addressing their children directly.
On the Caixaforum stairs in Barcelona, a memory of a Chilean writer lingers, with the photographer cited as Ricard Cugat.
Rodrigo Fresán recalls John Irving’s remark that having children is a way to reclaim childhood memories. Has a similar moment occurred here?
Music acts as a conduit—an almost mystical force. A lullaby sung by a child can unlock a shelf of songs long forgotten, reshaping the emotional soundtrack of life.
Could Children’s Literature be the bright side of Rachel Cusk’s A Lifetime Job, a work noted for its sharp, bittersweet take on motherhood?
The author suggests that motherhood or fatherhood can be experienced as a duty, yet that is not the personal trajectory. Fatherhood arrived later in life and brought a sense of purpose and belonging that resists a fixed, rule-bound narrative. The experience speaks from personal timing and circumstance.
Does the book probe whether the act of having a child needs justification within its pages?
No. The family history—such as a grandfather with many children and the sparse moments of contact recalled—illustrates a broader cultural pattern in parts of Latin America, where parenthood is celebrated without fully reckoning with its consequences. The contrast between legacy and absence runs as a thread through the work.
The image of a missing father emerges as a recurring motif across Latin America and the United States.
A close friend has observed that a generation can be split into those who lament the absence of a father and those who lament the present presence of one. That tension fascinates the writer, who treats it as a living contradiction rather than a fixed stance.
The final question asks whether the little mushroom ingestion was a real event. It happened as a therapeutic measure for severe headaches and, for the writer, served its intended purpose. Friends joined in on the journey, but the core aim was relief, a difficult period eased by the experience. Silvestre even played with an oxygen tank, adding a tense yet tender moment to a memory that was both scary and intimate.