“I speak from the vantage point of a Cuban writer living in a system where authors feel compelled to self-censor to avoid censorship.” One of contemporary Latin American literature’s giants visits Alicante to discuss censorship, among other topics. Leonardo Padura (born 1955 in Havana) lands in the province to participate this Friday at 12:00 in a collaboration program between the Mario Benedetti Ibero-American Literary Studies Center at the University of Alicante and the IES San Blas secondary school in Alicante. Thus, the writer and journalist will be the lead figure in the activity A Writer Introduces His World, under the title Leonardo Padura: The Human, The Writer, with the presentation by Estrella Martín, a teacher at the invited institute. He will also hold, on the same day, a debate on his novel Personas decentes at the Casa de Cultura in El Campello at 18:00, with free admission.
But after a month of nonstop touring across Spain, censorship weighs heavily on his arrival in Alicante. On Thursday, March 21 at 19:00, Padura will deliver the lecture Censorship, Self-Censorship, and Cancellation: The Light of Our Time at the Ciudad de Alicante Campus, Ramon y Cajal 4. In this talk, he notes that social networks “are developing different social processes regarding people’s freedom of expression.” He argues that the rise of these platforms has complicated “the web of interpersonal relationships” with respect to “policies of correction ranging from linguistic to personal behavior.”
In the lecture, he will trace a historical arc of censorship through the ages, from inquisitorial censorship imposed by religious authorities to the American era of McCarthyism, and even to reforms in democratic Portugal that excluded a work by José Saramago. He aims to examine these situations from a current context and from the perspective of a Cuban writer “who can be censored or even canceled, not for exercising freedom of thought, but for expressing it.”
Perspectives from a Cuban
Padura’s stay in Spain coincides with a new wave of protests in Cuba, concentrated in three interior cities and most notably in Santiago de Cuba. He did not want to miss the chance to speak about what is unfolding across the strait of Florida. Although he says he does not have every detail after being away from his country for a month, he knows the core of the protests: “One of the central demands has been electricity, because there are power outages and shortages of food. There are serious problems with the electrical grid and long blackouts nationwide, as well as distribution difficulties for food.” Still, he highlights the emergence of “shouts of freedom,” something he sees as crucial because it intersects with other deeper and more complex needs of the country.
To date, the crisis Cuba has endured has been rooted in emigration. Padura notes that “in the last two years 650,000 people have left the country for the United States,” a substantial figure for a population of roughly 12 million. He points out that many more intend to depart but cannot immediately do so: “Often the exit goes via Nicaragua, the so-called coyotes’ route, and it can cost up to $10,000, so many people cannot bear the expense.”
On whether there can be a turnaround for Cuba’s socio-economic system, he says a change is necessary but admits he does not know the exact path. He emphasizes a historical exhaustion among the Cuban people and calls for a response from the government that is understanding rather than repressive. “The only positive outcome here is to make life better for the people after so much sacrifice,” he adds. Ultimately, he is not a political scientist or economist, but he uses his platform to illuminate a society in crisis and to define a sense of a people wearied by circumstance.
A Literary Journey
With more than 15 novels published, Padura is regarded as one of the most international voices in Hispanic literature. His accolades include the Princess of Asturias Award for Letras (2015) and the Order of Arts and Letters of France (2013), among many others. His extensive body of work, translated into numerous languages, is known for novels such as The Man Who Loved Dogs (2009) and the Mario Conde detective series, a character whose traits set him apart from the typical literary hero and carry a trace of the author himself. His writing is marked by a space for playful reflection where society is openly critiqued.
Padura uses this event to announce that a new work will be published in September, exploring his relationship with Havana, published by Tusquets Editores. The forthcoming long essay traces how he has claimed the city he was born in from the periphery, weaving together novel fragments and journalistic pieces written from the 1980s to the present day.
He also hints at a return to fiction, though this time without Mario Conde as the central figure. “The development is still in its early stages; I wrote about 100 pages, which gives me confidence that there is a story to tell,” he asserts. The author began this new project without a fixed plot, but inspiration arrived, and he now enjoys a period of deliberate rest. He explains that he tries to space writing sessions with travel, so pausing is not an interruption but a space for reflection. He recalls Hemingway saying that one should write until you know what you’ll write the next day.
Padura champions the art of improvisation, of starting from scratch and letting the novel unfold in a journey just as intense for readers holding the book. The less glamorous part comes later: he spends more time revising than drafting because editing is the toughest part of writing. It is in this phase that the act of writing shifts from a desire to convey something to a careful presentation that preserves the integrity of the message.
Inspiration
One of the grand illusions in a writer’s mind is the fear of the death of inspiration. Stories lose their soul when told without light to guide them. For Padura, that fear is constant: “I envy authors who have several stories to tell because I rarely have more than one at a time; I don’t keep a drawer full of stories waiting to come to light.”
In his view, the practice is not simply about writing something but about writing about something meaningful: “I have enough craft to pen a 250-page police novel every year with Mario Conde chasing a suspect and a corpse, but it would be pointless without a purpose or a reason to say something.” His critical consciousness threads through all his artistic work, from novels to screenplays and journalistic essays. “I aim to reflect and ensure what I write isn’t trivial,” he says, striving to offer something that contributes to understanding the human condition.
Gabo’s Universe
Beyond the personal fears of a writer, Padura has weighed in on the posthumous work of Gabriel García Márquez, En agosto nos vemos, published by Márquez’s children without his consent. He notes that it is not fair to release a work a writer chose not to publish under certain conditions. He believes some posthumous texts can shed light on an author’s personality, as in Guillermo Cabrero Infante’s Map drawn by a Spy, which “helps to understand the author better and adds value to world literature.”
Yet, having not yet read the new Gabo text, he argues that the author’s wishes should be respected. After publishing Cien años de soledad, Márquez followed with acclaimed works like El amor en los tiempos del cólera and Crónica de una muerte anunciada, though he also produced less successful novels such as Memoria de mis putas tristes, which Padura admits he never finished. The conversation remains rooted in what the author would have wanted for his own legacy and the broader trajectory of literary greatness.