Enrique Vila-Matas’ latest novel, Montevideo, follows a writer’s return to origins, weaving health, memory, and the boundary between fiction and reality into a cohesive journey. The story unfolds in a setting that nods to Montevideo and a hotel room steeped in literary history, where a real figure, Julio Cortázar, once stood in a doorway with consequence. The narrative opens with concern for the author’s recovery from a serious medical procedure, the devoted presence of Paula, the donor wife, and a union defined by steadfast loyalty. The tone shines with unexpected brightness even as the public gaze looms. Everything feels, paradoxically, on a steady rise toward normalcy.
A surprisingly light mood fuels a novel born in an era when entertainment choices were limited.
The writer contemplates not constructing a book bound by rigid rules, expressing a wish to reclaim a natural voice and stay true to himself once again.
When asked whether Montevideo is a rewrite of Paris never ends, the author explains that autofiction has faced misunderstanding—an idea that reality changes simply because it is written about. In this new work, the narrator travels to Paris to imitate Hemingway and ends up entangled in crime, with journalists likely to revisit the autobiographical question, even if it feels tiring.
The term autofiction, once controversial, has become a widely accepted label. The writer recalls a period when it caused hesitation, even among royals, and notes that today it serves as a broad umbrella that levels the field for many authors who explore personal origins.
What is the central aim of this book? The writer emphasizes a love for thought, literature, and figures such as Nietzsche and Valéry. The essence, he says, lies beyond a traditional plot.
Is this a novel without a conventional storyline? The author points to the cover, featuring a painting by Danish artist Hammershoi with three doors opening in perspective. It presents an interior void of figures, suggesting the image speaks for itself.
That minimal visual hints at an uncanny geography, a sense of place that existed in earlier work as well. The author recalls The Picture Assassin (written in 1977) and explains that the search for a room, much like Virginia Woolf did, becomes a voyage toward discovering a personal style.
Moving from Montevideo to Paris, the writer describes a special room created by artist Dominique González-Foerster during a Pompidou retrospective. A unique key opens the door to this room, and many friends urged him to claim the space. He felt that only he could unlock it. In a twist, a red suitcase that resembled one found in Toulouse appeared just before the hotel owner’s knock.
The novel invokes Madeleine Moore, a fictional reflection of González-Foerster. Among the lines, the phrase “Laughing at the Belgian origin flies” sits, contributing to the book’s playful yet enigmatic mood.
Would the line “laughing at Belgian flies” capture the spirit of his literature? The writer agrees, adding a playful wish that Belgians won’t misread the joke.
A recurring theme in the book asks whether writers should tackle topics that seem beyond reach. The author recalls a Beckett quote about asking a friend questions and reflects on the lure of exploring things not fully accessible, acknowledging that an ending can erase the point of continuing.
The book draws parallels to Paris never ends and closes with a witty remark from the author’s father, echoed by his mother. When asked why the world feels so strange, he recalls his father’s line that the universe itself remains a mystery.
The father stands as a dominant presence in many novels, while the mother remains less visible. The writer shares family moments with humor and candor, recounting how conversations at home were lively and sometimes blunt. He recalls presenting at events in Cadaqués, where a family member would challenge him aloud with a direct remark that left a lasting impression.
The mother, a steady figure during upheaval, faced the pressures of wartime life with resolve. A memory from a train trip to Paris becomes a vivid scene: a passenger resembling Johnny Hallyday, a parrot that spoke French phrases, and a moment captured in a Polaroid meant for the mother’s eyes. Her reaction, a tender disbelief, is part of the book’s fabric.
In recounting these family episodes, the writer notes how both parents shaped the way fiction and reality intersect in his work. The father’s interest in public life and politics appears in the stories, while the mother’s responses reveal the human side behind the narratives. The home’s dynamic, with sharp, honest exchanges, remains a touchstone as the author crafts his literary world.