Enrique Vila-Matas’ latest novel, Montevideo, centers on a journey back to origins, a theme that threads through the story as a writer navigates health, memory, and the blur between fiction and reality. The plot unfolds in a setting that nods to Montevideo and to a hotel room steeped in literary history, where a real-life figure, Julio Cortázar, once found himself in a doorway of consequence. The narrative opens with concern for the author’s recovery from a serious medical procedure, the donor wife Paula’s steadfast presence, and a relationship defined by enduring devotion. The tone is unexpectedly bright for a moment when the public gaze threatens to overwhelm. Everything feels, paradoxically, on a steady incline toward normalcy.
-A surprisingly light mood animates a novel born in a time when entertainment options were scarce.
-The writer reflects on not crafting a book bound by rules, declaring a desire to reclaim his natural voice and to be true to himself once more.
-Asked whether Montevideo is a rewrite of Paris never ends, the author explains that autofiction has often been misunderstood—an idea that reality is altered merely by being written about. In this new work, the narrator ventures to Paris to imitate Hemingway and ends up entangled in crime, with journalists likely to press the autobiographical question again, even if it seems exhausted.
-The term autofiction, once controversial, has become a broadly accepted label. The writer recalls a time when it stirred caution, even among royals, and notes that today it serves as a catchall that levels the playing 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 like Nietzsche and Valéry. The essence, he says, lies beyond a traditional plot.
-Is this a novel without a conventional story? The author notes that the cover already signals the direction, featuring a painting by the Danish artist Hammershoi showing three doors opening in perspective. It presents an interior void of human figures, suggesting that the image speaks for itself.
-That minimal visual hints at an unsettling geography, a sense of place that existed in his earlier work as well. The author recalls The Picture Assassin (written in 1977) and explains that the act of searching for a room, much like Virginia Woolf did, becomes a journey toward discovering a personal style.
-Moving from Montevideo to Paris, the writer speaks of a special room created for him by artist Dominique González-Foerster during a retrospective at Pompidou. 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 similar to 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” is noted, contributing to the book’s playful yet cryptic mood.
-Would the phrase “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 is whether writers should address topics that seem beyond reach. The author recalls a Beckett quote about asking a friend questions and reflects on the allure of exploring things that are not fully accessible, acknowledging that a story’s end 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 is a towering presence in many novels, while the mother remains less visible. The writer recounts family moments with humor and candor, sharing how conversations at home were lively and sometimes blunt. He remembers presenting at events in Cadaqués, where a family member would challenge him aloud with a straight, candid remark that left an impression.
-The mother, a steady figure during upheavals, faced the pressures of war-era life with grit. A memory from a train trip to Paris becomes a vivid vignette: a passenger resembling Johnny Hallyday, a parrot that spoke French phrases, and a moment captured in a Polaroid intended for the mother’s eyes. Her reaction, an affectionate disbelief, is part of the book’s fabric.
-In recounting these family episodes, the writer notes how his mother and father shaped the way fiction and reality intersect in his work. His father’s interest in public life and politics appears in his narratives, while his mother’s responses reveal the human side behind the stories. The dynamic at home, with sharp, honest exchanges, remains a touchstone for the author as he crafts his literary world.