In 2019, Bernardo Atxaga announced a shift away from novel writing and toward exploring different artistic paths. The Basque author’s inaugural venture into this new terrain, a compelling piece titled Out of Eden, was released by Cuatro Lunas.
The Outskirts of Eden resists easy labeling, a hallmark of Atxaga’s work that remains true here. In this volume, the writer moves fluidly through a landscape shaped by memory, history, poetry, and a touch of magical fantasy, offering readers a fresh lens on the literary world.
The core of the book gathers impressions and reflections drawn from visits to prisons in the southern reaches of France, where the author participates in a reading project for inmates. Out of Heaven grows from the intimate, often unfamiliar exchange with an audience that lives on the periphery of conventional literature.
From these conversations, it becomes clear that reading in prison is a powerful experience: the physical distance is tiny, yet the mental world of the prisoners is vast and largely inaccessible to outside observers. Accounts of these visits reveal the author’s and his collaborators’ attempts to reach into a closely guarded space, with mixed results.
The work documents interviews conducted at Mauzac, Neuvic sur l’Isle, the castle of Neuvic sur l’Isle, the village of Saint-André-d’Allas, and the Martutene prison in Saint Sebastian.
As the author watches French farm landscapes roll by and notices a number of prisoners standing nearby, memories surface and twists arise, turning observations into digressions about past and present. The prison visits in the south of France trigger recollections of a Goose game, a metaphor for life that is both a winding journey and a potential end. The sequence unfolds with stations labeled 31, 42, 52, and 58, symbolizing pathways toward ideas of confinement or release. Many prisoners settle into box 52, accepting their lot, while others seem trapped within a labyrinth in box 42.
Struggling to leave the labyrinth after visiting Neuvi sur L’Isle, the author confronts blank stares and indifferent attention from some inmates.
At the Renaissance fortress of Neuvic sur L’Isle, a reading of the autobiographical poem Confession is shared with young inmates, many of whom imitate the heavy themes of early Basque poets attempting to break free from oppression. They resemble a generation in the 1970s, clamoring for dramatic topics and echoing Dylan Thomas, while some youths feel overwhelmed by dictatorship and Catholic nationalism and, like a painter, sink into self-harm in a bid for an earlier end.
In Saint-André-d’Allas, a French Occitan village, the atmosphere feels almost like a nineteenth-century inn in a moment far from the labyrinth of death and imprisonment. During a vivid moment of reflection, the author recalls a feast near the shrine of Arantzazu; diners, including a priest, enjoy a long meal as a group of faithful, weary from ceremony, gather. When a guiding woman, imagined as a priest, eats and drinks in fragments, the question emerges with irony: “Where is heaven?” The priest answers simply, “Right here.”
In the ancient, dilapidated Martutene prison, a discussion about Basque literature captivates a small audience. The dialogue is modest in scope, yet the prisoners’ attention feels expansive. Only one young inmate shows particular interest, eventually asking for financial help, while others drift into social exchange, or even a rugby game.
The speaker remains composed, recalling harsher auditions: a town in Bizkaia reduced to a handful of people, or an American university where many students are silent or hostile to the teacher. In Antwerp, a prison guard with a bat compels a denunciation of a city council that tolerates a violent, extremist presence.
The author contributes a selection of his own poems to the talks, choosing pieces that suit the moment, including Confession, Cricket is a Monotonous Poet, and Lecture on the Ostrich.
The book also contains other pieces beyond prison visits, among them a moving tale about Margarita and Pierre and the beekeeper’s world. Pierre explains how a queen bee can lay 80,000 eggs in a month, creating a thriving hive, and Margarita discovers a love of beekeeping. The couple shares laughter and happiness, until a tragedy channels the story into a different cadence, much like a butterfly drawn to a horned path. The beekeeping tale ends with Margarita’s illness and Pierre’s enduring devotion to the hive, accompanied by the plaintive call of the woodpecker echoing in his soul.
Humor also figures prominently, as when a tale explores Adam’s fear of catching the first flu after leaving paradise, only to hear Eve’s response that losing paradise was not such a misfortune.
The closing pages pulse with wit and ingenuity, presenting personal anecdotes that feel almost like a private diary. Notes on aging, such as being refused a loan for one’s seventieth birthday or the puzzling renewal of an ID card that would stamp a far-off year as the default, add a playful, almost surreal layer. “For all intents and purposes, a timeless card,” the narrator muses, “How lucky.”
With this foray into new literary terrain, Atxaga reaffirms his reputation as a singular voice, celebrated for a charismatic and defining style. Out of Heaven stands as further proof of his distinctive talent and enduring originality.