The author achieved acclaim two years earlier with his novel Un amor. Adaptations of his works for film and television, along with his previous book, will be brought to the screen by Isabel Coixet.
Many Hollywood films depict the family as a fortress in the Far West, defending against external threats and violence. In The Family, the danger is shown to come from within.
Indeed, it can happen, though not always. The central issue is the lack of visibility that allows abuse to go unchallenged. The old belief that dirty laundry should be washed at home still persists for many people. Discussing family matters remains embarrassing and sometimes frowned upon. It feels disloyal or ungrateful. Social norms often cast the family as a source of pride, not discomfort. Some even boast of family ties on social networks. Yet the truth remains: the more secluded the family space, the more isolated it becomes from the outside world, and the greater the risk of hidden abuses. Children, in particular, may find themselves powerless because there is nowhere to compare with others. They may come to accept mistreatment as normal.
The author wrote this book amidst a pandemic. Does the oppressive and intimate atmosphere we are compelled to inhabit shape the mood of the novel?
I do not think so. This story had been in my mind for a long time, dating back to the early chapters of Bad Letter, which are closely related to this family saga. Themes of confinement and seclusion appear across my other works as well. What the lockdown did was to provide a sense of continuity in writing, allowing for a tighter, more coherent narrative; that form of restriction proved beneficial for the author’s craft.
Many of the protagonist’s works center on characters who feel out of place or uneasy with the world, but this is the first time the author has explored the process of shaping such characters in a more deliberate way.
Yes, this is evident. Some of the family’s stories are told from the perspective of the children as they grow up and even live beyond the home. The thread connecting them to the rest of the book is delicate, yet it exists. The characters carry a weight of legacy—a psychological and emotional inheritance that helps define who they are. They learned to hide to survive, and that habit persists, even when it no longer seems needed. Interestingly, this idea of transference and family resonance shows up in two of the author’s favorite recent novels, Eco, Carlos Frontera and I come from this fear, Miguel Ángel Oeste.
The paternal family centers on Scar, a charismatic male figure who seeks control and, in turn, desired destruction.
I never planned to dwell on this relationship, though I do not ignore it. The characters are distinct, yet both strive to submit to the unwritten laws of what it means to be a man: the Father must lead the family, commanding and demanding, sometimes narcissistic. It is a connection I hadn’t fully considered, but the likeness is clear.
Is Baba a dictator in the grand sense, as some readers label him, yet also a Gandhian in his rejection of the Church and his progressive impulses, adding complexity to his character rather than making him obvious?
Yes, that complexity is essential because reality itself is multifaceted. When writing, real people often inspire the characters, not abstract ideas. The Father’s character mirrors life: a dictator with feet of clay, terrible pain beneath a hardened exterior. The eldest son, Damián, appears masculine on the surface but carries a fragile core, likely because of the burdens he bears as the firstborn. Patriarchy, the writer observes, makes many women unhappy and also harms many men.
The characters in The Family are described as “obedient on the outside and secretly thrilled within that they can’t even admit.” Could this capture describe most of the author’s protagonists across his novels?
This inner current runs through most of the author’s work. The tension between pleasing others, adapting, showing kindness, and yet wanting to rebel and reveal true feelings is a constant. They may seem compliant at times, but true submission never fully arrives. There is a sense of freedom within them, or at least a longing for freedom. As for the children in this family, none truly believed in the Father or followed his principles.
If the author had to pick a single theme where his concerns weighed most heavily, would social conventions oppress the individual in this way?
Yes, definitely. Related issues arise too, such as prejudice, the abuse of power in everyday life, and the struggles of growing up.
Some critics have labeled the author in dark, unsettling terms. Readers may find it difficult to identify with such disturbing, mismatched characters.
The author does not seek such reactions. If some readers feel a sting of discomfort because they recognize themselves in the stories, that is not the aim. The worry is about a tendency to judge a book based on whether readers empathize with the protagonists. Empathy is a powerful bridge for narratives, yet today it is sometimes treated superficially as mere similarity or a felt wish. By this standard, even a classic like Crime and Punishment could not be judged worthy of attention if readers only empathize with its protagonist, Raskólnikov, the killer of old women.
Now the author waits to see how his works will transition to screen languages. Are there plans, or is scriptwriting a distant possibility?
Offers to write scripts or contribute to television projects have come and gone, but the author has not pursued them. He values his unique voice and wants to avoid distractions. He remains focused on writing; it has taken years to reach this point, and he is reluctant to compromise. Regarding audiovisual adaptations of his books, he looks on with curiosity and pleasure but from a distance.