In February 2020 a book titled The quiet desperation of daily life. User guide. This work, issued by Debolsillo, bore the signature of the collective known as ‘Un pie en el estribo’ and appeared among self-help titles that suggest the path to solutions lies within the reader, nudging them to trust in their own power. Yet the volume carried a sharper, more provocative aim. It functioned as a Trojan horse—an audacious editorial experiment by the novelist Belén Gopegui that invites scrutiny of the promises often sold by this genre.
A year after defending a doctoral thesis analyzing the personal development genre through the lens of narrative fiction, the author published this text alongside a critical companion. The two works appeared together in a volume named Murmur. Self-help as a novel, a case of conspiracy, presented in Cartagena at the Debate publishing house within the Ramon Alonso Luzzy Cultural Center. The volume invites readers to question the assumptions behind self-help and to ask who benefits from these claims, and whom they truly address. Gopegui does not merely critique; she offers alternatives rooted in social aid, collective action, and a shift from an emphasis on the individual to a sense of shared responsibility.
As Nacho Vegas notes, some people can afford a psychologist or ease pain by sharing it with others, but when self-sufficiency is seen from a superior vantage, it raises the question: who remains without a supportive care network?
When examined through a narrative lens, the voice of personal development often reveals a persistent fantasy of merit. Although meritocracy is debated more openly today, the core issue remains the same: power tends to accompany higher merit, yet the very idea of merit deserves examination. It calls for doing well in the essential tasks of life, and if that is not immediately possible, it urges the creation of conditions that enable it. In the process, one should resist a life muddied by the arrogance of the fortunate.
Self-help appears as part of a broader system that pushes individuals to compete. It sometimes masks exhaustion as progress and frames organized collective effort as optional. There is a political critique that favors organization over solitary self-improvement, yet the two actions are not the same. Self-help can foster a false social peace in which everyone tends to themselves, leaving public health and collective welfare under-funded and underaided. The challenge is to understand why this happens and to seek a balance that enables both personal resilience and communal care without surrendering the public good to short-term gains.
Why does the text favor an anonymous chorus of elders who deny personal hope as a collective voice, while highlighting the gaps and limitations of self-reliance?
The response, drawing on Raymond Williams, is that true radicalism makes hope possible rather than merely believable despair. When hope becomes a shared trust, it moves away from the skepticism associated with cynicism and toward active collaboration. In contemporary debates about social collapse, it is essential to cultivate trust alongside realistic assessments, avoiding both naive optimism and paralyzing pessimism. A chorus of elders embodies a stance that refuses to pretend hope never fades while still acknowledging the value of collective effort and mutual support.
In El murmurlo the author advocates a move toward collective action through what she terms a reinforcement approach. The aim is to intervene in the everyday fabric of life and history by challenging existing power dynamics, recognizing that capitalism constantly rewrites history under its own terms. The moment calls for participation that endures, not merely appearances of engagement during moments of crisis.
The book threads the experiences of two characters, Alfonso and Elda, who discover the power of conspiracy and the strength of shared bonds forged in common spaces. The idea of procedural politics—an emphasis on concrete, ongoing processes rather than mere outcomes—appears as a practical call. If politics demands places for people to meet, those spaces must be accessible, proximate, and sustainable. It matters where participation happens and who it serves, because real power lies in organized everyday action rather than in temporary demonstrations alone.
In this analysis, the intent is not to promote disorder but to push boundaries toward a more resilient public sphere. The discussion emphasizes that engagement should be inclusive and grounded in real conditions, ensuring that health services, education, and other vital services remain accessible. The text argues that the best tools are those that build durable institutions and networks—where citizens can gather, plan, and act together, day after day, not just during moments of upheaval.
Ultimately, the narrative suggests moderation between forceful advocacy and compliant submission. It argues for a sustained stance—unwavering in setting and pursuing fair standards for everyone, including reliable access to healthcare. It also cautions against relying on short-term tactics that fade away once leaders leave the stage, urging instead a form of community organization that persists and expands beyond single campaigns.
With these ideas, the work invites readers to see beyond isolated success stories and to consider how collective care and shared responsibility can shape a more humane society. The voices within the volume challenge readers to imagine a different way of living that foregrounds cooperation, solidarity, and practical action over solitary striving and market-driven silence.