Writer from Zamora, Juan Manuel de Prada, publishes the book “Weirdos like me.” It is a collection that brings back to light literary figures once forgotten.
–Often with irony, sometimes with a big dose of humor, and at times with genuine compassion, he approaches a cast of 19th and 20th-century writers who held contrasting beliefs and ideologies. They moved beyond the cultural patterns of their era, challenging the norms that surrounded them.
–A book that the author enjoyed crafting, born from years of reading and accumulated over a lifetime. It seeks to share with readers the thrill felt for these art workers, these figures kept in the shadows of literature, relegated to mere footnotes in wider stories. The aim is to place them back in the spotlight, granting them the respect they deserve, even if modest, as a tribute.
–Among the extensive roster are several well-known names.
–Indeed, like Concha Espina, celebrated in her time, or Víctor de la Serna, noted for his journalism and, intriguingly, the son of Espina. They were largely overlooked because they found accommodation within the text, yet later were displaced by ideological or aesthetic shifts. Others faced censure during their lifetimes but were later reassessed, while many did not receive applause in life or after death.
–What criteria guided the selection in the department?
–The criteria flowed from a deep love of reading. Sometimes authors draw a person in so strongly that one longs to read everything they wrote. This becomes a near vital impulse. The second half of the book centers on the Argentine writer Leonardo Castellani, with the final portion turning to Catalan writers encountered during research on Ana María Sagi. The study in Catalonia revealed a generation of writers from the 1920s and 1930s who were contemporaries of Sagi, offering a richer panorama than the often narrow and stereotyped depictions commonly encountered.
–You mentioned cursed and disturbed writers. Has this sense of being cursed marked your long career?
–A writer who challenges prevailing ideas is seen as cursed or strange. There is a sense of being an oddball. Not many people escape the influence of their time or the country they inhabit, yet there is value in choosing to disrupt the status quo. The stance does not equate to a rejection of one’s place in the world, but rather a willingness to push against it, even if it means facing resistance. One could call such a stance a form of stubborn courage, even when reality makes change hard.
–Is swimming against the current exhausting?
–Yes, tiring indeed. Everyone hopes their words will be noticed and celebrated. Praise can feel comforting, but it is a trap for the writer’s nerves and critical judgment. It can erode the very spark that drives true artistry.
–Why is that?
–Because applause dulls the senses, blunts the sharp edge that marks an original voice wrestling with the world. When comfort rules, there is less incentive to interrogate the times or to sketch the world in a way that unsettles it. While resisting the tide is draining, it yields a deeper, more spiritual richness in the long run.
–The financial side aside, is writing a stable path?
–Writing is not a path to wealth. It requires stubborn persistence. If one stays true and works relentlessly, a modest living can emerge, but not much more than that.
–Has the value of literature been devalued?
–There is a spiritual drought in recent times, and that has consequences for the arts. Art can lose its vitality, becoming purely decorative, and eventually even decorative forms fade. Opera and certain concert arts show signs of struggle, and literature follows that trend. If one compares best-seller lists from today with those from twenty years ago, many earlier works still feel essential in their ambition and depth, whereas much of today’s output seems tuned for quick consumption. The market often favors thrill and spectacle over lasting literary intent.
–Why is this drift happening?
–Literature is drifting toward mere entertainment, stepping away from illuminating the human condition and into routine narratives. The goal remains to engage, but the depth often recedes, leaving room for ephemeral trends rather than lasting insight.
–Can a return to deeper purpose in writing be achieved?
–There is room for optimism. History does not repeat itself; it spirals, advancing and returning in surprising cycles. After a material age comes a spiritual one, after eras that worship beauty, an age of renewed wonder can emerge. Mistakes can teach, and new generations can reawaken the kind of art that moves people.
–Has the Catholic faith shaped the writer’s work in a way that caused conflict within Catholic circles?
–Catholicism often becomes a residue that tests one’s relationship with the wider world. The writer cannot easily detach from the world, so the literature naturally raises difficult questions. The modern Catholic voice may lean toward a softer aesthetic to avoid confrontation, but the author believes serious writing must engage with hard realities. To be a modest Catholic would mean becoming a different kind of writer altogether.
–What projects are in progress now?
–A long, ambitious novel is nearing completion. It is set during the Nazi occupation of Paris and features Spanish writers and artists who were there at that time. It presents a microcosm where figures like Picasso lived and worked alongside exiles and those who chose to stay, offering a vivid, complex backdrop.
–Is Picasso included because he supported Baltasar Lobo, the Wolf in question?
–Not included for that reason. Baltasar Lobo’s life remains shadowy, with scant reliable information available. He wrote about his wife’s exile in Paris, but he did not maintain a public profile. The author could not weave a reliable portrait into the novel, despite supporting documents, letters, and publications from those years. It is a pity not to have that figure in the narrative, yet the texture of archives and testimonies still provided invaluable guidance for the work.