Fernando Aramburu: "I'm concerned that a part of society is questioning democracy."

Fernando Aramburu (San Sebastián, 1959) arrived in Buenos Aires as the International Book Fair enters its final week before closing. His latest work is a collection of short stories titled Hombre caído (Fallen Man) (Tusquets), and the first impact comes not with the first story, but with the cover.

Ready for the interview with Clarín , we told the notable Basque writer that the aforementioned man who falls on the cover of his book brought back the tremendous and indelible image of a man falling headfirst from one of the Twin Towers during the terrorist attacks of 9/11 in 2001.

The author of the painful novel The Child is surprised. “Oh, gosh, I hadn't thought of that. You're right. You were right in assuming that we chose the image with the editors, and it was difficult for us to find a suitable illustration. We thought it was appropriate because it's not too explicit and it ties in with the title. The main reason is that it shows a human being in an everyday setting, but in a position that isn't normal. I think that defines the spirit of the book, starring normal, everyday human beings who interpret something unexpected, anomalous, unusual. But now that you mention it, come on, I won't forget it again. What always surprises me is that readers see beyond what I thought when writing the book,” he says, pondering the cover.

After that monumental novel Patria , which sold 41 editions in Spain alone and was later turned into a hugely popular television series , Aramburu has explored several genres. Novels, first, such as Los Vencejos and El Niño , to name the most well-known, and also essays such as Vetas profundas , a literary delicacy in which he reflects on poets and poems.

These stories from Fallen Man have a fascinating internal tension from the reader's perspective , because the writer narrates seemingly simple, close, trivial or everyday situations, but deep down the atmosphere he builds increases the tension in the plot and we rush through the reading to free ourselves from that tension that foreshadows something we ignore.

Regarding the title, Aramburu has previously said: “ I have a habit of naming my short story collections after one of them . Initially, I followed my intuition; it seemed like a euphoric title , a story that captured a certain spirit of the times. Then I heard some readers' interpretations, which I found very illuminating. In the end, I became convinced that this particular story is a kind of metaphor for our times.”

It is the last story in the book and is about a man who has fallen to the ground, and who is surrounded by a group of curious people without helping him get up.

Aramburu says he feels a little inhibited about coming to present this book of short stories in none other than Argentina , the birthplace of so many extraordinary storytellers he mentions as a reader and admirer: Borges, Cortázar, Quiroga, and the list goes on. The Basque writer has lived in Hanover for many years.

He's a European writer with three cultures: that of his Basque Country, that of Spain, and that of Germany , which allows him to analyze political issues with great common sense. At 66, he remains a keen observer, intensely curious. When we asked him about this trip to Buenos Aires, he added that he feels "at home, because Buenos Aires is very similar to Madrid."

This was the conversation between the famous Basque writer and Clarín .

–Your characters react to everyday situations in anomalous ways, revealing a dark side. Is this so common in people?

–I couldn't say that without incurring in some kind of generalization. I'm neither a psychologist nor a sociologist, but I am a constant observer of my fellow human beings, and I don't think I've ever told anything in my stories that wasn't possible or that I hadn't observed. In life, all my literature is written in the same way, with this conviction that I have that we all enclose a kind of inner chamber, where our weaknesses reside, where the unspeakable dwells that we don't want others to know, but that literature is capable of bringing out. My literature is almost an invitation to look through a small window into the inner self of the human being. I wouldn't say that general conclusions could be drawn.

–After The Child , you're coming up with this collection of short stories. It seems like writing short stories is more complex than writing a novel. What do you find in this genre?

–Primarily, a creative joy. It's not a genre that makes me suffer. But I also find it a very stimulating challenge. What I do is shake up literary creation with a particular disposition that isn't the same as the one I have with other types of texts. In fact, writing articles isn't something I undertake when other supposedly superior tasks leave me time. Not at all. I'm a constant writer of stories that I accumulate. Every so often, I make a selection, in agreement with the editor, and publish them. I discard many; not all of them pass the quality test. I've already written three samples with this book of stories (referring to three books). And if my health holds, I intend to continue writing stories. I'm not an occasional visitor. I confess that the Aramburu who writes stories is completely different from the one who writes novels and the one who writes articles. I have a different creative personality. I'm not a novelist who writes stories. I open my closet where my different creative personalities reside and dress in the one that is most appropriate for the type of work I am proposing.

–You say you've been an observer of your peers since childhood. Why?

–I'm someone who looks at my fellow human beings, but what interests me about them isn't making a documentary or conducting analytical research. Rather, I'm interested in practicing exercises in curiosity. I know that my fellow human beings are much more than what one apparently perceives. There's a whole world of gestures, smells, voices, and clothing that I find fascinating. I've done this exercise since I was a child and have never stopped practicing it. And it also proves very beneficial for my work. For example, I'm talking to someone and, in a more or less discreet manner, I'll notice their hands, take note of their hairstyle or their perfume, and take note of parts that aren't the most sensitive, like their shoulders. But I don't do this for scientific purposes. I'm amazed by the realization that one is not alone in the world.

–When you meet your characters, as in this book, the reader perceives that they are just like in real life. The line between fiction and reality is blurred. Is this a deliberate device?

Achieving this is, for me, the ultimate goal. I truly try to avoid a glass or membrane-like barrier that allows people who read my books to feel safe, to believe that nothing will happen to them. That's why I deliberately choose characters who are quite similar to ordinary people. They are characters to whom events happen that are close to ordinary people. In any case, in everyday settings. For me, no other type of literature is legitimate. Some people feel helpless when I comment on this. We are vulnerable, but we are not who we think we are either. Within us is a whole string of personal situations, from the past and present, which are often visible even in our physical appearance. I then transfer all of this to my literature. It's not uncommon for me to meet someone who says to me: "It's just that my father..." or "It's just that my mother-in-law..." and I already feel that that character has spoken to them. I like to achieve that.

–We live in a time where isms seem to have become more pronounced: individualisms, personalisms, populisms, nationalisms… As a European, how do you see it?

–That's part of the political game from which no country is immune. There's a current phenomenon: any event today is amplified by social media and the ease of communication across the planet. This can lead us to believe we're facing a catastrophic moment, but it's the same story as last century. The only thing is that we're more interconnected. Something that happens in Argentina makes the Spanish press, and there's no longer any need to board a caravel and cross the ocean to find out what level of inflation there is here. I look it up on my cell phone. Because of this same feeling that we don't grasp reality, I've been overwhelmed by this flood of news, developments, and events, so much so that I quit a weekly column I used to write for a newspaper because it overwhelmed me, and I wanted to retire and write my literary work. And then you know, evil is more newsworthy than good. Evil disrupts social equilibrium, engenders violence and destruction. On the other hand, the good and the peaceful generate neither action nor problems.

–Aren’t you worried about the rise of ultra-nationalism?

–Yes, of course, they worry me a lot; above all, because I come from a city that had a hegemonic nationalist movement (San Sebastián), which also had a terrorist version. I'm concerned that a part of society questions democracy. This doesn't leave me indifferent. And then, there are some sectors that we label as nationalists, who want to seize the levers of power at the expense of democracy; we can't accept this. I'm concerned because I have daughters and granddaughters, and we expect them to live in a dignified and developed world, with rights and guarantees. So I'm not indifferent to what surrounds me. There's always that modern tyrant who gets himself elected democratically and, once in power, breaks the social pact, assumes all power, destroys the opposition, and imposes his totalitarianism. This was invented in the 20th century, and we must be very careful because it's still prevalent.

–Could we see Fallen Man as a metaphor for the times we live in?

I wasn't aware of this when I wrote it, but I've heard very perceptive interpretations that point in this direction. It doesn't surprise me; for me, it was enough to have modern citizens play a role in my stories to naturally capture the social profile of my time. I have no problem accepting this interpretation. My stories don't feature fantastical beings, but rather ordinary citizens, probably very similar to ordinary people, and sometimes even the places where the story takes place are named. So it's clear that I'm deliberately socially situating the protagonists in a real-life setting.

–Which short story authors do you like to read?

–I like many, fortunately it's a genre that has produced great masters…

–In Argentina we have several of them.

–The short story, to put it bluntly, is an Argentine specialty. It would be very strange for a short story enthusiast not to frequent Cortázar, Bioy Casares, Borges, Horacio Quiroga, Mariana Enríquez, and so many others. We have paella, the French have their wine, and you have the short story writers (he says with his Basque humor). And then there are many others, a certain Poe, a certain Chekhov, a certain Aldecoa, there are so many others I would have liked to have been influenced by and to have been them. But I don't have a thermometer to know which great short story writer, man or woman, I don't care, has influenced me. But something will have stayed with me after having read them carefully. As a writer, I put a magnifying glass on those who inspire my admiration to find out why their stories are so well done and what it is about the talented and skilled authors who have written such excellent stories. Then I try to steal their recipe… I'm ashamed I came here to talk to you about short stories! (laughs).

–Some short story writers say they turn to the territory of childhood for their literary works, given that we love stories so much as children.

–Stories, like songs, are human beings' first contact with fiction. I think children who are told stories at an early age are very fortunate. They can explain the world to them through fables and tales. That pleasant relationship is never lost. Human beings are incessant consumers of fiction. This doesn't mean we spend all day reading, but we watch movies or tell each other stories about our joys and sorrows in conversations. In other words, we have the ability to add reality to the reality we're immersed in. And we can feel privileged, even when it comes to explaining phenomena. You don't explain what envy is to a child, but you tell them a story about a king who couldn't stand that another had a more brilliant crown. That descriptive approach never ends in our memory or our lives.

Fernando Aramburu's books are located at stand 917 of Grupo Editorial Planeta in the Green Pavilion of the Book Fair.