Barcelona Metropolis

The books by Blanca Llum Vidal (Barcelona, 1986) serve as a natural amalgamation of interests, readings and idiosyncrasies. Her love and relationships, admiration for authors like Marguerite Duras and Víctor Català, and her grasp of philosophy shape her works, which are imbued with a language marked by poetic intensity. Primarily a poet (La cabra que hi havia [The Goat That was There], Nosaltres i tu [Us and You], Punyetera flor [Damned Flower], Amor a la brega [Love in the Struggle] and Homes i ocells [Men and Birds]), she has also published the epistolary novel La princesa sou Vós [You Are the Princess] and edited the stories of Víctor Català. In her two latest books, Llegir petit [Reading Small] and No cometràs adulteri [Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery], she broadens the scope of thought.

Certainly, yes, quite evidently from my experience in academia. I’m primarily referring to Philology and Philosophy, in which I pursued a master’s degree. I’ve often felt that texts were used merely to illustrate pre-existing grand discourses. I prefer the opposite approach. Some individuals, particularly in Philosophy, whom I consider methodological points of references such as Josep Maria Esquirol or Salvi Turró, choose not to cover everything but to focus on something very specific. I find this approach more honest and respectful towards the texts.

I steer clear of totalisation. In the hermeneutical world, there are quite a few actions that tend towards totalitarianism. You have one person focusing on interpreting Rodoreda, another on Víctor Català, another on Derrida or Adorno, and then they become these experts, claiming to possess the truth. That makes me a bit uneasy. There are individuals who know a great deal about interpreting specific themes; for example, Arnau Pons interpreting Paul Celan. He knows more than I do and most people in the country, but that doesn’t mean the rest of us have nothing to contribute. I don’t defend the idea that a text encompasses all possible meanings either.

It meant a lot to me when I discovered Charlotte Delbo. After reading so many accounts by men, Delbo really struck a chord with me. I also talk a lot about Duras, who is mainstream, but for me, she’s essential. Not just for what she writes, but how she writes it. If there’s any writing that’s influential, I’d say it’s Duras’.

Where I would like to go, which is impossible because I will never be able to do it. And besides, I approach it very differently; language is subordinate to me. Duras has short and forceful sentences, but I like it so much because her language reflects her thoughts! Some people see themselves in how Josep Pla places adjectives; well, I like how Duras does it.

A bit, yes. When I came across Thomas the Obscure by Blanchot, I had to stop every ten minutes. But at the same time, I couldn’t stop, and I knew I wouldn’t leave it. I knew I would read it and ended up writing a thesis on it, along with Levinas. But, how painful, how dizzying! That metaconceptual aspect captivates me. That’s why I’m so interested in the work of Sebastià Perelló. He’s our Catalan Blanchot. And he’s not widely read. Tià is someone with an impressive library inside him.

This is a question I’ve never been asked before, and it’s quite challenging for me. I appreciate it. Attempting to answer is necessary because these individuals have had a significant impact on me. It’s a great tribute. So, let’s start chronologically. Enric Casasses has influenced me most in terms of a certain relationship with the music of language rather than just the language itself – the rhythm, rhyme and song. This has affected the way I recite and experience poetry physically. I started reciting alongside Enric and with many others as well. Enric, through his recitations, has established a significant school. I’m not suggesting it’s the only one or the best, but he has certainly created a school. Initially, people criticised me for being in Casasses’ shadow. Fortunately, over time, people began to distinguish my own voice.

Arnau Pons has given me a library with legs; books that have proven fundamental to me, by Paul Celan, Michaux, Jeanne Hersch and Darwish – all these authors who are not widely read. He has also sparked my interest in questioning Heidegger, as he has thought extensively about him, and in Catalonia, there has been little discussion of Heidegger. What resonates most with me about Arnau is his hermeneutic approach, his way of reading and his perspective on language. I particularly admire Arnau’s epilogue in La mort i la primavera [Death in Spring] which offers a reading of a fantastic novel in a historical and political context, a perspective that hadn’t been explored before. Now, Neus Penalba does, and she further develops it. Neus makes these ideas her own and transcendent.

Maria and I are primarily close friends, but we started out as author and editor, and that’s it. To me, Maria is both the classic and tough editor. She doesn’t churn out books like a factory. We have work sessions together, just like with Montse Ingla and Toni Munné from Arcàdia. It’s a beautiful, old-fashioned process. On the other hand, I find the Club Editor catalogue very interesting. Maria’s way of making the books dialogue within the catalogue is fascinating. This directly impacts the concept of reading small. Maria takes works by Màrius Torres, Coromines and Rodoreda and puts them alongside Lispector, Virginia Woolf and Eva Baltasar… And we understand the specific language in a similar way.

We don’t idealise the language much. We value it. I felt very comfortable editing Víctor Català with Maria. We believe that the Castilianisms and all these things should be retained because they were Victor’s life, his context. Maria is not very strict about language purity. I’ve heard her say that certain purisms can lead to proto-fascist attitudes. It’s somewhat reassuring to hear someone say it so assertively.

Reading, besides being a mental and intellectual act, is first and foremost a physical act. You’re in front of a page, holding it with your hands, smelling the pages. I need to recite the text out loud many times, so there’s also the voice, things that happen with the body. I’m not saying this to align with the modern discourse on corporeality, but when I read, I feel things with my body. When I read La mort i la primavera, I physically experience it. And every time I reread it, I suffer more. I started writing poetry because I needed to say it out loud. It happened with a poem by a poet that I haven’t particularly read, which is Gabriel Ferrater. “Cambra de tardor” [Autumn Room] was impossible to read in silence.

Exactly. They’re right because the world is sexist, and feminism is necessary. However, I don’t intend to speak about feminism in the singular, I refuse to. We should form a common front and build a network, but that doesn’t mean denying diversity. We can have very different thoughts, and Carla Vall’s work and Clara Serra’s work can exist without one accusing the other of justifying rape, which is what has happened, and I find it very serious. Or Mrs. Najat El Hachmi can give a speech and may have transphobic ideas that one doesn’t agree with; but what cannot happen is that because someone says “Let Najat speak, we’ll think about it later”, then Marta Roqueta comes and overrides me, conceptually. I can’t stand this kind of maternalism. As a feminist, I’m concerned about the present moment because there are discourses that end up being authoritarian. And that’s why Capmany helps us to position ourselves, and in the present moment, Clara Serra.

I don’t advocate for an elitist approach to reading, but rather for the idea that if an author is demanding, it’s because they are demanding of themselves. Therefore, the only thing we can do is try not to be lazy. We can make mistakes, not know, ask questions and mess up, but at least we should strive not to be lazy. This has happened a lot, and it has occurred with discourses that serve any purpose.

A very important example is taking Paul Celan and labelling his work as “poetry of silence”. It’s anything but silent. It’s like a kind of bag where you could put everything. It’s very difficult to read; I have to admit that I don’t understand most of the poems, but I want to. Nevertheless, it’s evident that Celan’s work comes from his own experiences, and he denounces the systematic extermination of the Jewish people. He critiques the cultural context that facilitated and created a breeding ground for this extermination.

Literature and life are intertwined. At a certain point, I became acquainted with a part of Catalan Judaism through some individuals. I realised I hadn’t been in contact with Catalan Jews before. It struck me that in Catalonia, the Jewish figure is almost mythical. While there is the Jewish quarter in Girona and those routes through the Gothic Quarter, Catalan Jews aren’t just Maimonides or Bonastruc ça Porta [Nachmanides]: there are contemporary ones too. This seems to unsettle people. In a more extreme manner, this occurs in Mallorca, with the xuetes [a community of descendants of Jews who converted to Christianity under duress during the Spanish Inquisition]. Despite their significant cultural contributions, there’s still abhorrent, historical and ongoing antisemitism. By a fortunate twist of fate, I see that in this community or culture, like in all others, there’s diversity, but there’s also a significant emphasis on reading and the relationship with books.

What’s more, within my ideological framework, which leans towards the left, discussing this issue becomes complex as it often becomes entangled with Israel and the attacks on Palestine, which are horrific. However, Martin Buber [a Jewish philosopher] was someone who didn’t support the killing of Palestinians and spoke out against the massacres by the State of Israel. I understand that this touches a nerve, and I appreciate that. But what’s the difference? Can we read Catholics and separate them from the Church, yet not separate Jews from Netanyahu? That action is anti-Semitic.

For me, the interest in reading her lies in a gender perspective. Not because I want to bring her into the present space. Women predominate in her work in a very obvious way. Then there are creatures, animals, people society considers crazy… Predominantly oppressed beings, and above all, women. Faced with rapes, some are consumed and others are not; there’s one where the woman kills her rapist. If someone is outraged because we read her from a gender perspective, then frankly, I don’t think they’re actually reading her. Perhaps there’s a sexist undertone. I also have to tell you that in 1952, when she published Jubileu [Jubilee], her last book of stories, Víctor Català has a story in which she talks about feminism, using words. The story is about two men discussing feminism, one of them is backward-thinking and the other isn’t. One tries to convince the other that there will come a time when we can only strive for equality solutions. Textually, it’s not an anachronism, it’s real.

She thoroughly enjoyed defining women, but I don’t want to draw any personal lesbian conclusions from that.

I contemplate adultery through my personal interests. I even consider it through the lens of Joan Brossa and Joan Miró. In this book, I wanted to experiment with a new approach, talking about adultery through objects, through things. I have a strong affinity for physical objects. My books are increasingly filled with them. In La princesa sou Vós, there are numerous objects. It embodies a language model reminiscent of Víctor Català, while in terms of themes and positioning, Duras is more prominent. I’m interested in freedom in all its forms, including sexual freedom.

I found this part quite amusing. Suddenly, the image of a healing bandage popped into my mind, and I thought: a bandage is used to heal a wound, so there must be a pre-existing wound; if adultery is a bandage, then what lies behind it is marriage. It can be seen as an injury, something that restricts movement, although I remind myself that I don’t view marriage or conventional relationships in that way. Pledging eternal fidelity is incredibly performative. I’m amazed by people who do it. Deep down, there’s a part of me where tradition doesn’t bother me. I think it’s worth exploring, but it doesn’t necessarily need to be discarded.

When discussing adultery, it’s often perceived as if you’re talking about a sexual free-for-all. This is a risk that women who talk about these things face; people might think we’re just out to sleep with anyone. As far as I know, Albert Serra does Liberté quite calmly. I’m interested in adultery in terms of otherness. I believe that having sexual relationships with multiple people offers the possibility of relating and communicating, with the body, mind and language, in different ways. And by this, I don’t mean that you don’t suffer. I’ve had relationships where the man imposed a polyamorous relationship on me, and I felt bad because I didn’t want it. It’s not that I wanted strict fidelity or to play the possession game; I wanted commitment. If desire slips away one day, that’s fantastic, but as an initial contract, it seems like a very cowardly way to start. I’m neither defending nor attacking polyamory, but it’s not for me.