There’s a whole generation of talented young Spanish writers (mostly women but there are some men, too) who are saying, “we were sold a lie that freedom is all about being alone, unattached, not having a family or any property. Now we are in our thirties and we are miserable. This kind of freedom sucks. We’ve been robbed.”
“I have fancy trips to Thailand when my mother at this age had a kid, a husband, a mortgage, and a bunch of kitchen appliances. And guess what? I’m miserable in a way she never was,” one such artist writes.
Most importantly, these are talented artists. They are creating art that grows out of their disillusionment with the neoliberal idea of freedom from attachment, family, and property. They aren’t buying the Great Reset slogan of “you’ll own nothing and you’ll love it” because they already figured out that they are being had.
This is why I love Spanish literature. While their Anglo counterparts are still chewing the stale cud of identity, young Spanish artists are talking about things that matter. You pick up a novel by some random unknown kid in Spain, and it’s a punch in the gut.