"We All Live Off What We Kill"

"We all live off what we kill." In times of scarcity, not only do we compete, but we also devour. This is the ethical and emotional landscape that runs through 'Danger of Collapse', the novel that has returned to bookstores ten years later. Written in the heat of the great economic crisis that struck Spain a decade ago, it echoes with relevance today. Its author, Pedro Simón, describes the content of its pages as a mirror of wounded dignities, invisible struggles, and humans pushed to their limits.

In this conversation, the author—caught between journalism and literature—does not hide behind the book. He speaks with the voice of someone who has faced the harshness head-on: that of unemployment, mental health, guilt, precariousness, and the subtle violence of a system that chooses and "unchooses" at will. "That feeling of not being chosen is very insidious," Simón emphasizes.

But there are also beacons and hope, standing firm to illuminate the anonymous in their heroic process, all those people who endure each day without epic or applause. "The truly interesting people are those who don't seem so," a quote pointing to what he aimed to convey in 'Danger of Collapse'. The tremor, the edge, and the dignity clinging to the brink. He will discuss this on Friday, May 9, at his debut in the literary evenings of Maestral.

One does not decide to reissue books; readers do. It was a book that was unavailable, extinct in print. Espasa has decided to reissue the work exactly ten years later. I always say we must think of that time. In the first quarter of 2009 alone, there were nearly 800,000 unemployed more; in 2013, unemployment hovered around 28%. It was a time when there were 500 evictions each day. Spain was like a 'Mad Max' movie in a ravaged country landscape. From there, this novel is born: nine characters in search of a job, a human resources director, and that pulse they move between guilt, shame—things one feels when unemployed—low self-esteem, and also between dignity and hope. These are two coastal beacons the book holds.

Of all my novels, this is the one most indebted to journalism. Many of the book's protagonists are shaped with clay from reporting. Many are people I had in front of me, but their lives are fictionalized and have a different flight. I have not kept in touch with them because journalism gives meaning to the other's pain, tells it, but then it's wise to distance oneself because empathy is sometimes a dangerous artifact. Necessary, but dangerous in abundance.

Although it seems we are in a different situation—and it's true, because the economy is not doing badly now—there are keys that challenge us. I see many uncertainties: in climate, in relationships, in geopolitics, in energy... I would also say professionally, with the issue of artificial intelligence. When there are many replicated uncertainties, there is always a danger of collapse, isn't there? There is a seismic movement of low or high intensity that can affect the pillars. I look back at that time with fear and hope that the tar that covered everything does not return.

It is not current, but cards were dealt that came to stay. It was in that era that economic power managed to harness political power, and political power harnessed journalistic power. There are ways of relating to work, there is something of devastation in everything related to the union movement that came from the last crisis and I don't think it has recovered. Many things were taken by that tide and have not returned. Worse than before? I don't think so; time always moves forward, never backward.

Yes, these are issues that are there. They are the arches of the novel, in which the theme of mental health, job precariousness, the feminization of poverty... All these issues relate to asymmetries and inequalities. Chirbes, with whom I had a relationship, said that "money is everything when you have it, but when you have it, it makes what you lack more evident." He also said another thing, that "we live off what we kill." This is seen in the book. The nine are a kind of predators trapped in a methacrylate urn—that would be the ecosystem of then—and there is one job, but nine seeking it. One becomes carnivorous, and the predator preys not only out of hunger but also out of fear. This happens in the book: all the characters live off what they kill.

The system is the other, and the other is always to blame. One is never at fault, always exempt, on the sidelines, always a victim. I detest this view, but it is very Spanish and always present. What is in the book is the feeling of being 'unselected', that exposure generated by the system. Do you remember when you weren't chosen for a football match as a child, or your first love left you because they wanted to be with someone else? That feeling. In the work world, it's the same when there is a layoff, a redundancy, or someone has to be let go from the company and you are 'unselected'. That feeling is very insidious. Everyone in that waiting room has felt that way in life and wants to re-enter the system's wheel.

I don't like to solemnize journalism much, just as I don't like to solemnize the self. I believe that everything related to solemnizing the self is a sign of poor mental health; while solemnizing others is a sign of good mental health. A journalist is like a taxi driver, taking people on a journey, nothing more and nothing less. Perhaps like a psychologist, you take the other's pain, put it in black and white, give it meaning, and make it a lighthouse for the community. That's telling stories, nothing more. Making people stop to look where they don't want to look. That's what writing is about, whether it's a report or a novel. To move forward, I answer myself, and I remove that solemnity from the self.

I think living is risking and being on the edge, on the ledge. No matter what you do, because happiness is the absence of pain and sometimes a single call or message is enough to ruin your life. These nine people looking for work in the book had more or less structured lives, almost all, until they were left without support, until they were left without a way to bring money home. Money, that necessary and demanding thing. What the protagonists teach me is the heroism of the anonymous, which exists. Jesús Montiel said, "I spent my whole life chasing people who seemed interesting, but over time I realized that the truly interesting ones are those who don't seem so." Among those anonymous, there are many heroes, people who make decisions every day to support their own, to not let their dignity and decency be stained. And it's good that we look there, to those places that are in the shadows but are very bright.