Reynaldo González (Ciego de Ávila, 1940) is an odd case among Cuban intellectuals. Disregarding groups, circles and cliques, his interest for all cultural manifestations, beyond any elitist exclusions or populist opportunisms, his ability to understand, his extraordinary friendliness which softens a bit his sharp tongue, his lack of bitter feelings-despite having suffered during the 1970s, with rare dignity, the hardships of what has come to be known as the "grey quinquennium (or decade)," an especially intolerant and searingly unjust period of Cuban cultural policy-make him a very dear person to writers, musicians, playwrights, artists and actors, without distinction of age or aesthetic inclinations.

Narrator, essayist, journalist, anthropologist, poet and editor (the order of the factors does not alter the product), author of around fifteen books, several of which are essential reading to understand not only the culture of the Island, but of Cuba and its people, his work has earned him a number of prizes: the Italo Calvino and the Juan Rulfo Awards for novel and short story, respectively); the national literary critic's prize to the best books published in the year, on four different occasions; the Award granted by the Cuban Academy of Language; the National Literature Prize in 2003; and the National Cultural Journalism Award "José Antonio Fernández de Castro" in 2007.

In his home of El Vedado, very close to 23rd Street, surrounded by plants which he lovingly cares for, a chatterbox parrot, light and airy furniture, and art work by Cuban artists, the writer welcomes us with a glass of cold papaya juice and a hot cup of coffee in preparation for our dialogue with him.

“You were an avid listener of radio serials. To what extent did these serials awaken the writer in you?”

We were very poor when I was a child. We were three orphaned brothers with a young, hard-working and overprotective mother, especially with me, as I was the youngest of the three. The 1940s marked the radio serials boom with adaptations of international writers, such as Tarzan and Superman, or Cuban writers, such as Los Tres Villalobos. On Monday, my mother used to bring from the house where she was in service, the Sunday paper with the comic strips, thanks to which I learned to read before I ever attended school. Moreover, she herself developed in me a passion for words, and let me tell you something that, thinking about it now, I think I've told on very few occasions. She took an old accountancy book and prepared a page for each letter of the alphabet and invented a game that palliated the lack of toys: "What does this word mean?" She would find a word that was new to me, copied it in my book and in the evening we would look up the meaning. Just as other kids collected stamps, cards or coins, I collected words.

I also had a cousin who was ill and he subscribed to different book clubs from Argentinean and Spanish publishing houses, and thanks to his loans to me, I read just about everything since I was eleven or twelve: Stendhal, Sartre, Lope de Vega or Kafka, Don Quixote or The Magic Mountain. Obviously, not all was 'fitting' for a boy of my age, nor did I understand everything I read, but it triggered a desire to write-in spite of not having lived enough-a very existentialist, very European literature that resulted from my readings. When I was nineteen, I had the good sense to burn my first novel.

Radio serials were something else, it was like dreaming. For Félix B. Caignet, the author of the well-known and much adapted El derecho de nacer [The Right to Be Born], radial serials should be a spectacle to be "seen" with your ears. I loved Dick Tracy, a sort of superhero detective in the world of crime.

I also wanted to be a painter and I even had an exhibition in Ciego de Ávila, but I found out in time that I was colour-blind and saved myself from “discovering” impressionism or fauvism long afterward they had been invented.

As you can see, my first culture was formed by humble and popular elements. In time, I became more demanding, and I am a self-taught person, with all the advantages and inconveniences of this learning method.

“After so much studying and writing about Cuba, of searching for Cuba in the contredanses performed by black and mulatto musicians, in the repression the colonial society supported itself on; in the tobacco roads and the delights of its cuisine-your recipe book Échale salsita. Comida tradicional cubana, is proof that Cuban cookery goes beyond the monotony of congrí (rice with beans) and pork to which certain cooks are set on reducing; in its politicians and schemers; in its cinema and paintings; in José Lezama Lima and Che Guevara, does the Island continue being 'that mystery that accompanies us', expressed by Lezama on José Martí?”

For me, Cuba is not only a mystery, it is a fascination. I enjoy living among Cubans; I walk down the street listening to everything, from a guaracha to a joke, with all the philosophy of life they contain. My books help me answer questions about Cuba. In order to describe La fiesta de los tiburones [The Feast of the Sharks] I worked for five months in a sugar mill and became friends with a whole bunch of old guys whom I played dominoes and drank cheap rum with, and I learned from their wisdom. Another glorious day was when I met Don Fernando Ortiz through Miguel Barnet. Ortiz gave me his Catauro de cubanismos [Catauro of Cuban expressions] and when I was surprised at the fact that it was not arranged in alphabetical order, he asked me if I knew what a "catauro" was, that is, a kind of basket, like a box, made of yagua which is used to transport a little bit of everything. I greatly enjoyed his spicy Cuban humour. It was like meeting a guru, a sage of what I was interested in-Cuba.

If anyone finds that my books are useful to them it is because they answer my own questions, my attempts to know Cuba from Cuba itself. My books teach Cuba, and that is a joy to me.

“With a collection of works all focused on Cuban topics, you surprised your readers with a change of scenery and style, your novel Al cielo sometidos. What motivated this change? Was it a journey into your origins?”

I have been an avid reader of the classics and I love the Spanish language. I had devoted myself to writing essays for many years and was eager to write some 'lies' and go back to being the god any narrator becomes. I was interested in the Spain that hoped to eliminate, literally through blood and fire, the other two monotheist religions-Islam and Jewish religion-which coexisted with Catholicism; the Spain immediately before the start of Columbus's great adventure, the Spain of the Reconquest and the Inquisition, the Spain that brought to America its greatness and its miseries. And I was interested in tackling the topic from the perspective of sin, the rogues, the underprivileged, the brothels. I wanted to write a paean to language and compared everything the narrator and the characters speak with an etymological dictionary, adding on the way a few current "slipups" to conform a kind of 'virtual' Spanish, which can be a pain for translators. Now, this passion for language should not be surprising at all because I have enjoyed and taken great care of its use in all of my works. It is no accident, for instance, that Argelio Santiesteban profusely quotes my book La fiesta de los tiburones in his valuable dictionary of Cuban colloquial language. It has been is a gratifying novel: it has been edited in Spain by Alianza Publishing House; it has been published in Cuba three times, with each edition sold out almost immediately-of course it has the added attraction of roguishness and eroticism, which we like so much here; it was translated into Italian and will be translated into English soon. So contemporary readers must have found something in common with that remote period that provides the setting for my novel, which I feel is a defence of personal liberty and a criticism of dogmas-any type of dogma-of intolerance, of hypocrisy.

“When you were presented with the National Literature Prize, on this solemn occasion you said that 'a good insult in time fortifies your mental health'. Have you resorted to the use of this healthy resource many times?”

In Cuba, as everywhere else, the cultural life has its systoles and diastoles, and a writer has to show character, with critics, with editors, with so many people. I rebel against excessive authority, against inordinate order, whether open or shrouded. In this regard, I am like the surly Negro slaves who used to say: "When His Excellency calls me Your Worship, either I'm screwed or he wants to screw me." This irreverence has been necessary for me to be able to survive many trials with dignity.

“After a steady rate of publication, especially as of 1998, you have not published anything since 2004. What is Reynaldo González up to now?”

Lezama sin pedir permiso will be out shortly. This is a book which includes essays, lectures and articles written by me about my friend, the great Cuban poet José Lezama Lima, who was also an outstanding essayist and author of Paradiso, one of the great novels of the 20th century. Right now I am working on Félix B. Caignet, la sensibilidad popular, which focusing on the author of El derecho de nacer, the father-and mother even-of today's soap operas, examines the shaping of a sentimentality, of a way of thinking which develops in Cuba, in particular, from the frustration of the revolutionary situation of the 1930s. This book is like a case study which incorporates aspects of Cuban culture and traditions, and I conceived it with the typical design of a magazine where pictures have a lot of weight, and the inclusion of other writers' texts which allow me to make observations, elaborate, expand on.

The first issue of the quarterly magazine La Siempreviva, which I direct, was launched just a few days ago. It is a wide-ranging publication devoted to Cuban literature, with no whimsical exclusions or inclusions, with which I take up again my vocation for magazines, as in the 1960s I was editor in chief of Pueblo y Cultura, predecessor of Revolución y Cultura, of which I was also chief editor, and I also directed Page Three, the cultural page of the Revolución newspaper. As you can see, I haven't stopped working, which is the best antidote against the rigours or the too many tributes.

Published works:
. Miel sobre hojuelas (short stories), 1964
. Che Comandante (historical journalism, several authors), 1967
. Siempre la muerte, su paso breve (novel, first mention Casa de las Américas Award, translated into French, German and Polish) 1968
. La fiesta de los tiburones (testimonial narration), 1978
. Contradanzas y latigazos (essay, Critics Award), 1983
. Lezama Lima, el ingenuo culpable (essay, Critics Award), 1988
. Llorar es un placer (essay, Critics Award), 1989
. Cuba, una epopea meticcia (essays), 1995
. El bello habano. Biografía íntima del tabaco (essay), 1998
. Cuba: una asignatura pendiente (essays), 1998
. La ventana discreta (essays, articles, lectures), 1998
. Échale salsita. Comida tradicional cubana (recipe book), 1999
. Al cielo sometidos (novel, translated into Italian, Italo Calvino Award, Critics Award, Cuban Academy of Language Award), 2000
. Cine cubano, ese ojo que nos ve (essay), 2002
. Envidia de Adriano (poetry), 2003
. Espiral de interrogantes (essays), 2004