You have brought us two very different stories for this summer, but I would say that both have a common point: childhood. Are the times when we were children the best material to create literature about summer?

Many of my childhood memories are linked to summers, that’s true. But I haven’t written them especially for this reason, I don’t think so, because I make a lot of decisions about writing intuitively and without a lot of reflection. A long time ago I had the idea of writing until Divide, a slightly erotic tale associated with the sounds of the Biscayan language. And once I wrote that Waterloo, even then going back to childhood, with the first story –then yes– to create such a wholeness or something.

Another of the characteristics that unite them could also be the loss of innocence. But I find it strange: the first contact with death in the first story is not traumatic at all; and on the contrary, the discovery of sex is...

It is almost imperative to write about the orphan to speak, perhaps, of such a loss of innocence. I don’t know but it seems to me that every discovery in childhood changes us and all these revolutions make us what we will be next, so from the moment we are born we lose the innocence of a child who doesn’t even know that the world exists as we discover the vertices and thorns and pleasures of reality. Death and sex, since these are probably the two extremes of human experience, well, I have spoken about them when I went to childhood.

I thought you played with the taboo of Divide Art. Is Basque literature too moralistic?

Society is too moralistic and we are all too moralistic. Some strict moralists even tell anyone how to live. Others are moderate moralists, too strict with themselves. Perhaps we all have this inner moralist who wants to punish us and who feeds on our fears to justify himself. It's a pleasure to tell that disgusting fellow that he has no motive.

Another possible link: the prohibition or authority of both Waterloon and Zatart is explained. It’s family in both: Uncle Anton in the first; Izeko Mari in the second.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my relationship with authority lately but the truth is that I wouldn’t know how to tell these two characters that come from there. Yes, but I'm fascinated by our relationship with authority. As children, we inevitably have to follow the authority of certain people. We are born completely helpless, we need that guidance. If we are lucky, it will be a guide full of love. But as we grow, how do we free ourselves from this command? To what extent do we always look for childhood endorsements? That fascinates me.

The protagonists try to escape this command: are small revolutions the only ones possible?

Without the little ones for any other difficulty, perhaps? There was a German philosopher, Erich Frömm, who said that we are rebellious because we are intelligent and that rebellion is the first act of declaring that we are not children. Rebellion means that we ask about the world and understand that there is this thing called “reality”, this chaos that eats us. But that there is also something called “us” that can dialogue with reality and sometimes even win small fights.

We knew you as a novelist until now; after the marathons, have you easily managed a sprint of 100 meters?

I find storytelling difficult. I'm easily lost and stretched. But it's a really good exercise for me to try on. The story forces you to the synthesis and I like to play that game. I have a favorite genre as a reader and I’ve been tempted as a writer for a long time. I admire storytellers, a lot. I’m curious because they’re always asked “and the novel when?” As if the novel were the next or better or more complete of the story. And it's not. Two genres, two different pleasures.