Interview with David Becerra Mayor, Professor of Spanish Literature at the Autonomous University of Madrid 

David Becerra: “The Signifier ‘Miguel Hernández’ Can Be Filled with Anything”

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Andreu Navarra

A luxurious and comprehensive edition of Poesía completa de Miguel Hernández (Akal) (The Collected Poems of Miguel Hernández) has just arrived in bookshops, prepared by David Becerra Mayor, professor of Spanish literature at the Autonomous University of Madrid. Until now, he had published La novela de la no-ideología (Tierradenadie, 2013), La Guerra Civil como moda literaria (Clave Intelectual, 2015), El realismo social en España. Historia de un olvido (Quodlibet, 2017), and Después del acontecimiento. El retorno de lo político en la literatura española tras el 15-M (Bellaterra, 2021), among other works.

Is the Civil War still a trend?

Novels and films about the war continue to be published and released, though perhaps not at the same rate as during the memory boom of the early 21st century. However, beyond the quantitative aspect, I believe there has been a shift in the narrative, in how the war is recounted in more contemporary fiction. I am thinking, for instance, of films such as El maestro que prometió el mar, novels such as Pequeñas mujeres rojas by Marta Sanz, or the graphic novel El abismo que seremos by Rodrigo Terrasa and Paco Roca. A theme that was scarcely present in the fictions I analysed in La Guerra Civil como moda literaria now emerges: mass graves.

“The impossibility of finding the dead—of naming them, symbolising them—generates symptoms in Spanish society, a complex malaise that is difficult to narrate”

The existence of mass graves and so many disappeared individuals disrupt the triumphant narrative of the transition, that ideological closure which claimed that with the end of the dictatorship, the war was over and peace had been achieved. Yet, the war remains unresolved, and through its fractures, the malaise afflicting a society unable to suture its wounds seeps through. The impossibility of finding the dead—of naming them, symbolising them—generates symptoms in Spanish society, a complex malaise that is difficult to narrate, to translate into language, into a closed and coherent narrative. And in this impossibility, reflected in the cultural products I mentioned, there is a great political potential that, I believe, dialogues with the return of the political sphere experienced by Spanish society—and its literature—after the cycle of mobilisations condensed in the 15M movement.

How did you structure such a vast amount of material, and why?

Anthologies and complete works of Miguel Hernández usually present his poetry in a more or less chronological order. I chose to organise the poems differently, making a decision that is undoubtedly risky and possibly even debatable, but which follows both a methodological and theoretical rationale. Firstly, I wanted to avoid an evolutionist perspective on Hernández’s poetry that identifies distinct phases in his trajectory. Instead, my aim is to inscribe Hernández’s poetic production within its radical historicity—a concept I borrow from Juan Carlos Rodríguez—to understand how ideological contradictions, which are fundamentally historical, operate within his poetry and create ruptures in his conception of reality and literature.

“It is not about thinking that Miguel Hernández adopted communism simply because he evolved from one position to another through intellectual influence”

It is not about assuming that Hernández adopted communism because he evolved from one position to another due to exposure to intellectual circles or changes in poetic preferences—although these factors certainly played a role—but rather that his engagement with revolutionary poetry was determined, or better, overdetermined, by his real conditions of existence, which must be carefully analysed.

Additionally, my edition classifies Hernández’s poetic output into three categories: (1) collections of poetry, (2) publicly published poetry, and (3) poetry unpublished during the poet’s lifetime. This classification allows us to observe how the aforementioned contradictions operate differently depending on the circulation of the poem. Each sphere has its own codes and norms. For instance, distinguishing between poetry published in books and that which appeared in the press helps us see how literary norms were constituted in each historical period, as well as how literary institutions functioned by rejecting some forms of poetry while assimilating others. It also reveals which themes the poet “chose” according to the audience he was addressing. For example, around the same time that Hernández used the book format to compile his most avant-garde and hermetic poetry in Perito en lunas, he was publishing philo-fascist poetry in El Gallo Crisis in Orihuela or odes to the Levantine landscape in the Alicante press. Each medium of publication imposed its own language and constraints. I considered that this classification could offer valuable insights into the relationship between poetry and its space of circulation.

What do you mean by the “hermeneutic death” of Miguel Hernández?

I use the term “hermeneutic death” to describe the process of de-politicisation and de-historicisation to which Hernández’s poetic output—and his figure—was subjected during the centenary celebrations of his birth in 2010. This involved institutionalising the poet by erasing the traces of his political identity, presenting him as a man and a poet, but not as a political subject inscribed in history.

The appropriation of Hernández by state apparatuses as cultural heritage was achieved by severing the link between his poetry and politics, consistently highlighting his human and poetic qualities while avoiding any mention of his republican commitment and, even more so, his communist militancy. I call this process “hermeneutic death” because it signifies the elimination of meaning from his poetry. Once stripped of its political dimension, the signifier “Miguel Hernández” can be filled with anything, and his poetry can be made to say anything. A radically historical vision of poetry must confront such ideological operations, and this is what I attempt to do in this edition.

“The appropriation of Miguel Hernández by state apparatuses as cultural heritage was achieved by severing the link between his poetry and politics”

How is love portrayed in the poetry of Miguel Hernández?

It is profoundly historical and, consequently, problematic. The experience of love is shaped by the way Miguel Hernández confronts and navigates the social contradictions that define his existence. Loving from a sacralised and Catholic perspective—where the body is interpreted as a burden, as that which separates us from God and serves as a constant reminder of our mortality, imperfection, and corruption—differs significantly from loving within a secular conception of the body, where it is seen as a sensitive instrument for the free exploration of pleasure. The former can be observed in Hernández’s early literary production, while the latter is evident in El rayo que no cesa, for instance. However, even within this secular, pleasure-oriented approach to the body, conflict persists, as it is still shaped by a patriarchal unconscious that assigns gender roles—where the male subject embodies desire, and the female object remains ever available, awaiting the call of the man.

Yet, during the 1930s, this unconscious structure begins to malfunction, encountering a reality in which women have already reclaimed their bodies and desires, deciding for themselves how, when, and whom to love. This misalignment causes unease for the poet, who interprets love in a tragic key. However, there is nothing inherently tragic about it; rather, it is a historically situated pain, a consequence of the social transformation of desire and women’s agency, as well as the erosion of male privilege in the realm of love and longing.

You seem to ascribe particular significance to Viento del pueblo (1937)…

Indeed. I argue that with Viento del pueblo, Miguel Hernández establishes a new poetic practice—an alternative form of poetry that seeks to position itself outside the confines of bourgeois poetry. This is a poetry that aims to materialise in the world, functioning as revolutionary practice, thinking from and against exploitation. It operates as a historical document through which Hernández endeavours to capture the lives of the marginalised—their daily struggles, both in labour and on the battlefield. Moreover, the collection is accompanied by photographs, aligning itself with the documentary literature emerging during the Republic, which no longer sought to be merely realistic but to directly reveal reality.

“The poetic and political commitment of Viento del pueblo is not solely about preserving the Republic as a specific form of state but about defending poetry and the people from a fascist assault”

Yet, what also interests me about Viento del pueblo is the way Hernández, in narrating the war, constructs a chain of equivalences in which fascism is not merely defined as a political adversary but also as a cultural and even anthropological enemy—one that threatens humanity as a whole. The poetic and political commitment of Viento del pueblo is not solely about preserving the Republic as a specific form of state but about defending poetry and the people from a fascist assault, which Hernández depicts as an entity that exists beyond culture and humanity itself. In this sense, it is no coincidence that the collection opens with an elegy dedicated to Federico García Lorca, a figure who encapsulates and embodies the values of both people and culture.

Why did Juan Ramón Jiménez not respond to Miguel Hernández’s letter?

I do not know—perhaps because in the poem he enclosed, Hernández misspelled the surname of the poet from Moguer, writing it with a g… Jokes aside, what interests me about the letter that Hernández addresses to the “venerated poet”, as he calls him, is that it reveals a clear strategy for positioning himself within the literary field before embarking on his first trip to Madrid in November 1931. On the one hand, he seeks the endorsement of established poets to help him gain recognition. Yet, the letter also demonstrates how Hernández deliberately constructs his own literary identity by highlighting the features that define his subordinate social position: he presents himself as the poeta pastor (shepherd-poet). What could have been perceived as an element of otherness—marking him as an outsider within the bourgeois literary circles of the capital—is instead reappropriated and transformed into a distinctive trait, defining his singularity.

What is Miguel Hernández’s theatre like?

This edition focuses exclusively on his complete poetry, so I do not conduct an exhaustive study of his theatrical works. However, I do highlight moments where his theatre engages with its historical context. This is evident in his first auto sacramental, Quien te ha visto y quien te ve y sombra de lo que eras, where he establishes a parallel between the social body and the human body from the same sacralised perspective I mentioned earlier. Just as bodily passions must be disciplined to avoid sin, so too must workers and peasants be disciplined to prevent them from joining revolutionary movements and disrupting the social order. Later, following the 1934 Asturian Revolution, Hernández attempts to write a social drama titled Los hijos de las piedras. However, despite his intentions, the play remains unconsciously anchored in the sacralised perspective he is trying to break away from—though he does not fully succeed. Later still, during the war, he endeavours to create, as he does in poetry, an alternative form of theatre—a new theatrical practice.

“With theatre, Miguel Hernández sought to make a living as a writer—something that was never possible with poetry”

Theatre played a crucial role in Hernández’s career. With theatre, he sought to make a living as a writer—something that was never possible with poetry. Additionally, it was through theatre that Hernández had the opportunity to travel to the Soviet Union as part of the Spanish delegation attending the Fifth Soviet Theatre Festival in September 1937.

Why were Maruja Mallo and Benjamín Palencia significant?

Hernández’s engagement with the Escuela de Vallecas, particularly with Maruja Mallo and Benjamín Palencia, coincides with an ideological crisis that led him to rediscover nature and rural life from a secular perspective. In his early poetry, nature was often inscribed with the signs of God, appearing perpetually threatened by the corrupting presence of humankind, modernity, and progress—as exemplified in El silbo de afirmación de aldea. However, from this point onwards, he reconciles with a secularised nature, where the poetic subject projects his most profound emotions onto the solitude of the mountains.

Why do you highlight the poem Sonreídme (1935)?

It marks a rupture with his early poetic production. Miguel Hernández ceases to be the finest lyrical poet of Spanish Catholicism—as Pablo Neruda described him upon their first meeting—who viewed labour as a sacralised activity that placed humankind in harmony with God. Instead, he begins to conceptualise labour in terms of class struggle and sweat. In this poem, Hernández frees himself from temples and tabernacles, as he states, to climb the mountains and develop social consciousness—to see himself as part of the collective and in solidarity with the oppressed. It is a poem that no longer seeks to reconcile class struggle through religion or fascist ideology but rather embraces the necessity of struggle as the path to emancipation—a world free from exploitation.

“Hernández frees himself from temples and tabernacles, as he states in the poem, to climb the mountains and develop social consciousness”

What is your favourite poem by Hernández?

This is the most difficult question. There are many—beginning with Sonreídme, which is genuinely one of my favourites. But also, others, such as El herido, La canción del esposo soldado, Aceituneros, El niño yuntero, or Menos tu vientre—many of which have been popularised through the renditions of Joan Manuel Serrat and Paco Ibáñez, now integral to our sentimental education. However, if I were to choose a lesser-known poem, I would highlight Las manos, from Viento del pueblo, which dramatises class struggle through the contrast between two types of hands: those superficially dirty and calloused from labour—yet fundamentally pure and clean—versus those outwardly pristine, clutching crucifixes, yet inwardly defiled, contaminating all they touch. Moreover, the poem is accompanied by a photograph that, according to Rafael Alarcón Sierra, who has rigorously studied the imagery of the collection, is most likely by Tina Modotti.

Source: educational EVIDENCE

Rights: Creative Commons