In a country where literary awards sprout with the same cheerfulness as bars—and often serve a similar purpose: gathering the usual crowd—the emergence of the Aena Prize in Spain has sparked a curious phenomenon: the sudden appearance of experts in literary prizes. Not in literature, mind you, but in literary prizes, which is a distinct and, apparently, far more profitable discipline.
Yesterday, it was announced that the winner is the Argentine Samanta Schweblin, but the debate has been framed as a higher-stakes issue: whether one million euros can buy prestige. The question, naturally, is poorly phrased. Prestige is not bought; it is simulated. And in that regard, the new award invents nothing. As some analysts noted, the prize was born surrounded by predictable suspicions: favoring established authors, reinforcing major publishing houses, and offering few surprises. In other words, exactly what the literary system has been doing since the printing press was invented.
One of the most repeated arguments—delivered with that tone of gravity that usually announces the obvious—is that awards serve to “give visibility” to valuable books in a saturated market. Translated: they serve so that someone else can decide for you which book you should read this year, saving you the trouble of making your own mistakes. There is nothing new under the sun: every prize, from the humblest municipal contest to the venerable Booker, performs that same promotional function with metaphysical pretensions.
More interesting is the selective moral indignation. Now comes the controversy over whether Schweblin’s book is “worth it” or not, while some experts will continue to label the prize money “obscene,” as if literature were an activity that should be remunerated in library vouchers and discreet pats on the back. However, the obscenity doesn’t seem to lie in the million itself—which is nothing more than a round, photogenic figure—but in who hands it out and who it ends up reaching: suspiciously, those who were already seated at the table. Because, as several observers point out, the prize seems to lean toward established authors and dominant publishing circuits. That is to say: they are rewarding the already-rewarded, but now with jet fuel.
The most delightful case is that of the writers themselves who participate in this legitimizing mechanism: some as jurors, others as commentators, others as potential candidates for future editions. One might say we are witnessing a perfectly rehearsed choreography in which everyone denounces the system while discreetly checking if their name is on the shortlist. As one columnist ironically noted, the jury is composed of authors who “could very well win the prize themselves next year.” Nothing scandalous there: it is the circular economy of reputation.
Meanwhile, the inevitable comparison with the Booker Prize hovers nearby—that aspirational horizon invoked with the same faith one mentions the Champions League while playing in the third division. But even those who defend the prize acknowledge that the existence of a major award guarantees nothing like a solid consensus on quality. Trying to compete with it remains an endearingly Spanish gesture: wanting to arrive late, but with more money.
Deep down, this entire debate has a touch of carefully choreographed posturing. As if someone had suddenly discovered that literary prizes are arbitrary, debatable, and deeply self-interested. What a scandal! At this stage, the truly novel thing is not that a million-euro prize exists, but that anyone pretends to be surprised. Because the Aena Prize isn’t here to corrupt a pure system: it is here to make a mechanism that has always worked this way more visible, noisier, and better funded.
Image: Samanta Schweblin’s Website
