Why do we tell stories? Because narratives gift us with powers to survive the uncertain and momentary tales we live. Mario Vargas Llosa’s philosophy of writing centres on literature as a transformative act—an exploration of human complexity, power and rebellion that challenges reality while reflecting it. He viewed the novel as a space to confront societal and personal truths, blending autobiography with invention to create “autonomous” worlds that provoke and illuminate. Admittedly, the illumination was often not beautiful, but it was always revelatory.
Vargas Llosa believed writing was a way to interrogate power structures and human desires while crafting stories that rival reality. In his essay Letters to a Young Novelist (1997), he describes novels as “a secret way of knowing reality, of breaking through the prejudices and platitudes that make up so much of our everyday vision of things”.
This message connects to his debut novel The Time of the Hero (1963), where Vargas Llosa first critiqued institutional power and conformity in a Peruvian military academy, showing how collective structures crush individuality—a precursor to his explicit rejection of tribalism later.
In our world, the insight that a tribe or a group is dictatorial is even more valid. Whether it is social media or identity rights, we see how even small groupings can be viciously authoritarian. What’s cancellation if not a death sentence of sorts ordered outside the law of the land?
Once upon a time, the great mythical confrontation was Man/Woman vs the State. That is no longer the case. The fight now is three-cornered: State vs Group vs the Individual. When we follow a viral tweet, we become a tribe. Critiquing it could result in an instant boycott.
In The Call of the Tribe (2018), an intellectual autobiography, Vargas Llosa articulates a defence of classical liberalism, arguing it is the best safeguard against the “call of the tribe”—a term he borrows from Karl Popper to describe the human tendency toward collectivism, nationalism and authoritarianism that subordinates individual freedom.
Vargas Llosa’s core message is that liberalism, with its emphasis on individual rights, free markets, limited government and freedom of expression, offers the most effective framework for democracy and human flourishing, countering ideologies like communism, fascism and religious fanaticism that prioritise the collective over the person.
It was Anton Chekhov who said that politics is best kept off a novel. Vargas Llosa’s novels are nothing if not political. He knew more than most that a random signature by a minister could mean heartbreak for hundreds of unseen men, women and children. Think of Gaza, for instance.
For a debut novel, The Times of the Hero breaks in on us with such assurance that after a point we no longer care who is talking what: the shifting points of view often in the course of even one paragraph is an unsettling experience; but we are in the presence of a magisterial novelist.
The Time of the Hero echoes Jean-Paul Sartre’s epigraph—“Man is condemned to be free”—with its focus on choice within oppressive systems. Man’s existential loneliness was Vargas Llosa’s guiding theme: “We’re all alone, Poet, we’re all alone and we’re all scared. That’s why we make up stories, to feel less alone, less scared.”
Vargas Llosa once said the novel was “a kind of settling of accounts with the world I came from”. And as we know, the world mostly wins. The Time of the Hero was put to fire by the Peruvian army before it became, paradoxically, a bestseller. The army’s position was clear: criticising us is anti-patriotic. We in India believe we are a fair country. Yet, a fair society is one in which it is possible to critique what it holds close to heart. Try doing it, and we will quickly learn how free we are.
Over decades, Vargas Llosa’s philosophy matured but stayed consistent. In Conversation in the Cathedral (1969), he deepened his structural complexity to probe political corruption, while The War of the End of the World (1981) universalised his themes through Brazil’s history. His shift to liberalism in the 1980s influenced later works like The Feast of the Goat (2000), where he balanced historical critique with accessible storytelling.
His final novel, The Discreet Hero (2013), reflects a mellowed but still incisive philosophy. Written at 77, it’s a lighter, more linear work set in contemporary Peru, blending crime, family drama and moral dilemmas. Two protagonists—a self-made businessman and a wealthy patriarch—face blackmail and betrayal, embodying quiet resistance against greed and corruption. The novel lacks the formal daring of The Time of the Hero, but aligns with Vargas Llosa’s later aim to reach broader audiences.
He called the novel “a tribute to those who persevere”, echoing his lifelong focus on individual agency. Unlike the raw anger of his debut, The Discreet Hero offers cautious optimism, reflecting his evolved view that literature can inspire as well as critique. Yet, the novel’s Peruvian specificity—its slang, landscapes and social tensions—shows his unchanged commitment to rooting universal stories in local truths.
From The Time of the Hero to The Discreet Hero, Vargas Llosa’s philosophy remained anchored in literature’s power to dissect reality and affirm freedom. The early rage against institutional cruelty softened into a broader humanism, and his experimental structures gave way to accessibility. Yet, both novels share his hallmark: characters who resist, however imperfectly, and stories that transform personal struggles into universal truths. Vargas Llosa’s whole project of literature was to make Man feel less alone.
C P Surendran
Poet, novelist and screenplay writer. His latest novel is One Love and the Many Lives of Osip B
(Views are personal)
(cpsurendran@gmail.com)