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In memory of Paco Uriz | Spain newspaper



A few years ago, when we paid homage to his Swedish friend Peter LandeliusAnd Paco Orez He encountered some of us who came from abroad, as well as with the Greek writer Theodore Kalifatides, who came to the Cervantes Institute in Stockholm, to meet with the aim of honoring one of the great benefactors of the Spanish literary language abroad. Once the farewell ceremony was over, Paco and a fellow Greek resident like him in the Swedish city had just posted in Spanish Another life to live They went for a walk near Uriz’s house. They talked about anything, including cars, until they found a coincidence between the two that was very funny and made them talk for a long time. They both had the same mechanic.

It was a strange, detailed conversation, as if the two of them were boys exchanging cards at a school where they had just met. Then they said goodbye and I stayed with Paco, who took me to his house, where Marina was, his wife, and where his son once came. In front of his computer, sitting sideways as if in a hurry, he looked up various materials on the issues raised by this journalist, and from time to time got up to report on his findings. When, after a while, my classmates Country They asked me to try to guess who might have been the Nobel laureate that year, which was the first or second outbreak of the epidemic, I took up again, from Madrid, with inquiries about those who seemed better off. He always had time for everything, and this time he was also calm. I interviewed him for this, and he answered me, both orally and in writing, as diligently as he was efficient. From time to time I asked him for favors, typical of a journalist devoted to literary culture, and He never said he didn’t have time or was doing something else.

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Then he no longer ran La Casa del Traductor, which he had kept for ten years in Tarazona (“until the bureaucracy killed me ””). He devoted himself to poetry, wrote essays, and was available for life, dividing it between Zaragoza and Stockholm., although it could have been located at both sites almost simultaneously. He never refused to do any favour, and whenever I asked him to meet, sometimes in Stockholm, and when he was in Zaragoza, Paco was always there, careful and quiet. The last time I saw him in person we had lunch with him Erin Vallejo And with her husband Enrique Mora, movie Maker. He marked them with questions suitable to their jobs and lives, and always carried on a conversation about everything to make others, whoever they may be, the protagonists, being he, as if a journalist, the one who fulfilled their curiosity by asking them questions.

It was a long time I remember it as part of a piece of music, the music that grew out of Oriz’s way of life: harmonious, incisive, full of the grace of someone who knows how to highlight the baggage of his wisdom. These two young men who were with us, she was indeed one of the most important writers of that part of the century in which he and I had already grown up, witnessed that part of the Oriz which he did not boast either, being so abundant as such a treasure that distinguished him: Elegance devoting himself to others more than his resume.

Once, closer to this time, I called his Zaragoza home. As happened so many times, I waited for his jokes on the phone (about football, about writers whose egos amuse them, about the changing political life, about anything) but Marina told me he wasn’t home or wasn’t available. And I had a bad feeling that for some reason Paco was already off call, because he was sick or tired. Then I wrote to him several times via email, which was witty, prompt, concrete, and infallible in his use, but I had no luck either. Life brought us back that last aspect in which crying is nothing but farewell. As if a part of me, my way of communicating with others, was left unanswered, I was missing Uriz, my conversation, my friend, and letting the opportunity one day bring him back to using one of those little slot machines he also made fun of.

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Finally, it was this Wednesday, traveling from one thing to the next, when I got a message from Irene Vallejo. She knew the amount of pain in her words and the extent of the pain she conveyed to me. You never know how much you love someone, how much you respect them or how much you admire them, until this last warning (“Warning: Ignacio Aldequa is dead”) Carmen Martin Gate farewell to Ignacio Aldeco When that primary friend of yours died) has no place, one thinks one will always have the privilege of those encounters, and it happened at that very moment that the warning was terrible and final when I could tell, like lightning, how close I was to Uriz, how much joy and how much Complicity and how much affection. From that bad and grave news I sleepwalking, oblivious, and looked for his presence among many newspapers, among his books and in my volumes.

In one of these, I found an interview I did with him and I don’t know when. Moving from answer to answer, about Delibeson me Scyllaon me Quevedo As for GracianFor anything, between laughter and truth, I found this penultimate answer, which now comes to my aid to complete this farewell to the meticulous, happy, benevolent and wise friend. Tell me, of the no longer existing Latin writers who dreamed (or had dreamed of) the Nobel Prize: but they died, everyone died. The last one talked about [para el Nobel] It was Bolaño, but he flew. Now I can’t assure you, but I don’t think there is a novelist or writer – if we consider those close to Vargas Llosa – who have won awards& rdquo;.

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Never giving himself any importance, he lived in the joy of being Paco Uriz, and many of us who deal with it know what the light is like when it is off because such people leave us. The silence that his absence drowns us in can only be removed from his poetry. Written in the name of A in the memory (In Remembrance, September 1976, It appears on page 409 of full hair) This phrase that marked the beginning of a poem of that name, in the memory: “This is not for anyone! .- Marina & rdquo;.

Absent any seriousness, his personality was as in Neruda’s poetry: “Man is destined to love and say goodbye.” This is not for anyone, Marina.

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