A Portrait of a Priest, a Novel of Memory, and the Quiet Power of Faith in Life

Touch this book and you touch a figure who lived on the edge of faith and art. The subject is a Colombian priest, a man of many facets: a lover of music, a cinephile who forgives none of the world’s melodies, and a friend whose life threaded through literature. He drew in Luis Córdoba, among others who did not profess belief in the God he served, a paradox that frames the portrait the author presents in this novel-like memoir. The work, published by Alfaguara as Salvo my heart, all is well, is a dialogue with silence as well as speech. When he speaks, and even when he remains quiet, it seems he peers inward, as if filming the scenes that later populate his writing. Thus, the interview unfolds as a listening of sorts, every answer inviting a longer gaze at the persisting moments captured in the Madrid publishing house’s shelves. The discussion begins with the book’s suggestion and moves toward the life events that would become the material this author had to relive to tell the story.

Hector Abad Faciolince. alba vigaray

How does such a book begin?

Books seed themselves by planting a seed of meaning long before the first word appears. The person at the center of this tale, El Gordo, arrives with a heart already in motion and moves into a house that becomes a stage. In 1996 the writer believed it to be only a seed for a story, but the seed did not forget. It resurfaced during the pandemic, bringing discomfort that suggested a reason to write. The craft of novel-making requires a rare devotion: years of labor, listening to friends who nudge and caution, until a story breaks free. A friend who dies for love becomes a novel; a physician, married and about to retire, whose life ends abruptly, also births a story. The novel nestles inside another novel, and El Gordo encounters two people who must matter for his tale to feel true.

What does it take to forget for a novel rich with memory?

Everything. The writer recalls Alicante this spring and finds not a single recollection that seems sure, yet a few insist: a priest waiting for a heart transplant stays vivid, a friendship remembered only in fragments. Much is forgotten, yet the act of writing survives through the voices of others. The writer often claims a romance by describing events that happened to others as if they belonged to him. In that sense, the book becomes a romance built on borrowed shadows and shared recollections.

How did the friendship with the priest emerge?

The bond began through a mutual passion: Italian Neorealism. The priest translated films, having studied in Rome, and the writer learned that behind a burly exterior lay a man who loved cinema, stories, and later, music. Their friendship grew around shared meals, long conversations, and a quiet accord about belief. The priest showed, not argued, that music could make room for faith. Their companionship endured across travels and reunions, rooted in hospitality and the sense that goodness could exist in imperfect ways.

Does forgetting extend to intimate memories that shape the book?

Yes, very much so. The writer describes moments of forgetting as a frequent companion, sometimes useful, sometimes perplexing. Walking down a street, a face appears and dissolves before recognition, yet a greeting is offered as a possible sign of affection or a simple courtesy one cannot verify. The process of writing often blends memory with what others recount, producing a narrative that feels both personal and collective. This is why the book reads as a romance of memory rather than a straightforward memoir.

This book is a memory, yet the author claims forgetting as well.

Indeed. The author sought to depart from himself while still channeling truth through another voice. He has moved within anti-clerical currents in past works, yet the epidemic’s toll on his mother shifted his stance toward celebrating the idea of good priests. A moment from his youth—being expelled from college for a piece about the Pope—frames a memory of maternal support and a stern warning: those who challenged him were not as just as they seemed. The mother’s Catholic faith coexisted with a sharp awareness of flaws, and that tension helped mold a decision to write about benevolent priest figures with honesty and humility.

The kindness pursued in the book resonates with a fatherly kindness the author revered, even when the author could not imitate it fully.

Though the author does not claim to be a heroic savior, he honors those who shaped him by writing about good fathers and the ripple effects of their actions. After a difficult breakup that sent his children to Italy, his priority was to support them and maintain contact. In Colombia the family network often centers on mothers, yet he was blessed with many paternal figures who offered guidance and care. Writing became a way to pay respect and to bear witness, a method to document life without erasing its complexity.

What have the books given the author in return?

The life of writing has filled his days: reviewing, editing, translating, publishing, and sometimes failing. A bookstore venture failed because the author lacked sales instincts, yet the library and publishing house remain. Decades spent reading, drafting, and refining shaped a career in which some works thrived while others did not. The author candidly acknowledges failures, the thrill of creation, and the stubborn, persistent pull of words. The journey has been long, filled with both satisfaction and struggle, a lifelong devotion rather than a single triumph.

Do all books pull the writer toward his own autobiography?

Yes, to some extent. Each project invites a confrontation with self, even when the goal is to step away. Before a major surgery, he shared the manuscript with his agent, hoping it would outlive him. The reality of medical intervention—heart surgery, cardiopulmonary support, the fear of permanent harm—becomes part of the narrative texture. The writer survived, and the experience is recounted as part of the book’s restless search for life and meaning. The text reads as an act of assisted breathing—fragile, intense, and necessary, even when the ending feels unresolved.

The book’s conclusion mirrors a preference for life, even if the final pages carry a weightier sorrow, a question about whether the survivor deserved to outlast the others.

Has the pace of writing changed over the years?

It has shifted toward a slower cadence. The author chooses to linger on statements, layering sound and memory so the prose breathes. The world’s noise—Twitter, radio, articles—has receded, making room for longer, more deliberate sentences. The intention now is to pause, to listen, to observe the subtle tremors of life that shape a story.

How does the book handle the scars that time leaves behind?

Books themselves leave scars, and the author accepts that the process of writing is painful yet peaceful. The goal is not revenge or hatred but release. The text seeks a sense of calm that follows the storm, a possibility that life can move forward even after heavy truths are voiced. The ending is cautious, and the author remains curious about what may come next, hoping the next chapter will be kinder.

What is the meaning of the past in these pages?

The past appears in fragments and rhythms rather than a tidy timeline. The author admits imperfect memory, playful misremembering, and a recognition that some logs stay faithful while others drift. The voice travels, gathering fragments from friends and experiences, translating them into fiction that feels authentic and alive. One memory leads to another, and the reader glimpses how memory and invention can share a single heart’s truth.

There is a line about the dream of being good and happy, echoed in the author’s work. It remains a guiding thread, even as the road to that ideal proves long and winding. The writer keeps walking, inviting readers to join the journey and discover the fragile, human beauty that persists through memory and faith.