Antonio Robles passed away, leaving behind a legacy as a remarkable reader. His longtime friend, Arturo Pérez-Reverte, who began publishing at a young age with the house where Robles dedicated his career, wrote about him when this distinctive figure became the subject of a new work. Alatriste. He remained a man of 45, a pipe in hand, and a steadfast believer in the power of books.
Robles always smoked a pipe and walked with the gravity of someone searching for a seat on a drifting ship. He wore a constant frown, yet carried a restless humor, often laughing at his own shadow. Books, his sisters, and the many women he admired were the compass of his life. Among them were colleagues at Alfaguara, where the author had known him for years. Antonio passed away recently at 74.
In a text written by Spain’s leading writers for Vocento newspapers, Pérez-Reverte spoke about the ability to read and to persuade with what is read. Those who directed the publishing house depended on his judgment and valued his opinion. “He reads with seriousness”, noted Tango, a veteran editor, “he judges decisively and never falters.” Amaya Elezcano, a trusted editor, would testify to the esteem with which Robles was held, frequently receiving manuscripts from him. The editor lamented the difficulty of predicting how many copies would be produced in a month, yet Robles consistently bridged the gap with a small margin of error.
Pérez-Reverte’s profile extended beyond mere commentary. In truth, his sharp technical instincts led him to challenge passages and even remove lines at the end of a section that depicted intimate action. “About masturbation”—Robles spoke with quiet gravity—”I know more than anyone else. That portrayal is not feasible.” The exchange underscored Robles’s commitment to integrity in literary craft.
He was candid about love and luck; his friendships and the companionship of women—both within the publishing house and beyond—were a source of lasting happiness. Those who knew him described a man surrounded by supporters who mourned his loss while celebrating the joy he brought to every conversation. His friendship formed a steady beacon in a crowded industry, a testament to the kindness and generosity he offered.
A farewell gathering brought together many close friends, and the recollections there reinforced a memory of Robles as the legendary reader associated with Pérez-Reverte, Alfaguara, Rafael Chirbes, Nuria Barrios, and others who valued his insight. The shared stories confirmed that he lived for the act of reading and the conversations that followed, a true mark of his rare devotion to literature.
Pérez-Reverte described him as a habitual, voracious reader, someone who devoured titles from Paul Auster to Don Quixote and Faulkner. His appetite for literature was evident in the way he carried a stack of books and a bundle of manuscripts, always knowing which ones held merit even before opening them. The author was a confidant and a trusted interpreter of the life of a man born in La Carolina, a person whom many in Madrid felt they had truly come to know through his reading.
Among Robles’s aspirations, one remained tantalizingly unfulfilled: a shared fantasy of admiring the iconic Marilyn Monroe. Yet Pérez-Reverte and other editors understood that Robles’s real enchantment lay in turning pages, the smoke around his pipe framing scenes where captivating heroines stepped into the narrative. To him, the ideal woman was a person whose presence enlivened the stories he loved—a sentiment echoed by those who witnessed his devotion to literature.
He was a genial man with a sharp intellect, moving slowly yet thinking with remarkable speed. He often joked about the profession’s obsession with trivial details while valuing the deeper meaning of the text itself. Reading, to him, was a form of love—perhaps the truest and most enduring kind.
On late nights, the editor who counted him among trusted friends would glimpse him returning home, carrying parcels. When the parcels contained manuscripts, Robles could tell at a glance which ones deserved a closer look, whispering in his own quiet way about their potential.
He left three sisters, Pilar, María, and Carmen, as well as the affection of his daughters and grandchildren. A wide circle of friends inside and outside the publishing house formed a substantial part of his life, a life defined by quiet, intelligent reading. When discussions turned to the books he was reading, his eyes would brighten, inviting others to share in the moment.