Francisco Rico in His Kitchen and Conversations with Time
Out in the suburbs, where once he shaved as if speaking Latin to the mirror, there he stands, waiting for the journalist. Francisco Rico, a Spanish language genius. A friend to all who now live as memories of the generation that included Juan Benet, to whom he has belonged since youth. Rico is eighty-three, and today his skepticism rests there. He has dedicated his life to dialoguing with Petrarch, Dante, and Cervantes, though those Italians barely spoke to one another, and he speaks little about most of what he knows, choosing not to overtalk anything at all.
Thus, now that Arpa publishes a volume of his studies on his most cherished ancestor, Petrarch, he opens the door and points the way forward. From the very start, Rico is the same man who always seemed ready to break every protocol, like the Beatles in a memorable moment, a person who grunts about the weather and then ends the meal, arriving to the table like the English do for dinner: early and late at once.
He is shaved now, so there will be no more “mirror scene.” The journalist sits across from him, and Rico points to other books that help him recall, finishing his meal with a careful, almost ceremonial pace, and there they are, in the kitchen where, word by word, he reveals his tastes and his dislikes about life, sometimes reluctantly.
A stylish smoker, he never lets a cigarette burn out without having another ready. But neither the journalist nor the atmosphere finds his habit excessive. Throughout a long conversation, his smoke never looks like aggression; it feels more like a direct reflection in the eyes of a mirror.
Those eyes—Rico’s eyes as always confronted the interlocutor with calm assurance—soft, firm, a smile that makes you understand you’re listening to a scholar who keeps you in your place: not like that, not how it happened, but are you dense or what? Then he laughs, like a boy returning from life, still the same man who spoke softly but clearly.
The published volume on Petrarca serves as a leitmotiv. Rico refers to it and almost spells it out. He jokes that he remembers little, or nothing, yet as minutes pass in that kitchen, he becomes meticulous with the details and, in the sense of disdain or fondness, terrible or affectionate about his opinions.
Speaking with Rico has always been a pleasure and a challenge. The journalist now leaves the kitchen door open so readers can hear all the answers he offered to the questions proposed. He began by complaining about anything happening, but in the face of his beautiful home and his neighborhood, the journalist said there was no room to complain about that. So they started there.
Is beauty something he complains about? Or not?
About everything else, really.
Is it the work? No, not that either.
About health? He says he has health but sometimes forgets things. He doesn’t quite know what to say, but if asked about Don Quixote, he would probably remember it. If a specific question about Quixote is asked, perhaps he would recall. He suspects his first recall of Quijote came from Riquer, Martin de Riquer, and wonders how it all happened. Maybe he was assigned a task and Riquer spoke to him about Quijote. When did he first read Quijote? Very young, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, a friend gave it to him, and although it did not grab his attention at first, he read the whole thing in one go. Later he read Quijote to prepare several editions of it. He isn’t sure he has read it straight through again, his memory wandering ahead of him.
Me gusta escribir bien y, sí, procuro escribir bien
Since Riquer, Rico has always been among scholars. What did that life bring, being among the wise? He doesn’t quite understand that phrase exactly, but he notes that his work centered on a book that changed literature, and he knows a lot about it. He has also moved within the circle of wisdom with Jaime Gil de Biedma, with Juan Benet, with Javier Cercas, with Javier Marías, with Muñoz Molina. He was surrounded by wise people, perhaps more than he admits.
What have they given him? Perhaps a sense of being well among them. Gratitude—that is the word. But in truth, he did not learn everything; he drew close and learned a few precise things. He recalls a question that asks him who the wisest author was who taught him something. He isn’t sure; perhaps Riquer, perhaps Cervantes or Don Quijote. He has no exact answer. He remembers his first days at school, starting very young when the family lived near a school, crossing the street to learn to write with a teacher. That could be a wonderful memory. And yes, he likes to write well. He continues to affirm that writing well matters.
Reading and writing shaped his wisdom. Wisdom, he says, is not to doubt or to question; it is to go straight to the point. In this Petrarca volume, there is both the diary of Petrarca and an analysis of how he faced times and others. Everyone is remembered, in a friendly sense, as if one had spent time with them. Bocaccio, Rico notes, is more cordial than Dante.
To Bocaccio, Petrarca entrusted a garment to keep him warm; Bocaccio was playful, careless, and wrote about everything he found without order or concern. The passion for Laura mirrors the affection and the admiration they both felt for Petrarch. Perhaps Laura is a figure that gathers all the positive aspects of women of Petrarch’s world. It is uncertain whether she was Petrarch’s wife or not; perhaps she was symbolic of many things.
What first drew him to Petrarch? Probably Riquer. Riquer bought books on Petrarch for the department library, and asked Rico to work on a cancionero, a version of the cancionero, which he did, starting from a flawed sixteenth-century translation by Enrique Garcés. Did the assignment fulfill him? He did not always obey, but he did not resist either. He did a long article about Ripoll for a Lamarck pamphlet and kept digging because the topic interested him.
La sabiduría es no dudar, no preguntar. Ir al grano, diría yo
He shares a remark about facing other writers like Petrarch and Cervantes. He tries to bridge them with the present, acknowledging that Petrarch’s calm, objective view of the world is not his own nature, yet he admires that approach. Petrarch’s life as a traveler and writer is a model for a modern reader, a person who was always seeking new referents and yet staying grounded in a sustained cultural project. He notes that the humanist method extended beyond Petrarch and influenced many of his peers and successors.
Petrarch’s work is a sign of contemporary relevance, Rico believes, not merely historical. He suggests that the Petrarch who endured to become a modern cultural figure helps explain why his work still resonates with readers today. He insists that Petrarch’s modesty about influence and his attention to the particulars of life are what make him timeless.
Yo soy vanidoso. Pero no es una vanidad indiscriminada. Es una vanidad motivada por quien puede dármela
That drive for recognition is shared by many writers and artists. Rico explains that his own vanity has a clear target: a public figure or a form of acknowledgment that he earns through his work. He concedes that seeking applause from fools would be pointless, and that his vanity is justified by the people who make him feel comfortable and respected. He admits, though, that if he were not writing, there would be nothing to say, which makes sense in a career built on words.
He reflects on a particular Petrarchan landscape—the Milanese garden—where inner focus and cultivation intertwine. Does he need such seclusion to cultivate his own garden? No, he says, not really.
Yo he escapado mucho del mundanal ruido. No he querido publicar cosas de mucha divulgación, por ejemplo. No, no me ha interesado ese público
Escaping the noise of daily life has been a recurring impulse. He has avoided writing for mass audiences, not pursuing the broad, divulgative path. Of all his publications, one stands out for him, perhaps a project that includes seven volumes, an expansive look at the small world of the man and its broader implications beyond Spain.
And while he may be the editor of Cervantes’ Quijote, he regards that achievement as meaningful for the personal pleasure it provided more than as a lifelong crown. He believes good books are often written by those who have faced adversity, sadness, and disillusion—because happiness often leaves little reason to write. He adds that to write well, sometimes one must remain a bit wild.
In earlier years, he confesses to leaning toward a more artificial, ornate style, preferring to place Cervantes within a certain hierarchy rather than Góngora. Yet now, he remains certain about his stance and its evolution.
Si estás feliz y contento y satisfecho de ti mismo, no tienes ninguna necesidad de dar la lata al personal
When asked about contemporary writers who could approach his own tastes as a reader, he mentions a few names and then admits that some he has never really read, like Javier Marías. He notes a long, deep friendship with Benet, even if he did not share the same reading habits. He also expresses admiration for Josep Pla and Eduardo Mendoza, who bring humor and originality to their work, and he keeps a notebook of new reads ready for discovery.
Another topic: Eurovision. He dismisses it as a non-existent festival for him, albeit with a sense of humor. He jokes about a current song called Zorra, reflecting on the resignified nature of words and how cultural phenomena persist in unexpected ways.
As the interviewer presses with more questions, he continues to probe why things exist and why people pay attention. He closes with thanks and warmth, a sign of a conversation that felt intimate yet rigorous, a portrayal of a thinker who invites the reader to look at the world through Petrarch’s lens, while keeping a modern, personal voice alive in every line.