Francisco Rico is portrayed as one of the most cultivated and versatile scholars in our circle. He comes from a venerable scholarly tradition that feels distant from contemporary times, deeply informed, and with a keen interpretive judgment that makes listening to him and reading him always rewarding. He is radical in his proposals and unafraid to push his ideas into any discussion, even if it means challenging listeners or provoking disagreement. He may be right or wrong, yet the chance to challenge him remains a valuable invitation. Without any fixed premise there can be no real counterargument.
Rico has just published a book titled Petrarca (Arpa Editores, 2024), which offers an appraisal of both the life and the work of a figure who consistently sought objectivity. The author himself explains, without hesitation, that he stands far from the academic archetype. Rico seems to relish that distance. His work appears curious, thought-provoking, and even exemplary, showing how a well-informed intellectual can recognize where to draw from to improve, while presenting a fresh examination of the idea of secrecy, a concept the new volume engages with cautiously as it unfolds.
As time passes, and age nudges people toward caring less about others’ opinions, a conversation with Juan Cruz published in ABRIL/Arte y Letras reveals that Rico has never read Javier Marías and does not intend to. That fact invites readers who once adored Marías to reflect on the reasons behind their own tastes and critiques. Engaging with the great minds means wrestling with them, sometimes opposing them, and stepping out of one’s comfort zone. In Rico’s presence, that kind of intellectual challenge is not only possible but almost expected.
In a fringe space, Rico remains a storyteller of language, a genius of Spanish who has long dialogued with Petrarca, Dante, and Cervantes, all the while speaking with restraint about what he knows best and avoiding chatter on every subject. Now that Arpa has published a volume on Petrarca, Rico opens the door and points the path we should follow, presenting himself as the same Rico who never shies away from breaking protocol. He mutters something about time and the weather, and then moves to the meal at hand, arriving early yet staying late, as if British manners dictated the pace. The book serves as a leitmotif and, at times, he even spellbinds us by quoting it almost verbatim. He remembers little, yet the kitchen conversations are precise, and the observations are careful, tender, or biting as the moment demands. It has always been a pleasure and a challenge to converse with Francisco Rico.
When did he first encounter Don Quixote? A candid recollection follows: it was very early, perhaps at fourteen or fifteen, given by a friend. The reader devoured the text in its entirety, even if it did not grip him at first. Since then, he has engaged with Don Quixote repeatedly in various editions, and admits that he may not have read every word from start to finish again, cautioning that memory can drift with time. The most learned figure Rico claims to have learned from may be Riquer, or possibly Cervantes himself or Don Quixote, but the exact figure remains open to interpretation.
He remembers the moment he started school and realizing that learning would be central to his life. He was very young, just three years old, living opposite a school on Balmes Street and learning to write with a teacher. The idea of learning as a lifelong endeavor still excites him. He cherishes the art of writing well and makes it clear that he strives to do so consistently. Reading and writing have produced wisdom, he suggests, though wisdom may not always mean having all the answers, but knowing when to get to the point and skip the fluff. In the Petrarca book, Rico radiates a sense of certainty that only true scholars carry. He notes that his Petrarca is more often approached in prose than poetry, since the prose epistolary tradition resonates more with him, and even when Petrarca wrote in Latin letters, they align closely with modern essays in their clarity and depth.
What first attracted Rico to Petrarca? Likely the spark provided by Riquer. He acquired several Petrarca volumes for the department library and was asked to craft a cancionero, which he did. He has never been particularly obedient, but he has always believed that such explorations yield something worthwhile. He tends to form bridges between Petrarca and himself, observing that Petrarca held a serene, non-provocative view of the world, a quality Rico himself does not claim for his own perspective. Petrarca’s insistence on traveling and writing about diverse matters marked him as a modern figure, and Rico acknowledges that his own approach mirrors the humanist idea of extending Petrarca’s method to a wider circle of thinkers and readers.
Petrarca, as Rico notes, embodies an aristocracy of spirit that was not concerned with mass appeal. Yet, Rico senses a societal engagement in Petrarca through his personal commitment, a willingness to influence others. Some might call this egotism, but Rico sees it as a broader impulse: to be a representative, a symbol of a certain kind of knowledge. Among the most enduring questions is whether Rico himself models any of Petrarca’s traits. He concedes that while elements of this persona appear in all of his books, he does not pursue such a fixed identity. His vanity is selective, driven by opportunities for meaningful recognition from those he respects. He acknowledges that the real vanity lies in the act of writing certain works or postponing others when the moment feels right for the right audience.
Escaping the noise of the world is something Rico has often done. He has stepped back from popular divulgation projects because they did not attract him. The question of whether editing Cervantes constitutes his greatest achievement is answered with a candid appraisal of the physical edition of Don Quixote he prepared for the Academy, a project that remains a source of personal pride and collective enjoyment. Rico suggests that great books tend to come from authors who are a little melancholic or disenchanted, arguing that genuine contentment would diminish the urge to share with others. This belief feeds his conviction that a touch of savagery is sometimes essential to good writing.
Looking back, he finds that he was more artificial and ornate in his earlier years, though he acknowledges Cervantes as a central figure and later became convinced that the classic can be repositioned within modern context. When asked about contemporary writers who match his reading tastes, he mentions Galdós and Baroja, with less certainty about others. His friends include Marías and Benet, though he confesses he has not read Marías extensively. A reward of honest friendship, he adds, is enjoying the company of fellow writers even when their work is not a direct influence.
When asked which author remains a source of inspiration, Rico highlights Josep Pla for his indefinable genre, and Eduardo Mendoza for his humor and originality. Mendoza’s freshness becomes a priority for Rico whenever he seeks something new. In a playful moment, Mendoza asks Rico how he positions himself regarding the Eurovision Song Contest, a topic Rico dismisses as irrelevant, noting a contemporary song with a provocative title only as a cultural aside. Rico remains fascinated by the questions that drive inquiry: why something exists, why it matters, and why people sometimes stop asking why altogether. The conversation closes with a lingering sense of curiosity about the ongoing journey of learning and the enduring allure of Petrarca and the medieval mind in a modern world.