Candaya’s wandering editors have sprouted communities of readers, they have sewn the shores of our language, they have opened the door for essential authors…
He is in his first year of Candayology: the publisher’s name is Cervantino, a fantastic kingdom with which Quijano and Panza undo the wrongs of the giant Malambruno. A pronounced quixote got the project going in 2003. It is a second year in candayology: the seed money comes from the sale of the land on which Olga and Paco once planned to build a house to retire.
Those decisions of almost twenty years ago already wrote what had just happened, the death of Paco Robles on a cold weekday Monday in late January. Working in his editorial team, together with Olga. And when I say ‘work’, I don’t mean those PR activities, salsa and drinks that editorial work is unfortunately often confused with. I mean a lot of work, endless reading, endless routes. Running editors, Olga and Paco have created communities of readers in their wake in these two decades, they have sewn the shores of our language on a coming and going basis, they have opened the door for essential authors. Paying with his weariness, with the resignation of his retirement, an unforgettable literary kingdom has existed for us, his readers. Also for futures.
I don’t know if the books matter that much. After a lifetime surrounded by them, I don’t think they bring much luck. Neither does wisdom, if by it we mean the ability to judge balanced and safe. Sometimes, when I feel like I’m losing faith in literature or a sense of uselessness overwhelms me, I like to imagine a life without books, a non-reading society where no one has opened a Candaya and Paco Robles has never signed a contract. And then I understand them, Olga and Paco. And I would also bundle the blanket over my head. And I would buy an old motorcycle workshop in what, until recently, was working-class Barcelona and turn it into the headquarters of the country’s leading independent publishing house. And I would do it all the same, all the same as them. And he told in a low voice the same jokes that Paco told. And I would draw the same great authors. And I would travel halfway through Spain, accompanying them through the most unexpected circuits of provincial bookshops (yes, even that circular from Murcia given by that bearded poet who signs these lines).
All, all the same except I might have hooked Fernández Mallo by the chest the day he decided to give them up to go to a multi, and I would have yelled at him: But where are you going, you idiot? How is it possible that you don’t realize that the literature is here, that it’s them, they have it in the car?
Otherwise all the same. Until last Monday. If I could If I had known. Because it’s true that books don’t seem like much. Until you imagine a country without Paco Robles. And then you have no more doubts.
Source: La Verdad
I am David Jackson, a highly experienced professional in the news industry. I have been working as an author at Today Times Live for over 10 years, and specialize in covering the entertainment section. My expertise lies in writing engaging stories that capture readers’ attention and deliver timely information about the latest developments.
