Nothing sadder than writing a friend’s epitaph. We have been for many years and for several decades we have been seeing each other with a frequency that only began to decrease when age decided that the main obstacle to doing something was ourselves. Our meetings had nothing academic: eating, drinking, commenting on current events, criticizing others and telling jokes. When he reluctantly and with the utmost indifference had to leave his refuge in Sant Cugat and go down to Barcelona, if we didn’t eat together, he would then come home to take a nap.
Sometimes we talked about books, of course, and I was the one who came out on top: with Professor Rico you always learned something. What I mean is that he appreciated above all his affection and his sense of humor. The last times we saw each other he was in poor shape. But since he spoke about his ailments with the brusque tone and an impertinent point with which he always faced setbacks and, in general, those who disagreed, I didn’t take him too seriously.
This time too he was right. Those who were not lucky enough to have him as a friend will remember him for what he was: a great researcher, an author of important books and an extraordinary teacher. He dedicated his life to Spanish literature of the Golden Age and managed to embody its prototypes: he was a nobleman, a rogue and a poet.
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