This afternoon, at 5:00 p.m., we will remember Carlos Calderón Chico with respect and under the pretext of the next World Book Day. The merciless time makes us count ten years after his death, but no matter how young and early one was in the culture of Guayaquil, his name had to be heard. I am saddened to see that I have several important Carlos in my personal duels and expose this life as a survivor, which he remembers and writes.

It would be good to remember in what time and circumstances a person enters our own circle. I come from a long and close friendship with Carlos Calderón, but I can’t pinpoint when it started: I see myself in my vehicle with him by my side, on repeated trips while we live in the south of the city; I hear myself included in conversations that consider the literary activity around us. The relationship grew closer; I met his family. I, an opponent of the telephone, had countless conversations with him to plan a public act, to write a book.

Carlos was obsessed with accelerated activism. He promoted presentations, directed editions, tirelessly nurtured his library, which thanks to his pocket money became one of the best stocked in the city. Sometimes he would invite me to visit bookstores very early on Sundays, to look for those first editions and rarities that he was chasing. I am now housed in a house on Tulcán street, he has covered all his walls with hangers, even the bathroom, to accommodate such a valuable contingent. And as his status as a scholar transcended the realms of literature and extended into history, he redoubled his interests and scope. Many times he admitted to me his concern for the fate of that library, which he generously opened to visitors. Foreign explorers sat at his table to read and eat.

Carlos was a teacher, journalist, researcher, cultural manager. And he did it all with passion…

He was very understanding of my reading requests. I remember presenting him with the first book, Literature, authors and more, 1983, and I was serious about the typographical and editorial weaknesses the book showed. He calmly accepted it and better followed up on the impression of those who followed. He chose me to present the edition country notebooks which the University of Guayaquil put into circulation, under his direction, one happy night in which Jorge Enrique Adoum, Francisco Tobar García and Rodrigo Pesántez Rodas were sitting together in the hall. “Old vagabond” – as Tobar signs himself – collected my words in an unforgettable column.

Carlos was a teacher, journalist, researcher, cultural manager. And he did everything with enthusiasm, an energetic voice, and an ardent pen. I learned about the rigor and thoroughness with which he prepared his interviews. He was close to many personalities from the country and had them parade through Barricaña, where he held four years of intense cultural activities. In this scenario, we intended to launch Adoum’s candidacy for the Cervantes Prize.

Carlos was a book man. He always walked with several under his arm; he planned others; I found them in different cities of the country. He spoke of them with the love he had for his children. It was good to have him as a friend, just as it is good even today to evoke him and recreate his passage through life. (OR)