Writers are peculiar people. This is true without exception; but some are more peculiar than others. Many are peculiar in inverse proportion to their talent. The more mediocre the writer, the more entitled he or she feels to strike the pose of an artist and to imitate the true artist’s native eccentricity.

Writers are also like restaurants, in that they are often destroyed by rave notices.  Have you ever known a restaurant that had a glorious beginning and then declined when it was given a sudden, huge public? It’s the same with writers. And, in a way, nothing worse can happen to a writer than winning an “important” prize like the Pulitzer. This works havoc with a writer’s product by allowing it to be above correction for the rest of eternity. A true editor should dislike that, but many celebrate it.

In this environment, Carlos Victoria was a model of humanity. He was eccentric, at times amazingly so, but his eccentricities were delivered with a smile, without exaggeration, and always with self-awareness. Among other things, he loathed public appearances and was largely unwilling to travel. In his life he had made two important journeys: first from his native Camagüey to Havana, then from Havana (or the port of Mariel) to Miami. The dislike of travel seemed to be his way of saying he had done with moving around.

His resistance to public appearance was notable. He made an exception for the Miami book fair, but this was surely out of friendship for the fair’s organizers. More than almost any writer, Carlos had a limited interest in self-display.

In the intimate process of editorial correction, where many writers show difficulty, Carlos was the perfect gentleman. Around Pureplay Press, which was the first to publish a novel of his in English-A Bridge in Darkness, from Puente en la oscuridad-Carlos was called “el caballero,” even by staff-members who spoke no Spanish. For his part, Carlos was so pleased with our revisions, and with our rendering of the book, that he gave permission for foreign editions to be translated from our English version as well as from the Spanish original-a handsome concession for a writer to make.

With Carlos, eccentricity appeared at the part of the process that’s usually easiest for a publisher: getting the author to go on tour. More often, the publisher doesn’t do enough to gratify the author’s love of self-exposure. In Carlos’s view, the publisher wanted to do too much.

What accounted for this eccentricity? The answer comes from Carlos’s first brush with literary fame. As a 15-year-old in Camagüey, in 1965, he won a national writing competition. The result was one he dreaded, even at age 15: his first prize brought him to the attention of Cuba’s ruling regime. His fear was prophetic; he didn’t get out from under the shadow of the regime until 15 years later, when he escaped to Florida in the Mariel exodus.

The desire not to receive attention is a notion practically impossible to understand if you haven’t lived under a tyranny. Many in the West believe that the important freedoms are the positive ones. But others who have grappled with the problem of tyranny-including the founders of the American republic-have understood that the instrumental freedoms are the negative ones; beginning with the freedom to be left alone. Hegel famously remarked that the proper beginning of human progress was the statement, “No.”  It’s a statement that Carlos embodied in his history and his person.

To be every inch a writer, as Carlos Victoria was, meant being human first and foremost. Caring for his loved ones and friends, listening to a symphony, or having a gourmet’s appreciation of food was as vital to him as his writing technique. He had the elements of life in proper proportion. Another writer of a less distinguished stamp-the kind that populates our literary circles-would be driven to say: I aspire to have a great technique. Carlos’s answer would have been: I aspire to be the kind of person who, among other things, can realize a certain ambition with my writing.

He had his share of fame, and it was a good share, but it was held in check by his history and personality-by his human coherence. He knew that, in the end, he alone was the one he had to satisfy. But those lucky enough to know him will always have comfort and inspiration from the example he set.

David Landau

Is the editor of Pureplay Press. He translated and published Carlos Victoria’s novel A Bridge in Darkness (Puente en la oscuridad).

Escritor norteamericano. A los veintidós años cuando dio a conocer su libro Kissinger: The Uses of Power (publicado en Estados Unidos, Reino Unido, España, Japón y China). En la actualidad se desempeña como editor y traductor. Preside Pure Play Press.