Jorge Aulicino, above all "a titan of poetry and cultural journalism," has died.

Jorge Aulicino 's smile It involved his eyes more than anything; a few lines appeared on the side and his eyebrows stretched slightly; in the middle, a wrinkle shaped like a simple quotation mark appeared. It was his gaze that changed the most. It softened. From a distance, it could sometimes seem that he always carried a serious expression, perhaps sullen. His eyes were darker, without the lines on the side, the quotation mark in bold. I had the privilege of having been a little close. Of receiving that gesture of strong tenderness. and, modesty aside, even getting a laugh out of him.

Auli was, above all, a poet. A great poet, an absolute reference, as well as impeccable, and a National Prize winner in 2015. Auli was, above all, a translator . A tremendous one, who, among other milestones, brought Dante Alighieri's The Divine Comedy into Spanish. Auli was, above all, a cultural journalist. One with a dazzling career, which includes, for example, as if by chance, having been one of the driving forces and main columnists for the magazine Ñ and a frequent contributor to the Diario de poesía.

In reality, he did everything above all else. With immense commitment. Rigorous and demanding, out of love for what he did. Because he was also, above all, a friend to his friends, a close friend to the generation of poets of the 1990s, a key figure in literature as an author, reader, and critical reviewer. The quotation mark between his eyebrows was there because he always had something on his mind.

Almagro neighborhood in Buenos Aires, potted coffee, the pipe . The waiter at Sánchez & Sánchez, on Sánchez de Bustamante and Rivadavia streets, who would say, "I'll bring you the usual," when he saw him arrive. A small table outside for smoking. Sometimes, Dambleé, a restaurant right across the street, "which doubles as a bar and is cooler in the summer."

That's what she told me in January 2023, when I asked her to meet up to chat about Irene Gruss, to write the biography of her great lifelong friend , from her beginnings before the age of 20 in the legendary Mario Jorge De Lellis literary workshop, in the early 70s.

“Is it possible we've already met? Through journalistic adventures,” he asked when I contacted him, in response to my overly formal, fearful introduction. Auli instantly dispelled any qualms with warmth . “It's a little more expensive, I'll treat you,” he later advised.

We went to both. On different days. We talked about Irene, but also about poetry gossip, essays, how to smoke a pipe properly, and the neighborhood, and it was all easy. Fun. Affectionate.

For me, Aulicino has always been a titan of poetry and cultural journalism, two areas in which I work, dive, and explore. I told him so. He slapped the air, his hand lowered in the air in an Italian manner, dismissing the label, but his eyes softened at the praise. Now comes that image. He would have turned 76 on August 11th. Three days ago, I was talking about him with a mutual friend. A little while before, I had chatted with him in a loving way, which he never saw. I heard a while back that he was ill, so I was relieved every time I saw him appear on Facebook, with a post. The last one was on June 3rd.

His death still leaves me frozen. I expected it, but I don't want to believe it. Is Auli now a memory? What immense sadness. What do you say? Something between journalism and poetry. How do you write? A bit sullen, full of tenderness. How do you achieve it? "Matter walks/ before the energy of each person./ A kind of intermediate state/ between solid and gas./ What is strictly human is a void/ where the river thunders." That's the beginning of a short poem, which appears in his book Mar de Chukotka. It's forceful and precise, like him. That's how it's done, perhaps.

When we presented The Heart of the Matter, I asked Aulicino to say a few words. Again, I felt that fear. Of being misplaced, more than anything. Again, she was adorable. She sent me a long email, with a detailed and generous response —including a compliment I'd tattoo on my writing arm, "You used the weapons of journalism and literature," and a piece of advice I try to carry as a flag and warning: "I don't know why your generation doesn't maintain congruence of verb tenses when using the subjunctive" —and then she came to the event with a bland look, the single quotation mark in italics.

In the biographical portrait of Irene, I occasionally pretend she's a ghost, and we chat about the writing process. It was a playful exercise based on real events, because I actually talk to Doña Gruss from time to time; I listen to her sometimes. Now I see her drinking coffee, smoking her cigarette, waving from the small table on the sidewalk at Sánchez & Sánchez to Auli, who arrives with his pipe, sits down, and orders his cortado. The energy of each person, and a void.