Entering the ninth decade of one’s life, everything takes on a new perspective. One feels in one’s bones what a century really is. Fully half of my contemporaries have already gone and every month another beloved friend goes. But now people and feelings become more real, a phrase that perhaps only the old can understand. Fragility becomes a force. Every day, like every sunrise, is reason to celebrate. Reaching 80 years feels like a gift, a blessing.
And so at last I bring my hand to this page that my son Raimundo gave to me 10 years ago. I’m dismayed by what one finds searching the web for “Gustavo Esteva.” Whoever wrote the entry in Wikipedia didn’t do too bad a job, but I do not feel that it represents who I am. That is why I want to tell my story, as I’ve come to see it, and attempt, above all, to share and give order to my material. I have written innumerable words, but at least half of them have not been published. Most of the other half have appeared only in marginal journals with very limited circulation or were published by publishers who have since disappeared. So I will gather here, by theme, what I am bringing back together, as well as my columns, in their own place. I want to ease the task of those who may search for me in the web . . .