I read every page, every word, a different compilation of 27 letters arranged to a specific taste, every book that belongs to every reader given by the author. It makes us all part of something that maybe we don’t want to understand, nevertheless this does the understanding at the same time, I will like to mention so much. The scent we hold with both hands, pages full of possibilities, yet so much impossibilities at the same time, the thought of having so much to lose. thoughts that I can’t express to myself giving me the chance to be somewhere else at any moment. Something so big, this esencial reality “Hagamos un esfuerzo…imaginando un mundo sin literatura,
una humanidad que no hubiera leído poemas ni novelas” (Let’s make an effort… imagine a world without literature, a humanity that never read poems either novels) Mario Vargas Llosa.
A book is an effort of not wanting to consider that exact same thing. Only because of her I don’t want to keep thinking about everything around me, thanks to her I know it is not necessary to hold on to something that may conquer you.
Only because of her I admire the stars and wrote until I learned to listen everything they needed me to know, everything the’ve seen. Just because of her I want to hold on to not knowing anything at all, hold the possibility they call a book.
Only because of literature.