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is a book. A diary (VIII)

September 18

Just over a year, overwhelmed by the wild proliferation of books at home, I had to spend my savings (and those who did not, of course, for what I got "help" a savings account) in buying a business located just outside the portal in which I live. For its breadth, and height of the ceiling, I can get there in the future, thousands more books. But down some, that is, from my house to that place, is something I do with some suffering. I feel that the books leave my house and move to settle in the new home experience a degradation undeniable that puts on the verge of elimination, at least in my library disposal. Operation is inevitable, but it bothers me.

Today I organized an appointment with friends at home, and I am forced to remove from the table where dinner, some eighty books that have been staying there, for lack of a better place in which to deposit household. As I do not want those who live still in the bottom sheet (are newly purchased!), I drive home other than the table are accommodation. The way of the bottom sheet volumes'm going to a pre-death. The operation takes me a long while, because it doubts assail me constantly, and later I will make decisions ranging from the harshness and mercy.

September 25

I go to the book fair and used old Pamplona. Among deals that deserve careful consideration, there's so much trash. Are books, a frightening amount!, It's not that now are in balance, it is incredible that long ago someone took the trouble to publish them. The first for its content, of course, absurd, bizarre, ephemeral. But also by other factors: anonymous translations and criminal of great works of world literature, decks cause irreversible eye injury, so boorish or poor bindings that do not allow the book is opened even once without descuajeringue.

worst thing is that I bought two books I already had. And more troubling is that the commitments excited. One of them, the last black , Ramón Buenaventura, I intended to read it as soon as I bought, years ago, but then some novel crossed the road and was relegated Buenaventura and fell into oblivion. Until today, I have come back to buy. The other, my mother's book , is Albert Cohen. I go home, spend several hours and suddenly I have a hunch, I look for that volume, I find it very soon. It even has pages underlined, about six or seven. Clearly, I started ... The rest of the day I go in trifles melancholy about the time spent and the deterioration of my memory, that girl was formidable. Oh, and read my mother's book . I am very interested, like many others that deal with the memory of the father or mother of the writer (Richard Ford, Simenon, Kafka, Paul Auster, etc.). But at the same time reading it is already a matter of pride!