I remember an anecdote that Juan Carlos Onetti told in his book “Confessions of a Reader.” One day he left the office where he worked, stopped by a bookstore and bought the latest issue of Sur magazine, a magazine founded and maintained by Victoria Ocampo. While walking down some downtown street, he opened the magazine and found for the first time in his life the name William Faulkner. There was a presentation by the unknown writer and a story. The story was poorly translated into Spanish, but as soon as he started reading it, among pedestrians and cars, he decided to go to a cafe to finish it. The more I read, the more the spell increased. The story made him forget everything else, even the date that awaited him elsewhere.
For some reason, when I read that story, I kept thinking about the amount of things that one sometimes discovers without wanting to, in an irrelevant kiosk, on the forgotten shelf of a store that decorates with books, in the most hidden place of the cart. of a recycler that one sees passing by while the traffic light changes. This is how I found myself among volumes with red backs of law, the complete works of León de Greiff, edited by Alberto Aguirre: “A languid willow tree that unfurls/ from the aged park in a remote point,/ within the hostile brow-browed silence,/ under the night blue, motionless, dry…”, I remember reading, almost trembling, trying to hide the anxiety of my discovery so that the usual book seller would not realize the price it could cost to bring home that happiness.
The city is always a scene of unexpected readings, of cafes and parks that are never erased, because you also build your city with the books you find and read there, without thinking about it. I remember that years ago I was going through the center of Medellín with my girlfriend from those days, heading to some Sunday function, and it was impossible for me not to notice the cheap book shelves on La Playa Avenue. That time I was happy to find “Unforgettable Years” by John Dos Passos surrounded by fervent books. I paid it, and with just enough money for the tickets we ran so as not to be late. The film was rather irrelevant, but after the screening we began to read aloud in the Parque del Periodista until night fell and the hubbub. The story continued later on the subway. I also remember that I met Giovanni Papini in Envigado, in a house called Stultifera Navis (the Ship of Fools), since then that author has accompanied me, even if that magnificent house for meetings and gatherings no longer exists.
A city loves books as much as the memories that remain from those stories, from those authors that one accidentally finds among the streets and passers-by and they make life more life.
2023-09-29 08:01:08
#city #books
