When I hold them in my hands and browse the pages, it seems to me that the past is looking into my eyes.
The fonts, printed on paper, changing their thickness, the crumbling paper, the pages that are secede remind the ancient craftsmanship, the ink designs inside are manual photographs of a civilization that is moving away from us, which we run every day, without memory, behind the technology.
I do not think e-books can one day replace the books in paper, for the paper with the written stories has a magic that we can never do without.
Their pages, with the touch, convey the weight and importance of the years, the smells they have absorbed from the hands that have flipped them: they are witness to history in all its material and three-dimensional shakes. It’s not just written words, but lived-in events, time captured in their lives.
They are messengers of time and it is as if all the signs that people with their actions have left over, become testament to their lives and make them alive and non-inanimate objects.
Paper books are goblets of past existence and I like to think of them as a sort of Holy Grail of Time.
If you sit on your balcony at home, reading a book, with the face caressed by the sun, it makes you feel elated to exist, as if that moment of life was magic… you are a specimen of those rare people who enjoy life sincerely , in its totality and in its simplicity.
There are times when you feel like wrapped in a bubble. Look out a window and there seems to be able to stop time. It lights a spark in your heart; look at the world with detachment and everything looks like it’s Magic. There is only you and your breath that marks the moment. It is the perfection of perception.