My books
My books are in a friend’s flat in Madrid. One day (whether tomorrow or years from now, I don’t know when) he’ll come back from London, and I’ll have to go and collect them. There is room for them where I live now, but one day (tomorrow or years from now) I will have to move once again: go through the selection process that has become the norm, trying to rent a bedroom where there won’t be any space for books, sharing a flat with God knows whom — or fail the casting altogether and not even have anywhere to live.
The vast majority of the books I have read have been borrowed from libraries. I’d like to own a home of my own, a collection of printed books and another of physical films. None of that will ever happen unless a miracle does. I have been wondering whether it makes any sense to get back into the habit of reading, whether it makes any sense to buy books, to buy them in English, to write them.