I have just read the book Des bibliothèques pleines de fantômes (Anagram, 2010) by the French writer and translator Jacques Bonnet on emotion and tremor. With a private library of over 20,000 copies, he reflects his love for books as he tells us how difficult but enjoyable his management is. Bonnet's loneliness lives the adventure of storing, sorting, protecting and reading books. Many of us have grown up in love with books. We once had the idea of a house of our own and filling it with books. The idea of destroying the much-loved books on the shelves frightened us, but today, before Bonnet's book, I've felt uncomfortable. The economic precariousness, first, and the lack of space, then, prevented me from accumulating, and with it a cross question before the shelves. My attachment to books was obstinate. And stack books, for example, like accumulating cars? Moreover, books kept wisdom unlike cars and kept at home to prevent the free movement of pleasure. Books are loved differently. Read and let go, give away, exchange, practice Bookcrossing. It's painful to release because we've learned to praise the property, but it's more nice to let it loose than to have it. This was recognized in the speech Medio pan and a book that Federico García Lorca prepared for the opening of the library of his hometown in 1931, giving away the books he bought.

To those of us who appreciate the charm of physical books, we have free book spaces and libraries, unlike free Internet files. I recall the Political Social Book Ikatza, which was born two years ago in the framework of the Casa Occupied Carbonera de Hernani, where many knowledge has been exchanged, either through the entry and exit of books, or through debates, always spreading a culture against private property. The court case was filed in December last year and is currently at risk of eviction. Supporting this project is to protect the circulation of knowledge and to open gaps to the model that only wants to integrate culture into the market model. The memory of the Bonnet library, particular of the measure, leads me inexorably to confess my affection to public libraries. Thanks to them there have been few writers who have written. For Ray Bradbury, they were real universities, the only ones that offer the same opportunities. He rose up against the closure of several public libraries and Fahrenheit 451 can be illustrative enough to illustrate the case. Concretely, it reminds me of the group Montag, who bears the name of the protagonist, Guy Montag, founded in 2010 in the Biblioteca Libre de San Sebastián. Or the poem Charles Bukowski and The burning of the dream, written when the library in downtown Los Angeles was burned. And so many other loving and grateful libraries. There's a difference between isolating books in the loneliness of the house and hand-in-hand walking. I do not want to abolish the books of the house, but to look at them with always new eyes. Let our transitoriness get confused with its transitoriness, let it enter. Bonnet tells us that French composer Charles Valentín Alkan was found dead in his house in March 1888, supposedly defeated by his love for his books, trampled by the huge library of the house. Beware!