The number of books is infinite (the original text says eleven, but there are reasons to think that that word is synonymous with infinity in the mouth of a Basque), our hours of life are finished. I mean, you can't read everything. That doesn't have to be a problem, and for many it's not a problem. The others, that is, those who want to read (something), are concerned because they have to combine with as little pain as possible the countless readings with the reduction of their mortal life. This leads the poor reader to melancholy, where everyone who has met a reader can see.

The most sick of the readers – from that we have confessed a few readers to another – have ever wanted a long, peaceful convalescent from the nineteenth century, which forces you to be bound to a mountain cure with a view of a lake. Even – when we have gone beyond confessions, asking for forgiveness in advance from anyone who might be sensitive to the issue – a bit of prison as well. A reader of today should add to the melancholy caused by the immensity of the readings mentioned above the feeling of guilt caused by everyday life, the new forms of use and management of leisure, of making it difficult to read, to the extent that unconsciously – as I did in the same conversation – we are willing to liquidate this betrayal to the books in lockdown.

Patxi Zubizarreta has once mentioned to me something that I do not remember but that I would like to say: we are the last generation that will read, we have read it as a young man and in that we have found pleasure; read, even read hard and difficult things, we know that it is pleasurable, but now we have a hard time finding a donkey although we know that there is pleasure; how will we convince the youngest?

I guess Zubizarreta speaks to me better than I do to him. He will forgive me.

The mayor of Pamplona, Alfredo Jaime, was once asked about the vacation (always on vacation!) What book was I going to read? “Whoever gets bored in summer needs books. I don’t have time to get bored or read,” he said naturally, without complexes. A lot of jokes were made for the answer, which came to highlight the character's kaiku fame; but anyway, I feel a lot of reasons in the answer.

Boredom, holy boredom! I recognize that I've been bored a lot in childhood and in youth. Now I have my friends by hand, except to meet, to speak or to write. Now I have at my disposal friends and friends who are not friends, on social or private networks, who can read short ideas, make a small dip, get to know the lives of people first hand and at all times. Now I have at my disposal series that, according to the experts in cultural supplements, are much better than narrative works, with subtitles in Basque. Many of these exercises are reading, yes. But I was still missing a gentle, calm, old boredom, which I imagine to be practicable only if I step away from the world, in a quiet old age or, earlier, in a possible prison.

It can be a false memory of youth, a romantic mystification, I admit. What about prison? Jail even gives us the opportunity to write, it says the bad reputation it has on it. In monitoring this text, I am clear: I would need or deserve at least three months of shadows.