LLast week I was in a talk in a town in La Ribera. It was getting dark along the way as I spoke to the organizer. We had met once and we took advantage of the time to cordially approach. I have a book of yours, I bought it second hand, you will dedicate it to me. Well you already dedicated ithe commented. I replied that of course. So I’d find out who threw it away, I smiled inside. For my part, when I do such a thing, I tear off the dedication page if there is one so as not to leave clues. A book is an object and, like any other, it has its useful life, sometimes very short. There is no more mystery. We parked next to the place of the appointment and two hours later we returned to the car. The book, don’t forget. Voucher. The copy was strewn with small colored post-it notes like Tibetan flags. In his second life it had been read thoroughly, it was flattering, of course. When I opened it, I recognized that firm handwriting that I get when I get the right pen and secure support. The first owner of the book had a fairly common name. Who could it be? I did not know and I began to write for the second with the low light of the street and the copy resting on my legs. I think it was from someone who died and their library was emptied. I have bought more of his books. We had similar tastes, he told me. Then I understood the journey of the book. Indeed, its owner died. In front of his large library, we chose books by reading affinity or because they were so much his and the rest arrived one winter afternoon at the store where my companion would later go. The dedication was for my brother. It was a beautiful and wordless moment. One of those coincidences that tie the past, the readings, the people.