What a sad paradox, thought Amalfitano. Now even bookish pharmacists are afraid to take on the great, imperfect, torrential works, books that blaze paths into the unknown. They choose the perfect exercises of the great masters. Or what amounts to the same thing: they want to watch the great masters spar, but they have no interest in real combat, when the great masters struggle against something, that something that terrifies us all, that something that cows us and spurs us on, amid blood and mortal wounds and stench.
I used to read everything, Professor, I read all the time. Now all I read is poetry. Poetry is the one thing that isn’t contaminated, the one thing that isn’t part of the game.
I know I walked out without looking back and that I walked for a long time until I realized I wasn’t crying, but that it was raining and I was soaked. That night I didn’t sleep at all.
“For her, reading was directly linked to pleasure, not to knowledge or enigmas or constructions or verbal labyrinths…”