1999. Love in the Time of Cholera, García Márquez. A bench in the park in a small town. My grandma runs towards me, grabs me by my hand and takes me home. “Don’t do that on public”, she says, “people will think you have no one to care about you”.
2002. The Stranger, Camus. Sitting on the floor of the school. The principal passes by, sees me reading and says “Don’t you know what a break is? close that book immediatly, and go have some fun. Not everything is in a book, you know…”
2003. Crime and Punishment, Dostoevsky. A hammock in my country house. A friend of my father comes to me and says “Nice girl. Which psalm do you enjoy reading?”. “This is not the bible”, I answer. He leaves.
2008. The Angel of Darkness, Sábato. A small park, while Aleph plays basketball. A couple of girls stare at me. Then at my book. One of them says “Sa… ba… sabato… what kind of word is that?… did you see the thickness of that thing? who reads books on sunday anyway…” then leave, for a moment. Fifteen minutes later, they come back. Perhaps they think I didn’t hear them. The same girl says to the other “That silly girl over there is still reading. Such a loser”, “Dont’ bother”, says the other. “She’s not like us”.
(How thankful I am for that)
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