“When I was a little girl, I believed that books had been written for me, that the only copy in the world was the one in my house. I was completely convinced of this: my parents, at that time generous, all-powerful giants, had in their free time made up the tales they told me. As I savored them in bed, huddled under the blanket pulled up to my chin, my favorite stories read in my mother's unmistakable voice clearly existed only so that I could hear them. And they fulfilled their only purpose when I demanded of the giant storytellers, "More!"
I may have grown up, but my relationship with books is still very self-centered. When a story takes hold of me, when its shower of words seep through me and I reach an almost painful understanding of what it tells, I'm convinced in my own private way that the author has changed my life, and once again I believe that I, and especially I, am the reader for whom that book was searching.”
―
Irene Vallejo,
El infinito en un junco: La invención de los libros en el mundo antiguo