The three books had been there, on top of the table, since last summer, on the pile labeled «books waiting to be read,» just behind the pile of «books I have to read» and next to the column of «books I recommend to Xan.» These piles are everywhere both in the rural home in Galicia and in the rented New York apartment, where these columns of books serve as small tables that hold other things because there is no more space in my own particular Liliput.
The fact is that this week three books fell from the pile of «books waiting to be read» (which is where gifted, lent, or recommended books wind up). One was by Berta Dávila, another by Vanessa Montfort, and other by Aki Shimazaki. For some reason, I read one after the other, and then I thought that when I read inopportunely a book that I don’t choose, it means that it was its turn to be read at that moment. And it is curious, because now that I look back, the majority of the books that left a mark in me are the books I did not choose. And even though the pile of «books I have to read» (which are books I recommend to myself) is equally fascinating, the pile of «books waiting to be read» has something mysterious about it because these books always bring me something different from what I was looking for, and they always decide to «come out» of the pile when I need them, when I need a narrative told just so. I also thought about the times books choose us in the same way that songs do (and even though one may not want them, they end up forming a part of our musical memory), and I gave thanks in silence to the three people from whom the books came, and also to the three writers who helped me grow this week.