CÓMO LEER 100 LIBROS AL AÑO (Y POR QUÉ PROVOCA RECHAZO)

El artículo de Héctor García Barnés publicado en El Confidencial, “Hay gente en España que lee 80, 150 o 300 libros al año, y no es tan difícil como suena”, llama poderosamente la atención tanto por los casos que presenta de grandes lectores como por los comentarios más bien negativos que éstos reciben en los comentarios. Según informa García Barnés, la encuesta de hábitos de lectura y compras de libros de 2021, realizada por Federación de Gremios de Editores de España, indica que “los mayores de 18 años leen de media 10’2 libros anuales, pero hay un 36% de personas que no leen ni uno”, según dicen la mitad de ellos por falta de tiempo. Por contra, los “superlectores”, según nomenclatura del periodista “esos aficionados a la literatura que leen al año la misma cantidad de libros que pueblos enteros”, sí encuentran tiempo para entregarse a su vicio favorito. El ingeniero Mariano Hortal, quien lee unos 300 libros al año como refleja su blog Lectura y locura, es seguramente un caso extraordinario, pero según informa García Barnés no es tan extraño encontrar en España lectores que consumen de 80 a 150 libros anuales entre las filas de profesores, editores y periodistas. Y espero que entre otros tipos de lectores.

Aunque me considero sencillamente una lectora, yo soy una de esas ‘superlectoras’ en tanto que mi media anual ronda los 100 libros. Empecé a llevar la lista de todo lo que leo a los catorce años para no olvidarme de nada, y sigo anotando religiosamente los volúmenes por los que paso, no por afán de cumplir un cupo sino por pura curiosidad sobre cómo se va desarrollando mi paseo anual por los libros. Y, como decía, por pura necesidad memorística. Entiendo que los lectores que ha entrevistado García Barnés corresponden a un perfil similar: ni ellos ni yo competimos con otros lectores, no esperamos ser premiados por leer, y no leemos para hinchar nuestras listas respectivas sino que estas se van llenando.

El número de libros leído no indica las horas pasadas ante un volumen y por ello durante un tiempo también solía anotar las páginas de cada libro, hábito que perdí. Sí que ha habido casos en los que he dudado de añadir un libro a mi lista por estar alrededor de las 100 páginas, aunque en otros casos haya podido leer libros de 800 o 900 páginas (como el que ahora leo, Fall; or Dodge in Hell de Neal Stephenson). Una cosa que hay que entender es que cuanto más se lee más aumenta la velocidad de lectura, y más mejora la comprensión, sin duda alguna. Mi velocidad de lectura habitual ronda las 50-60 páginas por hora, aunque como decía en la entrada anterior, raramente leo más de dos horas seguidas a no ser que sea por trabajo. Nunca me obligo a leer cada día, ni acabo un libro que no me guste, con lo cual habría que añadir a los 100 anuales algo así como unos 10 o 12 más por número de páginas leídas en los volúmenes que al final no acabé.

Ni los superlectores del artículo ni yo misma narramos esta experiencia con afán de notoriedad. De hecho, García Barnés ofrece el artículo a quienes dicen no tener tiempo de leer para que vean que si se quiere se encuentra. Los lectores entrevistados explican algo más que obvio: el tiempo siempre es limitado pero si se encuentran tres horas y media al día para ver la televisión (la media nacional en España en 2021), o perder el tiempo en las redes sociales, se puede encontrar una hora para la lectura. De hecho, es cada vez más importante adquirir ese hábito ya que diversos estudios indican que tal como el ejercicio físico habitual mantiene sano el corazón, la lectura ayuda a mantener la salud del cerebro.

Dejando de lado este tema, queda claro que quienes leemos encadenando libros posiblemente obtenemos algún tipo de endorfina de la lectura parecida a la que anima a los deportistas. Yo no hago deporte, aunque soy consciente de que debería, y por lo tanto comprendo que hay mucha gente a la que no le interesa nada la lectura, pero en todo caso no se me ocurre despreciar los logros deportivos de los deportistas aficionados. Si me tropezara con un artículo en el que una serie de señores y señoras me contaran que corren una maratón a la semana porque les encanta, no se me pasaría por la cabeza denigrarlos; sin embargo, lo que reflejan los comentarios al artículo de García Barnés es desconfianza y desprecio, y una impresión muy equivocada de que los superlectores son (o somos) arrogantes.

Procedo a citar algunos de esos comentarios. Mr. Puterfull sentencia que “La lectura no se puede tomar como un reto o una competición. Nos estamos volviendo locos”, aunque nada en el artículo sugiere que los superlectores se enfrenten a retos o compitan. Stuart Carter subraya que “el leer no puede ser ni una obligación” sino que “Lo importante es leer y disfrutar de lo que se lee”, sin reparar en que esto mismo defienden los entrevistados. Alberto Martín opina (en mayúsculas) que “100 LIBROS AL AÑO? ES UNA BARBARIDAD” para a continuación dudar que los superlectores hayan comprendido lo que leen. Otro lector, Weyland Yutani (el nombre de la diabólica corporación en la saga Alien), concluye que “El que se lee 300 libros al año no lee, hojea. No es lo mismo”, pese a que no tiene base alguna para justificar su argumentación (ni para insinuar que Mariano Hortal miente). Philip Buster secunda esa tesis infundada con un rotundo “Puedo consumir mucha lectura y no leer nada”. Maria Benjumea niega con rotundidad que se puedan leer 50 o 60 páginas en una hora (“me huele a chamusquina”). En su opinión, “más de 30 páginas en una hora es saltarse párrafos o leer basura”. Una tal Maximón insiste en que “si leo al ‘peso’ estoy perdiendo literalmente mi tiempo”, pese a que los superlectores entrevistados mencionan en todos los casos libros de calidad. Según ella, “lo ideal es seleccionar muy bien que se va a leer y porqué”, de modo que “Yo, con 10/12 libros en un año me doy por satisfecha”.

Otros comentarios atacan a los superlectores en lugar de por el flanco de la capacidad de comprensión por el flanco del tiempo. Daniel Monleón, quien dice ser lector según el momento de su vida, comenta que “leer es disfrutar” al igual que otros placeres, sin que sea “una elección (…) [ni] mejor ni peor que otras” pero sí “más solitaria”. Reaccionando al cálculo de unos de los superlectores que ha decidido no perder el tiempo con malos libros porque le queda tiempo para leer sólo unos 3500 en su vida, Felipe García escribe que “No tengo ningún interés en leer 80 libros al año, ni de leer 3500 en lo que me resta de vida. Ni tampoco en ver 50 temporadas de series por año ni en ver 200 partidos del año”, poniendo así al mismo nivel la lectura y el consumo de televisión, que todos los superlectores desprecian. Por último, Jorge Valdecasas escribe que “Si alguien me dice que tiene un trabajo de 8 horas, 3 hijos y se lee un libro cada 2 días del calibre de los tres tomos del señor de los anillos (sic), pediría que le quitasen la custodia de sus hijos”, pasando por alto que los hábitos de lectura suelen nacer por imitación de los padres y madres que leen.

Como decía, no imagino semejantes comentarios en respuesta a un artículo sobre cómo encontrar tiempo para correr maratones, y la pregunta obvia es por qué dan tanta rabia los superlectores entrevistados. No hay ningún comentario que agradezca los consejos dados (llevar libros siempre que se vaya de viaje aunque sea en el metro, buscar ratos más breves a lo largo del día si no se puede dedicar una hora a la lectura, usar las bibliotecas públicas para experimentar con distintos tipos de libros), sino un conjunto de ataques. España es un país tremendamente inculto y quizás ahí radica la inquina. Mientras que un comentario sugiere que el índice de lectura va subiendo como indica la apertura de nuevas grandes librerías en las ciudades mayores, otro espeta que si fuera así habría una librería en cada calle, mientras lo que hay son bares.

Dada esta situación no sorprende tanto que los superlectores sean menospreciados como listillos que se creen superiores a los demás. Por otra parte, es cierto que los entrevistados no dudan en criticar el consumo masivo de series y de programas de cotilleo como lacras que impiden maximizar el tiempo que se podría dedicar a la lectura, y entiendo que esta postura pueda ser ofensiva. Tengo que aclarar que en mi propio entorno académico no todo el mundo lee desaforadamente, y que más de un colega profesor de Literatura lee menos de lo que debiera por culpa de las series. No me sorprendería tal como van las cosas que de aquí a treinta años ya no se enseñen libros en nuestros grados de Estudios Ingleses, sino series (creo que el cine está muriendo antes de poder llegar a nuestras aulas).

Como escribí en mi anterior entrada, cuando llega la noche y tengo un rato de ocio siempre surge la duda de si optaré por una película o por el libro que esté leyendo esos días. Como decía Daniel Monleón en su comentario leer es solitario y normalmente si opto por una película es porque quiero hacerle compañía a mi pareja, que es un fanático total del cine. El problema es que si la película no me interesa demasiado me revuelvo inquieta en el sofá pensando en el libro que podría estar leyendo, situación que es difícil de comprender (lo sé) para un no lector. Si lo piensas bien, el hábito de leer constantemente es sumamente extraño, y quizás un tanto egoísta como sugieren algunos de los comentarios citados. Ciertamente, no se puede compartir, a pesar de redes sociales como GoodReads o los muchos clubs de lectura, a no ser que, como hacían muchas familias en el siglo XIX, uno lea en voz alta y otros escuchen. Tampoco es que ver la televisión o usar las redes sociales sea un acto más sociable, como se puede ver en esos grupos de adolescentes que no hablan entre sí mientras cada uno consulta su móvil. Pero somos los lectores impenitentes los que arrastramos el sambenito de estar demasiado abstraídos, demasiado inmersos en otros mundos. De ser unos raros, en suma.

Como sé que nunca correrá una maratón, digan lo que digan los deportistas, sé que no sirve de nada recomendar leer si no 80 al menos más de 12 libros al año. Lo dejo caer, por si alguien se anima.

Publico una entrada una vez a la semana (sígueme en @SaraMartinUAB). ¡Los comentarios son muy bienvenidos! Descárgate los volúmenes anuales de https://ddd.uab.cat/record/116328 y visita mi sitio web https://gent.uab.cat/saramartinalegre/. La versión en inglés del blog está disponible en https://blogs.uab.cat/saramartinalegre/

LET ME COUNT THE BOOKS…: PIERRE BAYARD’S HOW TO TALK ABOUT BOOKS YOU HAVEN’T READ

Allow me to begin by venting my massive annoyance with the new platform which my university has chosen to keep track of our academic activities, as if ORCID, Academia.edu, and my own webpage were not enough. I have spent two and a half complete working days trying to make sense of its user-unfriendly approach to my CV, which I keep as tidy as a work of art (after all, it covers 30 years of my life). Apart from delaying the writing of this post and all my other activities, the platform has given me a terrible headache, enhanced by my realization that I will need at least four more complete working days, if not more, to put everything in its place. In the process, by the way, I have discovered that Scopus only registers one of my publications, when the real figure, leaving aside what I have self-published, is about 100. If I have to enter everything again there, I’ll scream!!! I’m fed up with the co-existence of so many platforms and their general lack of intercommunication.
My topic today is not that, however, but a delicious book by Pierre Bayard, the French scholar and psychoanalyst. I have read his volume Comment parler des livres que l’on n’a pas lus? (2007) in its Catalan translation by David Clusellas i Codina, and my first observation needs to be that in this and in the English translation the final interrogation mark has been lost. What was a query becomes a statement, which is curious to say the least. Apart from the books we have read and know well, Bayard refers to four categories of books: the ones we don’t know, the ones we have skimmed, the ones we have heard of, and the ones we have forgotten. I’m using here the table of contents of the English translation (by Jeffrey Mehlman), though I remain mystified by category two. The French original refers to ‘Les livres que l’on a parcourous’ and I don’t know sufficient French to be sure that ‘skimmed’ is a good translation (‘parcour’ means to travel); the Catalan translator has chosen ‘fullejat’ (‘fuilleter’ in French) which could be translated as ‘leaf through’. In my own reading practice I have never leafed through any book; this is a word I might connect to a magazine or a coffee table book, but not a volume with no illustrations. I was, therefore, totally confused by what Bayard meant until I simply accepted that he does indeed leaf through books he is not too keen on reading.
Please, recall that Bayard teaches Literature at the University of Paris VIII. Although I suspect that the whole volume is written very much tongue-in-cheek, I remain surprised by his willingness to openly declare that he often speaks in class of books he has not read –as his students do. I may have spoken of books I have not read in the context of giving information about an author’s oeuvre but I swear that I have never ever discussed a book I have not read at least twice. I agree with Bayard that many of my students discuss in their exercises books they have never read, and I once had a major incident with a gentleman who casually commented in another course that he had never read any of the books in mine despite having obtained an A. Instead of failing him retrospectively, as I could do, I called him to my office for him to explain to me how he did it, and that was a very interesting meeting. However, I simply cannot imagine what kind of teaching can emerge from a classroom in which absolutely nobody, including the teacher, has read the book under analysis. Bayard claims that is the best possible situation to produce something new and creative but, again, I think he jokes.
One matter in which I do find that he seems more serious is his declaration that (quoting the English translation) “Being cultivated is a matter not of having read any book in particular, but of being able to find your bearings within books as a system, which requires you to know that they form a system and to be able to locate each element in relation to others”. If you read ten introductions to Victorian Literature there comes a moment in which you might be able to speak reasonably about the Victorian novel without having read any. If you add to this the Sparknotes summaries then you can pass as a true lover of Victorian fiction. The question, however, is why would you want to do that? It is very unlikely that you would find another person interested in a conversation about Victorian fiction who was also passing him/herself as a reader, so why pretend? I don’t think I could have a minimally intelligible conversation about, say, Italian 19th century fiction, just by being familiar with the main names and titles in a context in which the other person supposed I was a reader of that type of fiction. For me, the knowledge of the book system to which Bayard refers is a process of filling in the blanks, though I confess that to this day I am not sure how many Victorian novels you should have read before qualifying to teach Victorian Literature. I have teaching that for almost 30 years now and, obviously, when I started I had only read a tiny fraction of the Victorian novels I have read now. A list, that anyway, still seems pitifully short to me.
So, my rule number one so far: don’t speak of books you have not read as if you knew them well, for, regardless of what students may think, your not having read them does show. Regarding the books we leaf through, or skim, I must say that now that I think about it there is a type of book I do leaf through: academic books, when I need a quotation for one of my articles. We would all lie if we claimed that we read the academic books we quote from beginning to end, it is simply not the case. I would not leaf through a novel, though, and if I start skimming then this is a sign that my energies are flagging and I am about to abandon the book. I have recently abandoned a 450 page novel around page 320, or as my e-book reader indicates, around 2:30 hours away from the end. I just could not go on, even though my usual rule is that past the 50% mark I must finish. This poses a problem, which Bayard does tackle: he argues that the unfinished book should count as a read book, whereas I tend not to add the unfinished volumes to the list of books I have read (I do keep a list, this is literal not metaphorical). Since I have recently abandoned about half a dozen novels, my list looks pitiful this month, as if I have somehow failed. I have even considered keeping a separate list of unfinished books, but this seems going too far. I see many readers posting reviews in GoodReads in which they do acknowledge they never finished the book under review. They make a point that if an author fails to interest them sufficiently that is part of the process of reading and, hence, of reviewing. This sounds fine to me for a platform like GoodReads but, again, rule number two, I would never teach a book I have not finished, or discuss it academically.
An even more tantalizing concept than that of the unfinished book is the forgotten book. Bayard explains in a wonderful chapter that Montaigne did not know how to tackle the problem of his forgetfulness as a reader until he hit on the system of making a note on the final page naming the date when he had finished the book and adding his opinion. Montaigne, nonetheless, discovered eventually that the method did not work at all; additionally, he felt as if his opinions were someone else’s. I started keeping a list of all I read when I discovered that I had re-read a book I had already read but forgotten. Even with the list, I’ve had some incidents of that kind. And when at the end of each year I go through the list for the last twelve months I inevitably discover one or two books I have already forgotten.
My good friend Bill Phillips has a wonderful capacity to recall the plots of the many novels he reads months after he read them, but my memory is rather mediocre in that sense and I can only recall in detail the books I teach or have written about. These are books that, please recall, I have read at least twice, in some cases ten or more times. This means that I recall having read particular books and having generally enjoyed them or not, but I can only remember specific details if I make notes. From Bayard’s perspective, this means that my whole reading experience consists mainly of books I have forgotten, which might well be the case. I have the impression, besides, that the more I read the more I forget as if my brain were a hard disk with a limited capacity. I don’t know if this is the same for all readers, as we hardly speak about these matters in my academic circle, or with my students.
The other book I’m reading these days, Jo Walton’s What Makes This Book So Great (2014), is a collection of blog posts which she wrote commenting on the science fiction and fantasy she was re-reading for the website Tor.com. Walton does not speak of re-reading as a cure against forgetfulness but as a re-encounter with characters she values as friends. I do not re-read much because, like many other readers, I feel that life is too short to read the same book more than once. I must acknowledge, though, than when I re-read a book I need to teach or write about the pleasure is always bigger the second time around, or even the third. In the case of the two novels I have recently written about (Iain M. Banks’s The Algebraist and Kim Stanley Robinson’s 2312) I only truly loved them in the third reading –not because they are not good books but because I wasn’t paying enough attention. It occurs to me now that I actually choose the books I write about when I implicitly accept that I would like to re-read them, and the other way round: a book I don’t want to re-read is, most definitely, one I don’t want to teach or analyse. Walton, going back to her book, is Bayard’s direct opposite, for instead of speaking of books she does not know, she speaks of books she knows very intimately and to which she returns regularly. I believe this is how it should be done.
So, to sum up, as much as I loved reading Bayard’s book, I would not speak of books I have not read. If someone tells me about a book I have not read I have no problems to acknowledge my ignorance. I remain convinced, in any case, that Bayard’s book is a fine satire against those who speak of books they have not read, perhaps because the possibility that most conversations on books are carried out by people who don’t read scares me too much.

I publish a post once a week (follow @SaraMartinUAB). Comments are very welcome! Download the yearly volumes from https://ddd.uab.cat/record/116328. Visit my website https://gent.uab.cat/saramartinalegre/

‘READ, READ, READ AND THEN WHAT?’: GOOD QUESTION…

I’m beginning with this post the tenth year of this blog, started back in September 2010, with a certain feeling that blogging is already a thing of the past. As the yearly volumes accumulate (check https://ddd.uab.cat/record/116328), I see how text-based online platforms give way to image-based platforms, with Instagram in the lead, already replacing Twitter in everyone’s preferences (the micro-blogging Tumblr is quite dead). I don’t know who reads me, or how many of you there are, for I refuse to check my statistics, and anyway, I keep this blog for my own personal satisfaction (and sanity). Whoever you are, you do get my most deeply felt thanks! One more thing: I’m teaching only one semester a year, thanks to my university’s fair and legal application of the 2012 Government decree to support research (popularly known as ‘Decreto Wert’). This is the reason why the blog offers currently fewer posts about teaching and more about reading (and writing). I have even considered altering the title, but I’ll let it be, though I think of it today as ‘The Joys of (Teaching) Literature’, still with the ironic sting in the tail.

Let’s begin. Reading this summer Susan Orlean’s non-fiction bestseller The Library Book (a beguiling account of the devastating fire at the Los Angeles Central Library in 1986), I was oddly impressed by a small scene. Incidentally, you may watch Orlean’s interview with Bel Olid on The Library Book at Barcelona’s recent Kosmopolis (last March) here: https://www.cccb.org/en/multimedia/videos/susan-orlean-and-bel-olid/231171. In the scene mentioned, Orlean meets a worker (a black middle-aged woman, though this is not much relevant), who spends eight hours a day packing and unpacking books. She tells a flabbergasted Orlean that she never reads any books for you ‘read, read, and read, and then what?’ This woman’s dismissal of reading caught me in the middle of an intense summer reading binge and truly shook me. What, indeed, am I doing reading so much? Even my fellow Literature teachers tell me that I read a lot… because, guess what?, even they prefer watching TV series, which I find unbearably boring. You ‘watch, watch, watch, and then what?’

Orlean’s candid interviewee apparently believes that reading has a purpose, a teleological function aimed at reaching a target. Naturally, this is only the case in higher education degrees, for, quite rightly, in English it is said that a person ‘reads’ to obtain a BA or MA (in Spanish we ‘study’). Apart from that, reading is a pleasurable habit which simply ends with death: possibly, the most adequate answer to this woman’s question is ‘and then you die’. She has, however, the intuition of something else. Why do people read at all during personal time which they could employ in many other activities? Several answers occur to me. To be able to claim that they have read this and that book, to enhance their experience of life by adding other persons’ experiences (whether real or fictional), to learn about whatever interests them. Fundamentally, out of curiosity and to feel brainy pleasure. It might well be that this woman’s life is so rich that she needn’t access other persons’ experiences (or that ink is a barrier to her in that sense); also, that she is satisfied enough with her knowledge and feels no urge to increase it. Fair enough, though, evidently, that she feels in this way surrounded by millions of books is chilling. Maybe she is overwhelmed by the riches in the Central Library, which are for others, like author Susan Orlean, paradise on Earth.

But, again, why do people read? The current understanding is that the reading habits acquired in early childhood thanks to devoted parents and educators are lost with the onset of adolescence (which seems to begin at ten these days…) when compulsory reading for school takes times off reading for pleasure. I would say that this only happens in the case of children whose reading for pleasure is never fully established as a habit, for lack of sufficiently strong skills. These deficient skills (we teach children to read too late) make compulsory reading a chore, even a torture, which is not balanced by pleasure reading. Those of us who simply cannot help reading usually develop a bag of tricks to put up with compulsory reading. Thus, throughout my graduate years I used to keep at hand a book I very much wanted to read and allow myself to grab it only as a reward for having read the stuff I hated. What? You really think that Literature teachers love reading ALL kinds of books? You must be joking…

The issue which appears to be much under-researched is what exactly triggers the pleasure of reading in the minority of avid readers. I’m sure that neuroscientists have already proven that reading results in the building up of synaptic connections that make our brain work faster, to speak informally. What we don’t know is what causes a child to become addicted to reading and thus begin the life-long process of adding books to the personal list of readerly conquests. Avid readers often speak of compulsion and of the unstoppable need to read anything to satisfy the craving. I do know that chain-reading has little to do with the experience of most average readers, who tend to read just a few books a year. Yet, my assumption is that if you decode what lies behind the most extreme cases of chain-reading then you might help others to feel happier reading. There must be a sort of nicotine in reading, as there is in smoking, if you get my drift. Or, if you want something less toxic, then endorphins like those generated by exercising.

If you read enthusiastic websites, such as Serious Reading and its post “30 Reasons to Read” (https://seriousreading.com/blog/283-30-reasons-to-read-books.html ) you will find there a nice collection of the positive consequences brought on by reading, though not a fully tested cause why reading gives pleasure. The authors claim, by the way, that reading acts like callisthenics for the brain and can help prevent mental disease and Alzheimer’s, which is not quite true but sounds nice. It is, at any rate, a constant cause of dismay for me to see that the barrage of advice intended to keep our bodies in full health never mentions the benefits of reading from a book thirty minutes every day. Or of listening to audiobooks as an alternative. The brain, I think, is the most neglected vital organ in our bodies, particularly as regards its specific pleasures. You hear plenty about how the brain is the most potent sexual organ, but you never hear about the pleasures that are most intimately connected with our neurons, possibly because they have the word ‘intellectual’ attached to it. And that is always a downer.

I think that I am calling for an erotics of reading which makes sense of the pleasure that the written word elicits from certain brains, and which must be connected with the language centres. The more conservative kind of reader might say at this point that, logically, the pleasure of reading is linked to the linguistic artistry of Literature but in my own view (and experience) beautiful verse or prose increases a pleasure that is already there, in the contact with the paper or the screen. Simple prose has its rewards, whereas complex texts offer other rewards. The extremely arid volumes that many students of, say, the Law or Physics, must not just read but also study bring the satisfaction of knowledge gained, which is essential for that ‘read, read, and read, and then what?’ to make sense. With a caveat: if your pleasure reading tends towards storytelling you will gain great insight into personal experience beyond your own but not necessarily be made unhappy; if you read for knowledge, your habit will take you to a clearer understanding of the world, which usually brings wonder and awe, but that may also bring disappointment and sadness, perhaps a silent fury against the sorry state of Homo Sapiens’ decadent civilization.

After about forty years as an avid reader, what I find most engaging in books is their interconnectedness. How one book leads to the next one, and that to a whole new field you had never heard about but want to explore. In fact, I recommend to everyone that you free yourself from narrative, which is what 90% of readers enjoy, and set out to navigate other waters. I had always disliked autobiography and memoirs, preferring the superior narrative skills of novelists, but I have suddenly seen their appeal; the same applies to History books, and to the volumes aimed at making science accessible to lay persons. I don’t know whether this is an experience shared by most avid readers, but as I age, I feel more inclined towards the books that bring new knowledge and not only new stories.

You read, read, and read, and then feel ecstatic to discover that there is much more to learn and enjoy reading until your time on Earth runs out. Don’t let anyone say that you wasted it.

I publish a post once a week (follow @SaraMartinUAB). Comments are very welcome! Download the yearly volumes from: https://ddd.uab.cat/record/116328. My web: https://gent.uab.cat/saramartinalegre/