Waiting for a book as you wait for a friend: in that intimate space in which the illusion has no end, stories, bodies, and geographies appear, infinite characters emerge, and there is a hint of joy that we are afraid to lose more than anything in the world. After all, our lives are too short, too somber, superficial, superfluous, really tiny, austere, conventional. We might be satisfied with all this, that is true: to submit ourselves to the current damned logics of impoverished happiness, to pretend as if living were letting time go by, avoiding the need that something actually happens in our time. Or maybe reading a book that gets us away from ourselves, from our obsessions, our indifference, of our naturalized ways to see and understand, of our familiar ways to talk, to think, to perceive, to desire.