Meme of Shame
After reading a few texts and debates about the theft of books, I decided to make a kind of meme of shame, ie, a calculation of the books I have at home but I have not bought, I have neither inherited nor have given them to me, nor left, ie, a list of books I've stolen all along my already-not-so-brief life.
(And doing it that I am a n'adone furtadora books of the worst kind, namely those s not stealing books in the malls, but in libraries / roommate, which puts me at the height of a moral leech)
Maurice, EM Forster; Borrascosas summits, of Emily Brontë; Man Sun, Bernardo Atxaga; a library Barcelona public
In reality, these are not books that I steal, but I never returned. I then was eighteen, he studied philosophy in a strange city, suffering from melancholy to 600 kms from anyone who might have loved me and helped me, and wore their hair dyed green. I picked these three books in the library and on the date that had returned, I did not. I suppose that I forgot. Or not. In those days, there were days that I did leave a big house. I do not know when something touches the moment, and then, when more time passes, more cost?. I was afraid to look reprobatòria surrender of the library (as if the library is not seen similar cases every day). But I've always been very cowardly, and when I was young, but it was more. So I have weakness for strong and determined characters, because they are everything I'm not illegal but ASPIRE lusament be. So instead of facing the problem myself in the library and the economic fine, I closed my eyes, I pretend that there were no books axes, finished the school year, and when I leave the floor, got into the suitcase with the other books that were really mine. And then, became mine too, because forever stayed in my village, my bookshelf. Possession of these three books I read were not many, because I never shot a book of a municipal public library in Barcelona. And editing Summit Borrascosas even worth.
Strangers On A Train, the book Patricia Highsmith
also not returned, rather than stolen, only that it was not because of cowardice, but rather circumstances paranormal / computer. It is a book I draw the General Library of the University of Alicante. When I went to renew it, the librarian told me, watching your computer screen, I could not renew anything, because he had no book feature. Furthermore, according to the computer, the library of the AU had no copy of Strangers On A Train in its catalog. I did not have the physical book with me when I renew books generally not Duke, it seems unnecessarily load weight, so I could not refute the library or the almighty computer. When I got home, I took the book, I opened the first page and watched the blue label and the barcode that marked as property of the library of the AU. And I remember the tone of exasperation in the library told me that had to be confused, he wanted to renew the book did not exist. And I ask: what do I not exist?. And the book stayed in my room forever. A gesture
ugly but then I thought of the most logical.
Written in the Sand, by Herman Hesse; Between the Acts, by Virginia Woolf
The only two books I've stolen with premeditation and treachery.
The first was a roommate, a person with a great literary taste awful. There, this kind of people. It was from his collection that I first read Chekhov. For this reason alone you should be grateful, but the truth is that she was living with a hell and even now when I think of it the hate. When I left the floor with a gesture pretty child, I decided to take me one of his books resarcir me everything that had been passed. Why I choose this and not another, is to present my self genuine mystery. With nineteen years, had other priorities literature. The Mirella stolen should now different, or probably would not have stolen.
The circumstances of the second are a little more complicated. Between the Acts is a special book for me. It was the first book I read of Woolf, in February 1993, when he was young and impressionable. I have not ever read again, because I'm afraid to ruin that record romantic literary revelation supreme. I told you that I am a coward: I'm afraid to reread it and discover it, it was not for so much that all the excitement that I saw his reading was the fruit of my youth and inexperience with the literary techniques of the twentieth century. Until then I preferred the 1993 Victorian novel, and nineteenth-century American classics, Poe, above. Between the Acts With I discovered modernist literature, and this makes especially significant for me.
But hey, we were going to the theft of the book: one day, beetle among the library books in my village, I saw that they had not one but two copies of Between the Acts . One who had never shot anyone in 20 years, and another who had only taken one person: I, 1993. Then I went to talk to the librarian: I explained that the book, that this particular specimen, physical, wearing my signature (solitary) printed on the ticket loan dated February 93, meant a lot to me, and because defendant was not a long book and another copy was already available to prospective readers, perhaps you could give me. Or sell it to me. And the librarian told me no. That was not orthodox. And you want to tell you, that archive negative, but understandable (I know it was not orthodox) made me angry. Because the library of my people and I've known for many years. Because he knows how I like to read and what books mean to me, and I spent hours in that library, and all the books I have read (and I know this does not justify anything). In s'endemà, I went and I took the book. Nobody told me anything, but because no one has noticed. Occasionally I òbric and the other copy that must Between the Acts, to see if someone is shot, but it does anyone. Nobody cares That book, my people, except me. And I know what I did is very wrong, but I do it again. The fetish that I have That particular book of Woolf earning much my moral fortitude. I'm so pathetic of
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