“It’s astounding to walk into a pristine library and realize that it is a reservoir of magic, almost sacred, where books are worshipped and treated with solemnity. But to get there, I cross a city that almost ignores the voice and words of the flesh, the suffering, where voices are hierarchized, silenced, and left unread.”
Today I spent the afternoon at the Zocalo tracing my fingertips across the back of hardcovers and strolling between endless rows of literature. Although I spotted and even purchased a few treasures (Francisco Mata Rosas, I love you..), as I strolled through the International Book Fair recently inaugurated on the main plaza, I became more intrigued with observing other bibliophiles as they adored their paperbacks, hardcovers, zines, and magazines.
It was entrancing: hundreds of people engrossed in the ritual of seeking rare editions, bargain buys, new releases, and obscure authors. It is a deeply intimate but overwhelming collective desire to experience the wonder of books. When the search culminates in an exclamation of joy and surprise, like it so often (and awkwardly) happens to me, bibliophiles throughout the world rejoice, because they deeply respect and cherish the value of those desperately necessary literary journeys.
Like every year, I attend the book fair looking to purchase one or two new titles. I arrived today just in time to listen to a blues band fill a sun drenched Zocalo with its music. Although I initially began browsing the shelves of books organized beneath huge white tents, engrossed and oblivious to those around me, my sight was pulled upward by the energy and bustle of hundreds of people doing just the same all around me. As if snapped out of a daze, I became more intrigued with browsing faces rather than book covers.
It was with pure adoration and joy, solemnity and respect, that people interacted with books. But in the measure that this reaffirmed my own love for them, and hxstory’s adoration of books and everything they represent, I also began to observe how people respect books more than they do each other.
Just outside of the forty-seven thousand meter square plaza, bustling with an inspiring love for knowledge, millions of people live unversed in the language of empathy and curiosity, not so much for art, but for each other. Not because they are “illiterate”, “uneducated”, or “uncultured” but because they are unable to read the eyes of those who in agony or despair, cry out desperately, intensely. Millions of us lack the inspiration to read what we all have to say, to express, to share. The magic or perhaps tragedy that fills our being, emanates from our spirit, informs our gait and our silence.
Within the main square, I observed that our love for each other pales in comparison to our love for books, even though it is we who write them. I walked from tent to tent determined to learn personalities and characters, memorize side-eyed glances and enjoy smiles. As the national flag wavered in the sunlight and the sweetness of the chiapaneco coffee tickled my palate, I walked over to the tent projecting the groovy sound of the blues band and was wrapped in the guitar’s melody, en trance.
I bookmarked the moment when the wind gave away the hiding place of the little girl leaned against the huge speaker and hidden underneath the event poster, the wind brushing a smile onto her face, her surprise and laughter synched with mine.
I was just trying to be a little more alive. To read and be in this world the way I inhabit and live in the worlds written in my favorite pages. To look and understand our world, even when it is unwritten, even if it’s hard to decipher and digest, with the same love and devotion we have done in those beautifully smelling pages. We are all reservoirs of magic.