Nothing made me happier when arriving at Alison’s house after a long trip from Athens or New York than to lie in her bed and wait for her by reading at random one of those books published before 1985. That’s how I reread Spinoza’s Ethics, Gilles Deleuze’s book on Foucault, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra or the first Spanish translation of Moby Dick. In Barcelona’s culturally dull and politically hostile context, these books were like a bunch of loyal friends always ready to take a walk with me. They accompanied me to the beach, got lost in my backpacks and often ended up full of sand on the shelves of the toilets or kitchen. Alison argued that I was screwing up her library. And the systematic production of this disorder was the fundamental activity to which I devoted myself, in addition to making love to her, during my travels to visit her. I regret, in equal parts, those Sunday afternoons between two trips, when Alison reordered my body and messed up her library. That sums up what I mean by free time: sex and reading. Love and writing. No tennis, no golf, no tourism.
“Library Love | Passa Porta” at