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576 pages, Paperback
First published May 1, 2001
“In the shop we buy and sell them, but in truth books have no owner. Every book you see here has been somebody’s best friend.”
“Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens.”
“One of the pitfalls of childhood is that one doesn't have to understand something to feel it. By the time the mind is able to comprehend what has happened, the wounds of the heart are already too deep.”
“Bea says that the art of reading is slowly dying, that it's an intimate ritual, that a book is a mirror that offers us only what we already carry inside us, that when we read, we do it with all our heart and mind, and great readers are becoming more scarce by the day.”
“I was raised among books, making invisible friends in pages that seemed cast from dust and whose smell I carry on my hands to this day.”
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On that June morning, I woke up screaming at first light. My heart was pounding in my chest as if it feared that my soul wanted to carve its way out and run off down the stairs. My father hurried into my room and he held me in his arms, trying to calm me.
[. . .] We looked at each other in the half-light, searching for words that didn't exist. For the first time, I realized my father was growing old. He stood up and drew the curtains to let in the pale glint of dawn.
"Come, Daniel, get dressed. I want to show you something," he said.
"Now? At five o'clock in the morning?"
ذكرتني هذه القصة بتلك العرائس الروسية المفرغة والتي تحوي علي عدد كبير من النماذج المصغرة منها بداخلها، خطوة بخطوة تكتشف أن الحكاية انقسمت إلي آلاف القصص وكأنها دخلت لبيت المرايا وتفتت في انعكاسات لا نهائية
هي قصص عن العمر والزمن، المصائر المتشابكة، عن الروايات وعشق الكتب
لا أنكر أن من بعد الفصل الأول الذي به مقبرة الكتب المنسية الرهيبة، الغامضة الساحرة ، بدأت اشعر بشئ من الملل من كثرة الوصف والتفاصيل بلا احداث لبضعة فصول..وبعض الحوارات المطولة لأحد الشخصيات -عميقة تصلخ للاقتباسات ولكنها مطولة احيانا زائدة عن اللزوم - لقد كانت فعلا متعددة الحكايات والش��صيات![]()
** هي قصة عن الكتب **
"الكتب هي مرايات : انت فقط تري فيهم ما هو بداخلك مسبقا"
** هي قصة عن روح الكتب **
" كل كتاب، كل مجلد تراه هنا، له روح. روح الشخص الذي كتبه، وأولئك الذين يقرؤونه، يعيشونه ويحلمون به. في كل مرة الكتاب يتنقل من يد لآخري، ويقع نظر احدهم علي صفحاته، فإن روح الكتاب تنمو وتقوي"
** هي قصة عن شخصيات ومصائر متشابكة **وبينما يبحث دانيال عن الحقيقة وراء كاركس، يلتقي بالعديد من الشخصيات المختلفة ويكون صداقات متنوعة مثل فيرمين روميرو دي تورز الهارب من بطش البوليس السياسي الفاشي
** وهي قصة عن الأب **
"وجدت أبي نائما في كرسيه، وملاءة تغطي ساقيه وكتابه المفضل علي حجره -نسخة من كتاب فولتير كانديد- والتي أعاد قرأتها بضع مرات كل عام، المرات الوحيدة التي أسمعه يضحك فيها من قلبه
تأملته : شعره رماديا، يخف، وجلد وجهه بدأ يرتخي حول الخد. نظرت للرجل الذي ظننته يوما لا يقهر: هو الأن يبدو هشا، مهزوما دون أن يدري ذلك. ربما كلانا مهزومان. ملت عليه لأغطيه بالملائة التي كان يعد لسنوات بالتبرع بها ، وقبلت جبينه، وكأني بفعلي هذا يمكنني حمايته من المخاطر الخفية التي ستبعده عني، عن هذه الشقة الصغيرة، وعن ذكرياتي. كما لو أن بهذه القبلة يمكنني أن أخدع الزمن واقنعه أن يتخطانا...أن يعود يوما أخر، بحياة اخري"
** وهي قصة عن الزمن **
وأخيرا،
** هي قصة عن مدينة تواجه اوقات عصيبة **
"هذه المدينة ساحرة. هل تعلم ذلك يادانيال؟ إنها تتسلل تحت جلدك وتسرق روحك دون ان تعلم؟"
“I still remember the day my father took me to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books for the first time. It was the early summer of 1945 … ‘Daniel, you mustn’t tell anyone what you’re about to see today,’ my father warned.”This fantastic opening sets the scene for an eerie and mysterious story that changes the air you occupy and brings goosebumps and chills as you weave through the adventure Daniel embarks on.
"Books are mirrors: you only see in them what you already have inside you."Well, I wonder then what part of me I saw inside this book - a book I adored despite its imperfections, despite its frequent veering into melodrama, despite (or maybe because of?) its densely Gothic atmosphere.
"I told her how until that moment I had not understood that this was a story about lonely people, about absence and loss, and that that was why I had taken refuge in it until it became confused with my own life, like someone who has escaped into the pages of a novel because those whom he needs to love seem nothing more than ghosts inhabiting the mind of a stranger."This is really a story within a story. Narrated by a young Daniel Sempere, it chronicles his transformation from a child to a young man in a Francoist post-war Spain, his loves and obsessions, his brushes with the world of mysteries and reality - both of these worlds equally dangerous and fascinating. But Daniel is really a medium through which we learn the heart and soul of this book - the story of Julián Carax, a man who wrote a book that finds its way into Daniel's life, a man whose past and present shape the course of all the events in this narrative, Julián Carax who seems to be the embodiment of both driving force and destructive force in the pages of this novel.
“There are few reasons for telling the truth, but for lying the number is infinite.”This book left me in an enchanted daze, and I'm still struggling to figure out why or how. What was it exactly that made it so easy for me to overlook the imperfections and blemishes of this story - the not-uncommon sexist male gaze, the telenovela-like melodramatic developments, the sometimes strange choices of inserting exposition into the narrative flow.
"A story is a letter that the author writes to himself, to tell himself things that he would be unable to discover otherwise."And the only answers I can find are these - it was the fantastic engrossing atmosphere and the sincere unabashed love of literature, combined with the language that sings to you in all its exuberant beauty.
"Memories are worse than bullets.”And yet the framing setting of 1950s grounds the Gothic atmosphere, forces it into reality. And the pervasive sharp humor makes the story quite self-aware of its own stylized nature, making the elements that can easily turn annoying into fascinating bits instead.
"Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens."Daniel, a son of a bookshop owner, has a special connection with books - after all, he was introduced by his father to the mysterious place known as Cemetery of Forgotten Books, a place in the heart of Barcelona where abandoned books are stored, a place from where he is allowed to 'adopt' a book - and what calls to him is the book by an obscure writer Julián Carax, a Barcelonian himself, a man long-dead, a man whose remaining books are hunted and burned by a mysterious stranger.
"I began to believe that Julián was not a man, he was an illness."It's Julián Carax, his elusive past and present, the enigma that surrounds the man and is impossible for Daniel to resist that form the cornerstone, the centerpiece of this novel. Julián, a tragic hero of the Gothic novel, whose life and character are slowly revealed bit by bit, until you realize you are just as enchanted with him as the people who have met him seem to be - and all that without Julián ever making an appearance himself. And by the time we see the warning signs of Julián's single-minded destructive obsession, it is too late to turn back, and we begin to understand the strange obsession with him that more than one character carries.
"There are worse prisons than words."This book is an example of the journey, not the destination. The plot twists are not pivotal. The reveals that come are not that important, and there are plenty of clues for the reader to come to the conclusions well before they are revealed.
"Once, in my father's bookshop, I heard a regular customer say that few things leave a deeper mark on a reader than the first book that finds its way into his heart. Those first images, the echo of words we think we have left behind, accompany us throughout our lives and sculpt a palace in our memory to which, sooner or later—no matter how many books we read, how many worlds we discover, or how much we learn or forget — we will return."