A book on its own is in danger. It’s not in its natural space, and alone it merely survives and isn’t living. Therefore, when someone buys a book, they buy a slave, for as long as they aren’t placing it in a bookcase. Whereas the bookstore is a bazaar. So the book begins its life without a bookcase. And it waits thereon as an innocent for a the arrival of a Just one, to put it in its appropriate place before barbarism detects it and burns it down. In this sense, the human is responsible for it. Without a bookcase, although the book can recall its history, it’s nevertheless unaware whether it has a future or not. In Greek the book had the Bible as its source. And it is not incidental that the first book printed was the Bible. In Latin, its linguistic root was freedom. Consequently, a book had as its foundational elements, the sacred and freedom. But who could remember it though? And who could imagine its direct connection with Humanity and Time, unless he himself believed in these very foundations? Unless he himself was a Servant of Humanity, and he had decided to be with Time. In other words, the one who is able to hear the silence of the book which is seeking to find its bookshelf, but not like a cemetery with graves, but as a garden of beauty, where the book is a flower, alive and not a cut one, not a moribund one. That’s what he wanted to teach the disciples, not only because it was important, but simply because it constituted the truth of Humanity.