A los 9 años escribí un cuento para participar en un concurso literario en mi escuela. Para entonces estaba en tercer grado y ya leía. Recuerdo que me gané un juego, de esos que llamábamos ´de memoria´ y me fui feliz a casa, me encerré en mi cuarto y me puse a leer. Años después no supe dónde quedó el juego, pero siempre he sabido dónde hallar libros.

     También he sabido qué hallar en los libros, y no me refiero al mero conocimiento, que ya es bastante; hablo de que en ellos he encontrado ¨sentidos¨ para estar bien, para darle forma a la alegría; nunca otro objeto me había llenado como ahora me llena el libro con sus historias y sus diversos contenidos.

     Abrir un libro y ver sus palabras; saber que ellas le dan vida a algo me genera una sensación indescriptible, y eso me emociona, me da seguridad para sugerirle a otros que lean; para regresar de un viaje y llegarle a mi hija con un libro; para hacer del libro parte de mi vida.

     Ese vínculo con el libro, que me nació desde la infancia, he intentado contagiarlo a quienes me rodean; familiares, amigos, alumnos y conocidos han sido testigos frecuentes de mis intentos por convertirlos en lectores. Ahora mismo estoy viviendo un momento de satisfacción porque en mi casa, la lectura ha empezado a ocupar espacios significativos.

     Hace poco reordenamos la biblioteca de la casa; le asignamos un espacio propio, la pusimos cómoda y de inmediato comenzó mi labor de vendedor de la idea de que la lectura es una de las formas de unir a la familia. Mi compañera @elemarg25 ya va por su segundo libro del mes; primero se leyó Seda, de Baricco y ahora le entró a El cartero de Neruda, de Antonio Skarmeta.

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     También, José Andrés @cientificojosean, el pequeño de la casa a retomado su gusto por las aventuras y se ha leído varios cuentos y ahorita le dio por leer El búho que no podía ulular.

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     Untarse de libros, a eso yo lo llamaría una buena embardunada, porque no solo te embardunaría el intelecto, principalmente el espíritu; nada como extenderte esa sustancia espesa, pegajosa y nutritiva llamada lectura, por tu esencia; no solo es un vitamínico para la razón, es un manjar para las emociones; su betún desprende la ignorancia y endurece las pasiones, es pues, pócima para la vida terrenal.

     Quiero finalizar este breve escrito con esta breve historia. Hace cinco años tuve un perro llamado Cerbero; era negro, pero no tenía tres cabezas como el del dios Hades; tenía muy buena disciplina porque cuando yo leía en voz alta, él me escuchaba sin interrumpirme; tenía un oído de perro porque interpretaba mis gestos, mis risas y mis entonaciones, y lo hacía con gestos, con ladridos suaves y no les digo que con risas porque no me creerían.
     Cerbero comía bien, hasta cuando me fui del país por dos años, él tenia su ración de perrarina al día y algunas veces mi hermana me lo ponía frente a la pantalla del celular para saludarlo por wasap y hasta me ladraba y movía su cola. Pero se empezó a poner triste; salía y se echaba en el patio, allí, donde yo le leía; mi hermana me decía que se quedaba largo rato esperando que yo llegara con el libro; un día hasta hicimos la prueba de leerle por wasap y el animal se echó a escuchar mi voz.
     Cerbero ya no está, cuando regresé al país le di su despedida con sus respectivos honores; le leí un cuento y lo envié con sus ancestros. Sé que él estaba untado de libros, embardunado de lectura porque si no, no se hubiera dedicado a pasar sus últimos días cuidando mi biblioteca, como si en verdad fuera un demonio y yo su dios; aunque la única verdad es que él sabía que en esa biblioteca estaba su entrada al mundo de los recuerdos familiares para siempre.

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ENGLISH VERSION

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Getting smeared with books

     When I was 9 years old I wrote a story to participate in a literary contest at my school. By then I was in third grade and I was already reading. I remember that I won a game, one of those we called 'memory' and I went home happy, locked myself in my room and started reading. Years later I didn't know where the game was, but I have always known where to find books.

     I have also known what to find in books, and I am not referring to mere knowledge, which is enough; I am talking about the fact that in them I have found ¨senses¨ to be well, to give form to joy; never had another object filled me as now the book fills me with its stories and its diverse contents.

     To open a book and see its words; to know that they give life to something generates an indescribable sensation in me, and that excites me, gives me the confidence to suggest others to read; to return from a trip and reach my daughter with a book; to make the book part of my life.

     This bond with the book, which was born to me since childhood, I have tried to pass it on to those around me; family, friends, students and acquaintances have been frequent witnesses of my attempts to turn them into readers. Right now I am living a moment of satisfaction because in my house, reading has begun to occupy significant spaces.

     We recently rearranged the home library; we assigned it a space of its own, made it comfortable and immediately began my work of selling the idea that reading is one of the ways to unite the family. My partner @elemarg25 is already on her second book of the month; first she read Seda, by Baricco and now she has read El cartero de Neruda, by Antonio Skarmeta.

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     Also, José Andrés @cientificojosean, the youngest of the house has taken up again his taste for adventures and has read several stories and now he is reading The owl that could not hoot.

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     To smear yourself with books, I would call that a good smearing, because it would not only smear your intellect, but mainly your spirit; nothing like spreading that thick, sticky and nutritious substance called reading through your essence; it is not only a vitamin for the reason, it is a delicacy for the emotions; its bitumen detaches ignorance and hardens the passions, it is therefore a potion for earthly life.

     I want to end this brief writing with this brief story. Five years ago I had a dog named Cerberus; he was black, but he did not have three heads like that of the god Hades; he had very good discipline because when I read aloud, he listened to me without interrupting me; he had a dog's ear because he interpreted my gestures, my laughter and my intonations, and he did it with gestures, with soft barks and I do not tell you that with laughter because you would not believe me.
     Cerbero ate well, even when I left the country for two years, he had his daily ration of perrarina and sometimes my sister put him in front of my cell phone screen to greet him by wasap and he even barked at me and wagged his tail. But he started to get sad; he would go out and lay down in the yard, there, where I read to him; my sister told me that he would stay a long time waiting for me to arrive with the book; one day we even did the test of reading to him by wasap and the animal lay down to listen to my voice.
     Cerberus is no longer here, when I returned to the country I gave him his farewell with his respective honors; I read him a story and sent him to his ancestors. I know that he was smeared with books, smeared with reading, otherwise he would not have spent his last days guarding my library, as if he were really a demon and I his god; although the only truth is that he knew that in that library was his entrance to the world of family memories forever.