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.

The only way you can truly get to know an author is through the trail of ink he leaves behind him. The person you think you see is only an empty character: truth is always hidden in fiction.

All I know is that once Julián told the kids in the building that he had a sister only he could see. He said she came out of mirrors as if she were made of thin air and that she lived with Satan himself in a palace at the bottom of a lake.

Books hold no passports. There's only one true literary tradition: the human.

As I walked, I ran my fingers along the spines of hundreds of books. I let myself be imbued with the smell, with the light that filtered through the cracks or from the glass lanterns embedded in the wooden structure, floating among mirrors and shadows.

We spend a good part of our lives dreaming, especially when we're awake.

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.