I love books. I love his world. I love being in the cloud that each one of them forms, that rises, that stretches. I love to continue reading. I feel excitement as I regain its light weight and volume within my palm. I like to grow old in its silence, in the long sentence that passes before my eyes. It is an exciting shore, separated from the world, which opens up to the world, but does not intervene in it in any way. It is a solitary song that only the reader hears. The absence of its exterior, the total absence of scandal, complaint, booing, the maximum distance from vocalization and the multitude of humans that books allow, bring back a very profound music that began before the world appeared. True music may also be transmitted from the moment it is written. I love litteras. I love letters. Silent music of the styles of the writers we prefer: they are like so many other nudity, disturbing, particular, intimate, moving, incomparable.