Isabel Allende

Eva Luna

Sabrina D. 

The house was a vast labyrinth of books. Volumes were stacked from floor to ceiling on every wall, dark, crackling, redolent of leather bindings, smooth to the touch, with their gold titles and translucent gilt-edged pages and delicate typography. All the works of universal learning were to be found on those shelves, arranged without apparent order—although the Professor remembered the exact location of each one. The works of Shakespeare rested alongside Das Kapital; the maxims of Confucius rubbed elbows with The Book of Sea Lions; ancient navigational maps lay beside Gothic novels and the poetry of India. Consuelo spent several hours a day dusting the books. When she finished the last bookcase, it was time to begin again with the first, but this was the best part of her duties. Gently; she picked up each one and wiped the dust from it as if caressing it; she leafed through its pages, sinking for a few minutes into its private world. She learned to recognize each one and to know its place on the shelves. She never dared ask to borrow them, so she smuggled them to her room, read them at night, and replaced them the following day. 

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