Carlos Ruiz Zafón—dead since June 19, 2020—spoke to me today.

His book, “La Sombra del Viento” (or “The Shadow of the Wind”), made me smile, laugh, and nod in recognition. I was swept into the past and across the world. I felt intrigue and melancholy. I even felt envy (for his skill as a writer).

Something about the intimacy of reading, as opposed to viewing, a story.

One person’s mind—their imagination, beliefs, and emotions—plugged into yours, like a data transfer. Only this data is alive, even if its author isn’t.

My visions of young Daniel Sempere or the mysterious Miss Clara are mine alone. I am inventing all the subtleties of the labyrinthine Cemetery of Forgotten Books.

The field upon which the richness of Zafón’s story plays is the singular imagination of its reader.

The power of words alone can move us to feel, contemplate, question, and go on impossible adventures.

What a gift a book is!

“This is a place of mystery, Daniel, a sanctuary. Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens.”

—Zafón, Carlos Ruiz. “The Shadow of the Wind” (The Cemetery of Forgotten Books Book 1)

Thanks, Mom, for the gift you gave me, a gift that will last my whole life … the love of reading.