by Antonio Napoli

There is no knowledge that is not buried in the deep caves of our memory. Those that are unearthed voluntarily are not always useful, but the others, involuntary and almost persecutory, can be a threat.

In the most imposing city of Africa, while the harmattan blew swarms of sand through the alleys, darkening the sun and the straight path it illuminates, I rid myself of a book that promised the awakening of all memories. I vaguely recall the face of the man who purchased it: a Berber merchant who certainly, like all of his people, must have had a face carved by the bare hands of the fierce day and the watchful gaze of one who scans the deserts for dangers or secrets. While the exchange took place, prepared by quick and effective words of negotiation, I kept my eyes lowered. I did not dare to look into the face of the man who, by carrying away that cursed book, unknowingly condemned himself to misfortunes and persecutions.

As my memories faded, I felt the relief of innocence, and one day the fate of that man would no longer be my concern. I would be returned to a life that wavers between ignorance and discovery, between shadow and light, and I would blend into the crowd of the market, among travelers and scholars, among men who would perhaps be the last to suspect the power of memory.

Shortly after that encounter, with the money from the book’s sale, I embarked, eager to leave the land of Africa forever, heading toward the city of Smyrna, and from there intending to move on to Pergamon. During the journey, a companion told me that papyrus had become rare and that libraries could no longer transcribe ancient texts. I rejoiced in my heart: my book would not be copied. It would disappear thanks to that scarcity and its own uniqueness.

If these memories of mine survive, they may perhaps lead to unfortunate searches for that scroll worthy of vanishing, or perhaps they will encourage the spread of forgeries. But why, if I deemed it so dangerous, did I not destroy it myself? The answer is simple: I consider it sacrilegious to decree the death of a book. Even more so of one written on papyrus, bound in human skin.