Once upon a time, in the tram as in the bus, train or subway, you could see dozens and dozens of newspapers and books; today there are very few people with these two objects in their hands. Turn around and you will see that the people around you are locked up in their world holding a smartphone, tablet or mp3 player.

What would happen if, returning from work, your eye stopped on the cover of an abandoned book on a subway seat, on a bench at the bus stop, on the train, on a table in a bar ... or anywhere else you can to imagine..?!?

I bet you would try to snatch the title, maybe you would feel a little embarrassed, but opening the book you would find an unknown voice speaking to you. And suddenly everything would stop:

Take me, take me away with you! If you're holding me in your hands it's because you had to be the one to find me. I am a Free Book, I don't have a home and I don't belong to anyone in particular: I belong to those who want to read me. To those who love to read. Take me, make me yours ... and then, if you want, abandon me again. Let others also know the story I have to tell; or read me and keep me along with the other books in your personal library, on your shelves, until someone, again, wants to read me.
You will see: it will be a great trip!

Read it, free it, give it away, do what you want with it ... and then, if you like, write your story here: tell where you found it, what you thought, if you liked it, what you felt in reading it.

So if you have a book written by you, free it, leave it there on a seat, on the sofa, let someone find it, write on the cover "TAKE ME AND READ ME". Who knows who will read it.


I don’t know if any of you have a chest or trunk where you keep your memories. Sometimes the door of the past opens and many things related to our childhood come out. I opened the trunk of my memory and what I found is beautiful. My grandmother had this trunk, which was actually a chest, which served as a coat rack and bag storage, on which we children sat and imagined driving a carriage, complete with a simulation of the noise of the horses’ hooves, beating the timed heels on dark wooden board. This trunk, however, escaped its textbook location because it was in the corridor and did nothing but feed our curiosity as city children looking for new pastimes with which to pleasantly fill the long afternoons spent at grandmother’s house, slippers with heels and television on those TV programs that she called “useless things”. Although curious, we were not used to approaching the trunk in the corridor too frequently because we felt a sort of awe, most likely infused us by our parents, since inside there were “grandmother’s things that if you touch them she realizes and gets angry “. But one day I took courage and asked my grandmother to show me what was hidden in the trunk. She opened it and in the midst of letters, my grandfather’s military clothes, old newspapers and strange objects, photos of her past came out. I looked at that world in black and white and I wondered what colors the clothes and eyes of those people who unconsciously stared at me immortal from the photo cards had had. I asked my grandmother for the names of multitudes of objects unknown to me, information on their function, on what they had done, if the iron was really as comfortable as it seemed from the relaxed expression of a relative portrayed in the moment of starching a shirt. squares with an indecipherable color. And my grandmother promptly answered all my questions, standing, elbows resting on a round table now full of photographs; she seemed younger to me and it was easy for me to see in her the signs of that girl who survived the war.

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