Tsundoku is something like accumulating books with the intention of reading them.

The word tsundoku is not included in the Spanish Dictionary . Does that mean it doesn't exist? Nothing could be further from the truth, because the existence of a word doesn't depend on its presence in the dictionary.

In fact, we read this word a few days ago in a curious article in Diario Libre entitled " Tsundoku : the art (and the trap) of accumulating books without reading them ."

It has not been long since the word tsundoku entered our language .

In Japanese , the language from which it comes, it is documented at least since the end of the 19th century , but its use in our language seems to be much more recent and almost always in reference to the fact that it is a useful word for which Spanish, apparently, does not have a plausible equivalent.

This is one of those untranslatable words that show us that some languages ​​have very special terms to refer to behaviors, experiences, sensations or feelings that seem to have no direct translation .

The Japanese word tsundoku , which we should write in italics, is made up of two particles meaning " to stack " and " to read ." It's a bit like accumulating books with the intention of reading them. Whether that reading actually happens is another matter entirely.

Its distant origin is attractive and mysterious to us, but we have a close synonym in the beautiful word bibliomania , defined as the ' exaggerated propensity to accumulate books '.

Its components, both of Greek origin, reveal their meaning: biblio- ´ book ´ and -mania ´ excessive inclination ´, but also ´ passionate hobby ´ or even ´ obsessive impulse´ or ´ pathological habit´. I imagine that, when it comes to books , it's a matter of degree.

If tsundoku or bibliomania are any of these things, I confess to being guilty. With one caveat: I prefer hoarding to accumulating .

That treasure tells us that we accumulate valuable things, and books are valuable. I declare that I belong to the suspicious group of those who pile books on the nightstand, on the floor, or—in my case—on a shelf dedicated only to books I have yet to read .

Guilty or innocent? Compulsive hoarder? Procrastinator? Like Umberto Eco , whose personal library of more than 30,000 volumes I can barely dream of, the value of my books is not measured by those I've already read, but by the life promised by those still ahead.

It's not about putting them off until tomorrow, or postponing or putting them off indefinitely; it's about, as I read, glancing at my pile of pending books and seeing in those books the time I'm going to dedicate to them.

So many books , so much time to read them. Those books are my own little piece of eternity.

Something like this was said at the beginning of the 20th century by the passionate book collector A. Edward Newton : "Even when reading is impossible, the presence of acquired books produces such ecstasy that the purchase of more books than one can read is nothing less than the soul's desire to extend itself to infinity ."

I don't need the perfect space or time to read . Anywhere, under any circumstances, for a minute or three hours . They'll all eventually fall into my hands. Besides, books don't expire. Where's the rush?

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