$F$ and I were traveling in London. It seems to me we were teenagers, around sixteen years old. His father was with us, but he had some sort of issue —or got angry for some reason— and so he left in a hurry. We were left alone outside a typical brick house. The day was gray and cold. Nextly, we were inside. $F$ and I had different bedrooms. While he wasn’t in his bedroom (taking a shower?) I went to see what he had there. I found, upon an old brown trunk, a massive black volume entitled The complete poems of Dylan Thomas. It was very black —indeed, its blackness was its most outstanding feature, and its pages, worn by time, displayed the distinct hue of what is truly ancient. I opened the book and saw it was a bilingual edition, with Spanish translations accompanying each poem in a double-column format. The font was small, very small, and also very dark, and I gather now the feeble recollection of some ornaments —perhaps black curves traveling along the margins, as dragons did in old medieval books. An unforgettable sensation of awe slowly brewed within me. Not suddenly, as dread and wonder seize the soul of the god-stricken atheist. As ceiling-drops in a cave make a pond out of a hole, drawing flowstones in their way —so was wonder bred within me. And every page I turned was as a shaft.
Naturally, I immediately wanted to steal the book. I remembered then that $F$ and I had bought the book together, many years ago. Not only that, but we had come to an agreement over it. He paid most of its price, and so he was its keeper, but I was granted the right to request the book at any time, as long as I was to return it once satisfaction was obtained from it.
But such an agreement did not interest me. I wanted the book, and I wanted it badly. Not for me, I should add, but for S, to whom I had the fervorous desire of giving the inspiring volume. I took it and looked for S, who was on the street. Right then and there, in a random street of London, I presented the volume to her. At first, she did not appreciate it, for she did not like its double-column format. I told her this was standard in bilingual editions, and she understood it—and yet I could not avoid the unpleasant idea that she was not a “reader”. A cultured person —I thought to myself— would have known that. Deep in my heart, I judged her.
This judgment, however, did not last, nor occupied any important role in the dream. It was quickly overturned by the continuation of my enthusiasm. I saw S was happy to receive the book, and I was also happy to give it to her. And yet, I told myself, what if somehow she finds out I didn't really get the book for her. I had bought it many years ago, and in all honesty it wasn’t even mine alone. I hadn’t gotten her a gift in the true sense: I took a shared property for myself only, one acquired many years ago, and I was now presenting it as a gift. I confessed I didn’t acquire the book for her, but insisted that now I wanted to give it to her. She didn’t seem to care.