“. . . How many works of art . . . There's not enough room in the world for them my more . . . They have to hang outside the rooms . . . How many books . . . How many little books . . . Who can read them all . . . ? If they were food . . . If, during a wave of great hunger, we tossed a salad, cut them up, poured some dressing on them . . . We've had it . . . We're fed up . . . The world is drowning in a flood tide of books” (from ‘Conjieso que he vivido: Memorias’, Pablo Neruda)
running the whole length of the horizon...