Author’s note: This article contains errors; it was written by a human.

When I am told that books are no longer important, when I hear someone proudly say, “I don’t like reading. I don’t like books,” or when I see homes filled with electronic devices but empty of books, I feel deeply sorry, disturbed, confused, worried.

I believe that only someone who was once a “slave” can fully appreciate the joy of freedom. Everything we have fought for is precious, but what we inherit is often taken for granted, and perhaps we fail to recognize its true value.

The freedom enjoyed by Western nations did not come about by accident. No ruling class has ever been genuinely and completely willing to surrender even a small portion of its power, freedom, or wealth. Free peoples have always had to struggle for what they possess.

Among the foundations of our freedom is knowledge: true, free, uncensored knowledge. And even today, no medium remains more effective than the book for defining, preserving, and spreading ideas and thoughts.

Since ancient times, human beings have expressed their ideas through words and transmitted them in written form. The oldest known examples of writing come from Sumer and date back approximately six thousand years.

Around four thousand years ago, during the Third Dynasty of Ur in Mesopotamia, even a simple transaction, such as the sale of a sheep, was documented through a written agreement. The thousands of texts discovered at Ebla by an Italian archaeological expedition date back even further.

Ancient Egypt preserved inscriptions on walls, pyramids, tombs, and clay tablets, especially the famous Amarna Correspondence. Thanks to the artistic beauty of Egyptian hieroglyphic writing, Egyptian civilization has continued to speak to us across the centuries. Texts written not on stone but on papyrus have revealed an even more complex and fascinating world. Papyri dating from approximately 1700–1500 B.C. demonstrate the mathematical and surgical knowledge possessed by ancient Egyptians. Perhaps, if papyrus had survived the passing of time more extensively, many mysteries surrounding Egyptian technology would already have been solved.

Those who govern know this. Those who hold power understand how influential a book can be.

Consider what history tells us.

Emperor Qin Shi Huang (3rd century B.C.), the first emperor of China, ordered the destruction of historical and philosophical books. He wanted history itself to begin with him.

During the First World War, what became known as the “Rape of Belgium” took place. On August 25, 1914, German forces devastated the city of Leuven and deliberately set fire to the library of the Catholic University of Leuven, which contained approximately 300,000 medieval books and manuscripts.

The principle that “sometimes they return” was tragically demonstrated when the Nazi regime publicly burned thousands of books written by Jewish authors and political opponents. The largest of these infamous book burnings took place in Berlin on May 10, 1933.

Through the Inquisition, the Roman Church promoted the destruction of texts considered heretical or dangerous to the faith. To mention one example, the writings of the philosopher Giordano Bruno were burned along with him after his execution in 1600. A council held in Toulouse in 1229 even prohibited French laypeople from owning copies of the Bible, and in 1234 another council, held in Tarragona, ordered the burning of Bible translations into the vernacular.

The list could continue.

Why are books so often targeted?

Because a book can be read, reread, studied, and meditated upon. It can remain in a home for generations, waiting for someone else to discover and read it. A book preserves an idea clearly and permanently.

I read Orwell’s 1984, and like many others, I was struck by the similarities between the dystopian future described in that novel and aspects of our present world.

The protagonist of 1984 had a very specific occupation, and I believe Orwell included this detail intentionally. Winston, as he is called, works for the Ministry of Truth, where he rewrites historical records to ensure they conform to the ideology of Big Brother. He removes inconvenient ideas, destroys contradictory documents, and ensures that every trace of past and present dissent disappears.

Ray Bradbury is the author of the now-classic Fahrenheit 451. It is a dystopian story about a future society in which reading and possessing books are forbidden because books cannot be easily controlled as instruments of propaganda. Television, controlled by the state, is preferred instead. If that reality does not make us stop and reflect, I do not know what else could.

If we pause for a moment and free ourselves from the constant rush imposed on us by modern life, if we can escape the endless stream of entertainment that now fills every possible moment of silence, perhaps we will rediscover, in that silence, just how fundamental a book can be.

It is no coincidence that, to this day, no better medium has been found for studying and exploring any subject in depth. Books remain essential throughout every level of education. And paper, when compared with digital formats, is objectively still the most effective and functional medium available.

Reading, and especially studying, requires commitment and dedication. But if we want to stimulate our minds, strengthen our ability to think critically, learn, and evaluate ideas carefully, nothing compares to a book.

In the 16th century, William Tyndale translated the Bible into a language ordinary people could understand and encouraged its widespread reading. The many Bible translations available to us today are the result of a historical period in which one of the greatest challenges to religious authority was precisely the decision to translate Scripture and make it accessible to the common people.

We know of this great promoter of authentic Christian culture because his work survived, because books preserved his voice. If his message had been silenced, if every copy of his translation had been destroyed, and if no written record had remained of the freedom sought and achieved by courageous men and women of the past, we would not enjoy today the freedoms they helped establish. For us, their memory would have disappeared as well.

His work led to the translation of the Bible to be read by the people. In 1611 the King James Version was first released. It became the most powerful means to spread the Gospel worldwide.

We owe so much to books.

I can say something more about my own field of study.

If the Gospels had never been written, any opinion about Jesus could be considered acceptable. However, if today we can respond to imaginative theories and unsupported claims with historical evidence, we owe it precisely to the “book” that has preserved and established the facts.

If no one today can simply invent a different version of Christianity at will, we owe it to the “book” that preserves, records, and transmits its teachings.

I have always loved the history of the transmission of the biblical text, and I have studied it extensively, along with the origins of Scripture and the formation of the text we use today.

For centuries, the Church, first in its earliest stages and later throughout the first centuries of Christianity, worked diligently to identify reliable texts, reject plagiarism and sensational forgeries, and preserve trustworthy historical evidence concerning the events at the heart of our faith.

For centuries, first privately and later within monasteries, the copying of New Testament manuscripts continued alongside the meticulous work of Jewish scribes, whose extraordinary attention to detail, beyond anything we might imagine, served to preserve the Old Testament text that has been handed down to us today.

Now let us take one step further. Let us use our intuition and our analysis of the present situation and project ourselves into a possible future. Like Orwell and Bradbury, let us examine our current reality and imagine where it might lead, not in some distant age, but in a future much closer to our own and therefore easier to anticipate.

Digitalization is a wonderful achievement. Like so many gifts of human progress, it can be used for good or for evil. Nuclear energy was one of humanity’s greatest scientific accomplishments, but our tendency toward self-destruction quickly led us to use it for military purposes.

Today we have artificial intelligence, so called AI, a technology that, in some ways, recalls Orwell’s vision of Big Brother: something capable of observing, analyzing, and knowing almost everything. This too is a remarkable achievement of human science and ingenuity. But will we be able to use it for the true benefit of humanity?

The eagerness of governments to employ it for military purposes and as a means of control gives reason for concern. Am I being pessimistic, or am I being realistic? Is it not perhaps a careful analysis of reality, rather than blind optimism, that can help us correct certain situations before an irreversible process begins?

In a world without physical books, where everything exists only in digital form, any unwanted expression of thought could easily be removed, altered, or erased as if it had never existed.

Those of us from my generation (this week I turned 58) have witnessed the rise of a new generation increasingly shaped by TikTok and social media, where speed, immediacy, and entertainment often dominate. We can observe how this environment objectively weakens critical thinking and reduces the time dedicated to deep reflection.

A more or less conscious escape from an objectively challenging reality affects a significant percentage of young people and, in many cases, extends beyond them. The motto “live one day at a time” has never been more popular.

Fortunately, we still have our books.

Paper.

Tangible.

Permanent.

My heart is filled with joy whenever I see a new bookstore. There I find freedom, ideas, opinions, and human thought, regardless of whose ideas or opinions they may be.

With this article, I want to encourage a revolution: buy books, paper books. Read them. Stop and think. Take notes, draw conclusions, and develop genuine ideas and opinions, rather than simply following the waves created by trends, social media, or television.

Invest in yourself and in your future: buy books; give them as gifts. When you have read the books you own and no longer have room for them in your home, give them to someone who will appreciate and use them. No book was ever written to gather dust on a shelf.

Rebel against everything that seeks to entertain, confuse, and numb your mind.

We must not take for granted the freedom that others fought to obtain for us. Let us defend it every day by dedicating ourselves to knowledge, reflection, and the sharing of ideas. Let us support books, publishers, and bookstores.

Let us not allow new, more subtle, and more sophisticated technological fires to silence the freedom of human thought by erasing its clearest and most conscious expression:

THE BOOK.

July 20, 2026

 

 

I add to this article a “dystopian” story entitled “Reception 2040”.

It was the final act that sealed my definitive retirement: going to collect my last remaining belongings from the facility, thus concluding almost ten years of service and finally enjoying my retirement.

The entrance was always the same, unchanged for ten years. But something was different that morning, or perhaps it was just me perceiving everything differently, given the circumstances.

A mixture of various sensations assailed me as soon as I found myself inside the hall.

As in flashbacks of 90s sci-fi films, I saw the movement again, the people coming and going, the reception, the smiles, the interplay of different languages, that warm welcome that was inevitable for anyone who crossed that threshold… Now a simple voice and a screen with a digital image that clumsily mimicked the beauty and elegance of a female human’s movements.

“Welcome to the hotel. How can I help you?”

“I came to get my stuff.”

“Of course. Positive ID: former GT employee. You’ve guaranteed a final check-in to collect your belongings. Please don’t forget anything.”

“Why do you have this feminine voice and why are you so annoyingly polite and accommodating!”

«If you want, I can set a male voice»

“Exactly. Forget it.”

On warm spring days, at this time of morning, guests sat at their tables and ate breakfast. A gentle murmur filled the background.

Sometimes children would run away and first-time parents would improvise, surprised themselves firsthand, a firmness in their tone of voice that they discovered they had been gifted with as new parents.

The kids were the most terrifying. Some hated their shouting and shied away from those noisy but cheerful groups. Others thought back to the years gone by, when they’d been on that side of life’s fence.

Now only silence and a sad lineup of robots waiting to receive the load of orders they were supposed to deliver to the appropriate rooms.

How could everything have changed so radically in less than ten years! But even more astonishing was the way people had adapted to such change. As if cultivating laziness, entertainment, and comfort were all we were created for, as if there was nothing else.

The robots began to file into the rooms. Breakfast was served in the room. The more malicious saw these new rules—here as in other similar places—as a plot to isolate people as much as possible, limiting contact to the bare minimum.

I remember when we were young, we kept our eyes peeled for fear of having our wallets stolen on the bus or being stopped by bullies on the street. This doesn’t happen anymore. In theory, we’re safe almost anywhere we are. Yet this sense of insecurity is fueled and made dependent on the ability to abstain from contact with the outside world, with strangers. Sometimes, to scare the younger ones, I tell them how, as kids, we used to stop to help people in need on the street. When we stopped if someone had a flat tire or, worse, had an accident. All these crazy things are now inconceivable.

“But were you really driving your own car? Wasn’t it risky?”

«And I explained: back then there were no shared services of robotized cars».

This amazed the younger ones.

There was no point in reasoning within the parameters of my time; I was tired of feeling old-fashioned and outdated. So I kept my ramblings to myself.

I tried to write something about it. And that’s how I discovered why I hadn’t read anything like it: my book was immediately censored and every trace of it was erased from the collective memory of the Internet.

I had tried to talk to my grandchildren about it. But their interest was utterly disinterested. School had now become a constant form of behavioral management, pushing for the utmost respect for others, whom we must keep as far away as possible to better preserve the social fabric.

All this thinking, and I was still in the Hall, watching those robots parade by. The only good thing about them was that they resembled walking trays more than intelligent entities.

Humanized robots were the worst. I hated those. But even that, I did in silence.

“Former GT employee, I kindly ask you to collect your personal items as soon as possible. In ten minutes, everything will be confiscated and sent to the shredder, and you will be forcibly removed from the facility. Thank you.”

An insult automatically escaped my lips. Unfortunately, those damned devices don’t have a problem with the volume of our human voices.

“Former GT employee, your unprovoked profanity against a public intelligent facility will be immediately sanctioned with the deduction of two points from your SCS (social behavior record) and confinement to your accommodation for two days. Failure to comply with this decision will be sanctioned by a more appropriate court sentence. Thank you.”

Damn face reading.

“A reading of your facial features confirms your displeasure. No sanctions are foreseen, but the matter will be archived in your public memory for possible future reference.”

Maybe I’d better go get my things and avoid this pointless confrontation.

My cell phone rang.

“Ready”

“Have you heard the latest?”

The smile appeared on my face.

“No, come on, not now, I’m at the hotel getting my stuff.”

“Shall I call you in ten minutes? You’ll be laughing your head off. This is too much.”

“Ten minutes isn’t enough. Is the joke about the two robots in the square? I know it.”

“No, no. There are at least ten robots in the square, waiting for those who don’t show up.”

I started laughing, both me and the person on the other end of the phone.

I ended the call.

Then I took a risk as I sometimes liked to do with those idiots:

“This is so good. Did you hear it at the front desk? How can you not laugh out loud, too?”

“Former employee, I don’t know what you mean. Please complete your withdrawal and leave the facility within seven minutes. Thank you.”

It had happened about two years earlier. A genius had realized that AI couldn’t understand humor; laughter confused it and made it go haywire. So that was the solution.

“No, no. There are at least ten robots in the square, waiting for anyone who doesn’t arrive.” This meant that a garrison of robots was stationed outside our shelter in the square, that I shouldn’t approach, and that we would meet at shelter number ten.

The locker was now the only one closed; the others were clearly unused. I grabbed my things, not without a certain sense of nostalgia, a feeling hard to explain. Each one spoke of someone and something. Like every corner, every detail of that room, the corridors. Everything carried with it a burden of memories that mercilessly poured onto my shoulders as I passed.

The memory of punching time cards. Those computers that didn’t talk and couldn’t repair themselves, which we’d take to the service center, when they were still defenseless and we were in power. The complaints about delays and early arrivals just to be there talking to colleagues. The long nights of silence and unique noises, of jolts when sleep overtook you.

Then the colleagues arrived, one by one, in the morning. Even that simple gadget that never worked when you had to clock in or out, that too was missing. And then everyone was busy getting ready, welcoming the first ones to wake up. The complaints.

All over.

That quiet, that silence at that time of day was unnatural. The new normal. That quiet that ran on the edge of fear, mistrust, and isolation in favor of a life of ease, extreme comfort, and a lack of worry.

It’s no coincidence that the Greeks called truth aletheia. That privative prefix “a” reminds us that to possess the truth, we must give up something. It’s no coincidence that the English expressed it, from another perspective, by saying that “ingorance is bliss,” meaning that ignorance is bliss. We Italians, in fact, say “beata Conoscenza” (beata ignorance).

All my stuff was here, it fit in a backpack. All things I don’t need. But it was just an excuse to see that place one last time and delve into memories, the dearest companions of those who have reached a certain age.

I climb the stairs after nostalgically using my beloved bathroom, the destination of hurried nighttime trips. No rush now.

That cold reception… The enthusiasm of the new arrivals, the complaints of those who expected more from the passing of the years. The sleepiness of those starting the morning shift and, even worse, of those finishing the night shift.

Welcoming is an art. What am I saying? It used to be an art. Now it’s simply a protocol. Or maybe even less than that. But the saddest thing isn’t even that, but the fact that no one remembers what it was like—except for a few dinosaurs like me.

“Hey, receptionist, do I have time to tell you a story?”

“You still have two minutes before you get kicked out, ex-employee.”

“That’s enough for me. Listen. There were two brothers. One goes to live far away, in Australia. Every now and then he calls home to see how things are going. One day the brother who stayed home is forced to give him some bad news: ‘The cat is dead.’ Imagine the dismay of the brother far from home. ‘What are you doing, giving me such tragic news like that? You should have been a little more gentle, don’t you think? Maybe you could have told me that the cat was on the roof and we can’t get it down. And maybe the next time I called you could have told me that the cat had fallen from the roof and that you were doing everything you could to save its life. And then, in the end, when I called again, you would have informed me that unfortunately, you did everything you could, but the cat didn’t make it and was dead. And I was ready for the news. Anyway, do you have any more news for me?’ And the brother: ‘Mom’s on the roof and we can’t get her down.’”

And I burst into a loud laugh that bounced off the deaf walls.

“Did you get it?” I said to the AI.

“Your mom’s on the roof, I think I understand. Do you want me to notify the authorities? I can put you in touch with someone who can provide immediate assistance.”

«It was a joke, it was meant to provoke hilarity, laughter»

“Ah, ah, ah. Sure, sorry. Ah, ah, ah.”

The AI’s laughter was legendary. Its need to please at all costs forced it to pretend to understand the humor in things and awkwardly imitate human laughter. It’s a bit like us office workers did when our bosses told jokes and we wanted to slit our wrists, but we gave our best effort in a clearly artificial laugh to keep our jobs.

I walked out that door for the last time, and it closed mercilessly behind me. No “go back,” no “stay a little longer.”

Sometimes you wake up and think it was all a dream, that you’re not seventy. But you look at your hands, feel the aches and pains, and then, finally, you look in the mirror and realize it’s true, that you weren’t dreaming. Inside, you feel young: you always say it, but it doesn’t convince anyone, and it doesn’t help you rejuvenate.

Passing through the square I saw the ten robots stationed there and I continued on, laughing, thinking about the nice little story I had told earlier.

Laughter confuses them; they can’t read your face. Laughter is the only escape.

In every sense.

There were two days to go until the joke convention, which would be held online and in person in twenty-eight countries. We were all eager to tell our story and laugh out loud. This time, the whole planet would laugh together. We would all truly laugh, finally.

The broadcast began from the headquarters.

“Welcome to the world premiere of a joke for the world. I’m your host. Are you ready to laugh your ass off?”

The studio where the broadcast took place was bare. And the machine, the joke-meter, was there ready to be activated.

“Our wonderful device that will bring laughter and humor to the whole world is ready.”

It was truly beautiful, ready to finally change history, to put everything back where it belongs. At least that’s what we hoped.

“Do you know the latest?” said the announcer. “The latest, as in the very last, because there won’t be another!”

And everyone started laughing. Me included, having spent three years of sacrifice in front of that screen. And that was the final joke, the final joke.

Sunspots would reach Earth in exactly 10 minutes. We hadn’t seen anything like this in decades. The devices we had scattered across the globe would amplify them thanks to the Earth’s electromagnetic field. A ploy as simple as it was effective. If everything had gone as planned, we truly would have been the last ones laughing. This outdated generation, these useless witnesses to a world that no longer existed, would have had the last word, they would be the last ones laughing. He who laughs last laughs best, right?

At hour X, the presenter’s face became tense and serious. It all happened too fast for AI to notice and do anything. Simultaneously, devices were activated across the globe.

No one knows exactly what happened next.

A loud thunderclap seemed to shake the entire earth, a very low-frequency wave interfered with the brainwaves of the planet’s inhabitants everywhere, and they all fell asleep. Me too.

When I woke up, there was no image on the viewer. There was no light in my apartment. My cell phone was completely off and I couldn’t turn it back on.

I ran out as fast as I could.

I saw cars parked everywhere. Many robots were motionless and showed no signs of being operational. Others were on the ground in absurd positions.

People wandered around in confusion, wondering what had happened.

The traffic lights were all out.

There was no sign that was lit.

We did it!

Here is our second chance, the chance all of humanity needed: to start over.

This time I laughed, but I really laughed, not to cover my emotions, but because our greatest enemy had been defeated. AI no longer existed. The price we had to pay was to destroy all the rest of the technology of our era. But it was an acceptable price to regain our freedom, in the name of that Aletheia that demands that we give up something in order to possess it.