Are there more germs on a book than on a twenty-euro bill?

Some libraries are beginning to introduce book sterilizers. Some users, surprised by the innovation, have posted their photos on social media. Perhaps this is typical of book preservation processes, but at least these devices aren't so common for users to be visible. They roughly resemble a microwave. Inside, there are hooks or stands that allow books to be placed open, with the pages fanned out. Thus, the disinfection system is carried out comprehensively. It works with ultraviolet light. When activated, a fan gently stimulates the movement of the leaves, allowing the rays to penetrate the interior of all the pages. The manufacturers claim that these devices are capable of eliminating bacteria, viruses, and fungi. But what is not entirely clear is whether this service is intended to protect the book or for the safety of the reader. Or both at the same time.

Underlying this sanitizing treatment is a clash between tradition and the new precautions of modern societies. Books are venerated objects, and part of their symbolism relates to their ability to transcend and, therefore, to accumulate the imprint of the passage of time. It's inevitable that those who have used them leave a trace, the marks of use, even if it's just the discreet act of turning the pages. A book, in addition to its narrative content, is the repository of a human journey that contributes to giving it a collective history. It's what Umberto Eco called "vegetal memory," appealing to its tangible and enduring quality. In the midst of the digital age, in which we are stripped of the materiality of many objects, books reclaim the tactile, visual, and olfactory experience, which is transformed by the accumulation of readers in a library. Holding a brand-new, off-the-shelf book in your hands is not the same as holding a copy from a century ago. The fact that the passage of time manifests itself in its pages influences the perception of the act of reading.

Disinfecting books, as a voluntary and conscious choice by some users to ensure their health safety during the reading process, reminds us of the need for individualization amidst the ritual of community that libraries represent. Books become a material to be disinfected, and it seems that the process should be explicit to users as a source of peace of mind. We sterilize books, but not menus from a restaurant, the Amazon courier's cell phone where we sign, the machines where we buy train tickets, hairbrushes at the hairdresser's, the keypads of payment terminals, or the bar of supermarket trolleys. To think that a book is more dangerous from a health perspective than any of these other devices is to understand that these objects have a much greater contact with our intimacy than the rest. Are there more germs in a book than in a vending machine or on twenty-euro bills? Book sterilizing machines bring to light the idea of the book as a transmitter of disease, as something potentially harmful to the reader. At a time when the far right also considers that there are books dirty In a more metaphorical sense, these machines offer the possibility of obtaining disinfected books. The question is whether, at some point, someone will consider libraries to be a risky space that should be neutralized or sanitized areas created for consulting and reading.