Thursday, February 26, 2026, marked the closing of a circle that began on Wednesday, July 24, 2024: 582 days.

It was a hot July afternoon when, together with the publisher Imago, we had the first meeting to acquire the rights to reproduce in a limited series the Fibonacci manuscript, the Liber Abaci (1228).

I still remember the words of Dr. Speranzi, then head of the Manuscripts and Rare Books Section:

“She wants the rights to our most famous manuscript…”

In the meantime, many things have changed: the person in charge has changed, our primary contact has become a university professor, and, above all, we have achieved the most concrete and symbolic gesture: the delivery of the copy for legal deposit to Dr. Claudio Pelucani, a courteous and knowledgeable person, at the National Central Library of Florence.

What is legal deposit?

Legal deposit is the obligation established by law to deliver one or more copies of a published book to libraries/institutions designated by the State, so as to:

• preserve national and local editorial memory (permanent archiving)
• catalog and make the work traceable (national bibliographies, catalogues)
• protect cultural heritage and facilitate study and research

It's written very clearly in the legislation: the legal deposit serves to establish the national and regional archive of editorial production and to enable bibliographic services and access to documents.

And here comes the point that many ignore and which, paradoxically, concerns us all:
The law explicitly provides that even facsimile reproductions of works no longer on the market are subject to registration.

So a facsimile isn't just a copy. It's a publication in its own right, with its own place in institutional memory.

The National Central Library of Florence (BNCF) is among the institutions leading this system: it collects what is published because publication is also a cultural act that must remain traceable over time.

ts task is often overlooked: it collects what is published, because publication is a cultural act that must be traceable even a hundred years from now.

This isn't an abstract idea: the Library itself reminds us that the Italian National Bibliography lists publications published in Italy based on the "mandatory copy" submitted in compliance with legal deposit regulations. To put it more bluntly: if someone in the future studies these high-quality facsimiles, if someone searches for traces, references, and collocations, they won't be able to rely solely on the web and social media, which are rapidly evaporating. They will also be able to rely on a physical, real, and organized place: the archive.

A three-century-long thread and a name: Magliabechi

There is another thing that struck me.

In the Grand Duchy of Tuscany, a decree established as early as 1737 the mandatory delivery of printed materials to the Library that would later become the Magliabechiana; in 1743 the obligation was extended to the entire territory of the Grand Duchy.

This means that the gesture we have made, today regulated by laws, lists, stamps, and procedures, has ancient roots: the almost stubborn belief that what is produced and shared must be able to be saved from oblivion.

Legal deposit, when you look closely, is not just a practice: it is a form of civilization.

In this case the National Central Library of Florence plays a dual role:

• body authorizing and sponsoring the reproduction in small series, because it is the custodian of the original (the 1228 manuscript)
• legal archive of the contemporary edition, because it also welcomes the facsimile as a publication in all respects

The place chosen for delivery is, obviously, the section reserved for manuscripts and rare books.

But the fascinating thing is what appears in the background of the photos: facsimile editions created in the second half of the twentieth century, when fine facsimiles began to gain recognition as an independent publishing and artisanal discipline. And which, in the meantime, due to their limited print runs, quality, and history, have become rare books.

For those of us in our profession, it is a silent lesson: a facsimile is born to reflect an original, but over time it can become a second-generation original—rare, sought-after, a witness to an era and a way of producing that will never return.

And so, as you hand over the Liber Abaci, you realize you're entering a concrete genealogy. Not a "market," but a timeline made up of hands, workshops, choices, and that obsession with detail that, ultimately, is also a form of respect.

Because “showing it” is more important than depositing it

The most important question remains: why were we so keen to deliver it, even for "viewing the work done"?

Because a facsimile does not truly live until it enters into a relationship: with those who study it, with those who preserve it, with those who compare it to the original, with those whose eye is trained to distinguish the excellent from the merely good, and also with those who purchase and preserve it.

We can describe the supply chain, the care, the fidelity, and the difficulty of certain production choices. We can discuss materials, color rendering, binding, thicknesses, and minimum tolerances.

But there comes a point where words end and only one thing remains: the object.

Putting it on the table, in front of those who live every day among manuscripts and rare books, means saying a very simple sentence:

“Here it is. Measure it.”

And, if I must say so fully, it's also an act of respect. Because whoever preserves the original deserves to see how you've translated it into the present.

The paradox

There was a beautiful paradox yesterday in that room.

On the one hand, you deliver a facsimile to be preserved as part of contemporary editorial production.

On the other hand, behind you, on the shelves, you see facsimiles from decades ago that have since become rare.

It's as if the Library were telling you, without saying anything: time transforms everything. Even facsimiles.

And then you understand that our job is not just to “reproduce”.

It is entering a long chain: creating an object with the qualities to transcend the present and the dignity to deserve a place in the future.

Conclusion: a book comes home

By delivering a facsimile of Fibonacci's Liber Abaci to the National Central Library of Florence, we have made a simple yet enormous gesture.

Simple, because it is required by the legal deposit, with its procedures and steps.

Enormous, because it means that this work, in its contemporary form, enters the circuit of public memory.

And in a time when everything flows and little seems to remain, this matters.
It matters to us.

It matters to whoever owns it.
It matters to those who, one day, will search for traces and find this too.
A book comes home.
And it remains from that day.