The Infinite Library

by Kane X Faucher

  “You also seem untroubled by the fact that I am here, in forbidden territory. I am not an initiate of the Order to which Castellemare – and perhaps you – belong.”

  “No, I am not troubled in the least. I can tell you have a deep and solemn respect for books. The rules for patronizing the Library are rather commonsense: don't be disruptive, keep the books in order, no smoking or eating, and no defacement. As for an Order, I know of only one order, and it is the order of the books in the Library. I belong to nothing other than this Library, and perhaps to myself, multiple though I may be. This is not a bibliotheca prohibitorum... All are welcome here, and perchance we visit this place in dreams, pull from the stories in these books when sleep has us in its embrace. The books belong to everyone and no one. We have so few visitors of the conscious variety, but dreamers we have plenty. Great and undiscovered artists and inventors make up the majority of visitors, for what you call inspiration has its source right here. In my life, out there, I had a glimmering of a notion that such a place as this existed, and that my stories were not entirely my own... We all borrow our stories from some place, and then we make it our own. But, in truth, this is a place of infinite possibility, and every possible story, every possible invention, every insight and notion, resides here quietly between the covers of some book. All ideas are, in some ways, ex libris.”

  “I am very sorry to ask this since I do not want to leave, but I have been traveling for a long while now and feel very weak and hungry. I need to find my way out. I must say that you have been the most gracious and kind person I've met so far in concerns this Library.”

  “Oh, must you leave so soon? No matter: I am sure you will grace us with a visit again soon. The Library is eternal and so will always be here waiting for your return.”

  The Librarian walked slowly from behind his desk and, with a gentle hand, herded me towards an exit I had not seen.

  “Was this here when I came in?” I asked.

  He turned to me and said with that warm smile, “There are many exits and entrances to the Library, friendly traveler. One has only to think of it.”

  I bade him farewell and stepped through the door, only to find that I was back in my apartment, the door to the Library closing gently behind me and fading away. I felt somewhat emboldened by the idea that the Library was not exactly as Castellemare had said it was. The Library did not restrict access to the few, and if it did, it was not done according to belonging to mystical Orders. The Library was not a place of vicious intrigue and peril, but benevolently neutral.

  Upon my return, I noticed a few alarming changes. My shelf, which had been dispensing endless books, was now entirely bereft of books. My computer was also gone, as were all my papers with notes upon them. The work of the Devorants, I assumed. The only book I had left in my apartment was the thoroughly damaged copy of Descartes' Meditations. I was too weak to summon up consternation at this act of theft, and so made myself something to eat. Shortly after, I lay down in my bed and slept for a long time, restfully.

  26

  Excerpts from 7th Meditation

  where the philosopher and the madman intersect

  It was an intractable place, a place where theories always appeared flitting without unity, theories that derived more complex creations and resisted resolution; a place where theories were merely stapled together in haste, in paper assignments, or bound together in books and dissertations, chronically unread, underdeveloped, incomplete glaciers in textual eternity.

  The university buildings appeared warm to the touch despite the sharp cold in the air. A man in disheveled clothing was mumbling to himself while groups of students almost instinctively made a wide berth of him. He was jabbering with loose horse lips about energy and electricity, his eyes wild in contemplative stupor. His fingers uncurled and his hands gestured like pinwheels. One student, who travelled across the commotion of the others that moved in shoals to or from classes, came to a halt in front of the shambling man. The young student was robust in stature, yet his shoulders drooped as though the gravity of his academic involvement was playing a cruel trick on his body. At the sight of the student, the disheveled man stopped silent and glanced at him furtively over his bifocals, and perhaps with the look of investigative patience that seemed to pool in the eyes of one accustomed to making visual contact with text. In his life, the disheveled man had perhaps saw more of books than people; the young student had just begun on this path. The disheveled man looked first to his own gnarled hands, looking like fossilized worm trails in Cambrian limestone, and then at the smoothness and warm quickness of the student's hands. The first to show age were the face and hands, he thought, incidentally the primary two surfaces to ever come in contact with books. Perhaps it is our repeated contact with books that make us age so, he thought, a passing thought of illicit significance. The student, upon realizing that his hands were being visually examined, and that he had not said anything to the disheveled man, stiffened and spoke: “Professor Wyman, I had a few questions from class.” And Wally Wyman would only be so happy to answer them, albeit with more questions in the eternal bloodless sport of academic nature.

  At the same time, another man was crossing. This man wore a tweed jacket, spectacles that couldn't decide whether to be at his eyes or on the end of his nose, and he carried a leather satchel—a perforated and torn stereotype image of the professorial. He did not like the disheveled man, his goblin walk, his muttering, his undignified composure, the way he wore those cheap winter boots year round. He did not like the way the man's loose slacks seemed to be rolled up over the boot on one leg and bunched on the other. No, he found these things repulsive. To this proper man, professional scholarly appearance was of vital importance, perhaps too important (”Truth, Beauty, and Justice are jealous sisters; deny one, and the other two set to squabbling... “). His steps were sure and arrogant, but with a slightly unsteady shyness that lurched alongside in an awkward gait, usually attendant in mid-stride. The sound of his shoes seemed to beat out a weak rhythm that punctuated his lie, mocking what he truly was behind this sartorial facade. He feared that one misstep, one inconsistency in the rhythm of his steps or a slip in speech would expose him for what he truly was. The desperation of his ego demanded that others see him for this image of the philosopher when, in fact, his true occupation was that of a dishwasher. So pronounced was his desire that it had began to worm its way inward, creating a delusion that he came to believe, causing him to stack lie upon lie about credentials he did not have, and the titles of books he never wrote. Blurring the line between fantasy and reality, he would spend his time off lurking in campus pubs and trying to look meaningful and meaningfully at books in the library. At times, he would attend public lectures and make an utter fool of himself during the question period. Of course, he never thought himself the fool, but rather that he was somehow superior in his intellect, wildly creative and daring. With his meagre finances, he swooped up any and all philosophy books he could find in used bookstores, and he would carry them about his person like ornaments, being sure that all around him could see that he was a serious intellectual. When he did bother to read these dense tomes, he feigned understanding, weaving ever more into his lie, impatiently speeding through these books as if he had read it before. If pressed with the truth, he would declare that fate had been unkind in granting someone like the disheveled man the honour of position that he himself felt was rightfully his.

  He observed the impromptu professor-student consultation from a distance he was gradually closing. With a stiffly false confidence, he brazenly interrupted the conversation. He recognized the disheveled man from a dream, a dream where his false credentials were not questioned.

  “Greetings,” he said with no mean pomp, interrupting the student in mid-sentence. “I think it vitally urgent that we convene a discussion on a few matters of extreme importance.”

  “Certainly, and especially if the energies I see burning brightly in you are in accord with my temperament at the m
oment,” the professor said, a disagreeable collection of spittle collected in the corners of his mouth. “Flows and circuits, a whole landscape of electric intersubjectivity!”

  The student concealed his insult, thinking the interlocutor was a colleague, and so immediately forgiven.

  “I should be getting to class. Can I visit you during your office hours, Professor Wyman?”

  “Yes, yes, of course!” The professor said jovially.

  The two men – the professor and his shadow – wandered in the direction of the professor's office.

  “Your name is Wally, am I correct?” asked the faux philosopher.

  “Why, yes, it is. Wally Wyman. And you are?”

  “Russell. I had a dream where you were present.”

  “So did I! In fact, I had a dream where not only I was present, but you were, too. A philosopher, by my recollection. Oh, how I adore philosophers!”

  Russell felt fluffed by the acknowledgement.

  “The winter's setting in early,” the professor said, a random jetty of small talk.

  “Yes it is.”

  “The ducks are still here,” the professor indicated with a stained finger at the now more languidly flowing river.

  “They never leave,” Russell corrected.

  “Is that so? How splendid!”

  When they both reached the professor's office, the office in more disarray than the man's appearance, Russell blurted out random philosophical fragments as if to captivate the professor with his diverse knowledge, to convince the professor of his trapped genius. The professor merely nodded as if his mind was on other things, which it was. He suddenly said, “I wonder what an orange laugh would sound like.”

  The proper man was deflated; he was obviously talking to a tenured crackpot. “I wouldn't know,” Russell replied disappointedly.

  “Or what hard smoke tastes like, or how to sleep lividly, or how one would mend saltiness... “

  “We should return to the matter of the dream and its philosophical significance. Even allowing for coincidence, the state of affairs that would allow both of us to have the same dream is untenable according to any theory of consciousness. It would imply that consciousnesses can operate in a shared capacity.”

  “You know, that's right,” said Professor Wyman. “It is a distinct impossibility, and yet we both experienced it. I suppose we would have to revise our assumptions and assign possibility to that kind of dreaming. You know, ever since that dream, I haven't been able to shake this one image, that of the red lion that was emblazoned upon that book the prophet showed us.”

  “Red lion?” asked Russell, who had obviously not paid attention to that detail in the dream. “And, I hardly doubt that uppity dandy should be called a prophet.”

  “Yes, a red lion. Very ornamental, almost Chinese. I noticed that every time the prophet spoke, he would caress it, like it was a touchstone of some sort.”

  “I believe this detail to be a side issue to our more chief concern on this aspect of shared consciousness.”

  “Maybe... maybe... but I just can't seem to shake it. I'm sorry to cut this short mister... ?”

  “Russell.”

  “Yes, Russell. I am due to lecture about five minutes ago, you see, so I'm awfully late. Like the rabbit what's-his-name. Perhaps you could come back during my office hours and we can talk strange dreams and red lions again. I would like that.”

  Russell agreed, but was disappointed nonetheless. Wally turned out to be a burnout, and Russell still every inch a fraud.

  3

  where the prophet presents a gift to the artist

  Ensopht knew that the book he carried was a dangerous one, but one that had been foretold in the Library. He had seen the book only once before in another incarnation, as a luridly opulent folio edition that Castellemare had chanced to show him. “This,” he remembered Castellemare instructing, “is what you must find... out there. This, I must impress upon you, is the engine of what must come to pass. You will facilitate the transaction, changing its carrier. Let none other than the appointed artist take possession of that book, and I will manage the who will assume authorship of the main script. You will recognize it by its cover, a red lion.” With those instructions firmly pressed upon Ensopht, his work as Castellemare's agent would have direct purpose. He now had the book, and now it was time for it to possess its new owner.

  After another failed bout with the canvas, Leopold decided to make his way to the bar. With his creative zeal having abandoned him yet again, he reasoned that perhaps much drink would resurrect it. This tactic, of course, never succeeded. While en route, he was buttonholed by his frankest critic.

  “Hello, Leopold,” Ensopht greeted.

  “Um, hi.”

  “Off to the bar, I presume?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Creative dysfunction?”

  “I suppose so,” Leopold said indifferently.

  In actual fact, Leopold was deeply suspicious of Ensopht. There was something not quite right about him, and it had nothing to do with Ensopht's negative appraisal of his pretension toward art. No, there was something almost palpably sinister about the man with the opalescent eyes, his eerie manner of dress, the comportment of someone who was highly unusual and unsettling. Leopold was more comfortable with conventional oddities: those who try to look weird.

  “There is a cure for your ills; you need to become someone else,” said Ensopht.

  “What? I don't quite follow you.”

  “How we cleave so desperately to our sinking selves when it would be much easier to scrap it all and start fresh. All one needs is the right motivation.”

  “Are you suggesting I become someone else?”

  “Yes, it may be time to abandon the smoking wreck of the old Leopold. Listen to me carefully: an artist had recently terminated his lease on life, and his artistic territory has been left vacant in obscurity. He was never formally recognized and his work awaits an occupant. All that remains is for someone, the right someone, to take his place.”

  “So you want me to 'move in' and claim the work as my own? That's someone else's labour, their blood and effort. I can't just take it over and claim it as my own. It's theft. It's morally wrong. It says that I can't create my own work. I won't do it.”

  “Your unconvincing morality is being propped up as a blind. Your view of artists and their work is also rather facile. There is nothing original left in the world, and nothing left but plagiarism. Don’t be ridiculous: when there is an infinite library, we are all but plagiarists. I am offering you creative salvation. The work is what matters, not the artist. It doesn't matter who signs the masterpiece, but that the masterpiece is brought to the public. There is no original work – everything is derivative of everything else. Perhaps, under the right conditions and circumstances, you would have made these works.”

  “Why me? Why have you selected me to be the plagiarist? What you are asking me is simply insulting to me as an artist.”

  “Seems like you care more about yourself than about art. This gift I have for you is necessary. I am giving you the one-time opportunity to act as its author.”

  Ensopht handed the sketchbook to Leopold who immediately recognized the red lion on the black cover from the dream. Leopold held it with delicate care.

  “You say this comes from a dead guy?” asked Leopold.

  “Very dead.”

  “What does this mean?” Leopold pointed at the red lion.

  “It means many things, Leo,” Ensopht said with a wry smile.

  “The artist's girlfriend had asked me if I had seen this,” Leopold said. “She asked me to tell her if I came across it.”

  “If I were you, I wouldn't dare parting with it under any circumstances. The previous owner did not dare to, and nor should you. You and this sketchbook were meant for each other. Was it by coincidence the artist killed himself, or that I was present to remove the artifact and hand it off to whom I consider its current rightful owner? Remember that all of this
is foretold, but not forever. Eventually this sketchbook will become the property of someone else. Make use of it now and it will be retrieved and given to someone else when the time is right.”

  That would be Ensopht's final word before departing. Leopold was left in the street, burdened with a dead man's sketchbook, caught between home and the bar.

  4

  where the philosopher is given a stern warning from the Third Man

  It was a savage cruelty that the owner in his bristly moustache and grease-stained apron barked his orders to the faux philosopher - nowhere near recognizing the academic fantasy of his employee - an order half in Greek by this owner who was less than half a cook. No translation was necessary: the dishes were piling up insensibly with chaotic vengeance. Russell was attempting to phase out the harsh reality of his predicament by focusing on whatever dim philosophical reflections had earlier been beguiling him. His boss' snarling orders performed were quick to jolt Russell back into the moment, to the automatic task of hosing congealed egg yolk that clung stubbornly to over-washed plates. The breakfast rush was the cruelest shift of them all. His own wash apron was slicked in filth and soap, soiling his now damp pants underneath. The smell of his job clung to him despite repeated washings, and the heat of the dishwashing machine and the plates that needed to be removed from it immediately to make up the short stack had all but removed his fingerprints.

  In another half hour the breakfast rush would be over, but the dishes would keep trickling in and the massive strata of ceramic and metal would not be under control for an hour yet.

  “Russell!” the owner-cook barked again. “You get no break now. Finish clean first and cut potatoes, make fries.” This time with more friendliness, the peculiar pendulum between despot and kindly father: “you good boy, get done fast, and we see you get grill-cheese, heh?” Not that such slight reward would make up for the misery Russell suffered.