by Walter Moers
Passers-by shook their heads as they saw me prancing exultantly through the streets with the manuscript in my hand. Those simple characters inscribed on paper had induced a state of sheer ecstasy. Their writer, whoever he was, had transported our profession to a realm that had hitherto been terra incognita from my point of view. I breathed heavily, overcome with humility.
Then came a paragraph that struck an entirely new note - a note as high and clear as that of a glass bell. The words suddenly transmuted themselves into diamonds, the sentences into diadems. These were ideas produced by concentrated intellectual high pressure, words ground and polished into gems of crystalline perfection reminiscent of the precise, unique structure of snowflakes. The cold emanating from them made me shiver, but it wasn’t the mundane frigidity of ice: it was the grand, exalted, eternal chill of outer space. This was creative thought and writing in its purest form. I had never read anything even half as immaculate.
I will quote one sentence from this text, namely, the one with which it ended. It was also the sentence which finally dissolved the writer’s block that had inhibited the author from starting work. I have since used it whenever I myself have been gripped by fear of the blank sheet in front of me. It is infallible, and its effect is always the same: the knot unravels and a stream of words gushes out on to the virgin paper. It acts like a magic spell and I sometimes fancy it really is one. But, even if it isn’t the work of a sorcerer, it is certainly the most brilliant sentence any writer has ever devised. It runs: ‘This is where my story begins.’
I lowered the manuscript, my knees went weak, and I sank exhausted to the ground - no, let’s be honest, dear readers: I lay down at full length. My ecstasy subsided, my rapture gave way to desolation. Icy rivulets of fear trickled through my veins, filling me with apprehension. Yes, Dancelot had predicted that this manuscript would traumatise me. I wanted to die. How could I ever have presumed to be a writer? What did my amateurish attempts to scribble ideas on paper have in common with the literary sleight of hand I had just witnessed? How could I ever soar to such heights without this writer’s wings of purest inspiration? I began to weep again - bitter, despairing tears this time.
Compelled to step over my supine form, people anxiously enquired what the matter was. I paid them no heed. As if paralysed, I lay there for hours until darkness fell and the stars began to twinkle overhead. Somewhere up there my authorial godfather was smiling down at me.
‘Dancelot!’ I shouted up at the vault of heaven. ‘Where are you? Come and bear me off to your kingdom of the dead!’
‘Pipe down and go home, you drunken sot!’ called an angry voice from a window.
Two nightwatchmen, who probably mistook me for a young and inebriated poet in the throes of creative endeavour (a not entirely false assumption), linked arms with me and conducted me home with many an encouraging cliché (‘You’ll feel better in the morning!’, ‘Time is a great healer!’, et cetera). Once there I flopped down on the bed as if felled by a trebuchet. Not until the small hours did I notice that I was still clutching the jam sandwich, now squashed flat, in my fist.
The next morning I decided to leave Lindworm Castle. Having spent the whole night running through various ways of overcoming the crisis - hurling myself from the battlements, taking refuge in drink, abandoning my literary career and becoming a hermit, cultivating cauliflowers in Dancelot’s garden - I resolved to follow my authorial godfather’s advice and set out on a longish journey. I wrote my parents a consoling farewell letter in sonnet form and made up a bundle containing my savings, two jars of Dancelot’s jam, a loaf of bread and a bottle of water.
Leaving the castle at dawn, I slunk through the deserted streets like a thief and did not breathe easier until I reached open countryside. I walked for many days, seldom resting because I had but one objective: to get to Bookholm and pick up the trail of the mysterious author whose artistry had filled me with such exaltation. In my youthful optimism I imagined him taking Dancelot’s place and becoming my tutor. He would, I thought, bear me upwards to the sphere in which writing such as his originated. I had no idea what he looked like - I didn’t know his name or even if he was still alive - but I was sure I would find him. Ah, the boundless confidence of youth!
That is how I came to Bookholm. So here I now am with you, my undaunted readers. And it is here, on the outskirts of the City of Dreaming Books, that my story really begins.
The City of Dreaming Books
Once I had grown accustomed to the overpowering smell of mildewed paper that arose from the bowels of Bookholm and survived some allergic sneezing fits occasioned by the ubiquitous clouds of book dust, and once my eyes had stopped watering in the acrid smoke from a thousand chimneys, I could at last begin to take stock of the city’s countless marvels.
Bookholm had more than five thousand officially registered antiquarian bookshops and roughly a thousand semi-legal establishments that sold, in addition to books, alcoholic beverages, tobacco, and intoxicating herbs and essences whose ingestion was reputed to enhance your pleasure and powers of concentration when reading. There was also an almost incalculable number of itinerant vendors with printed matter of every conceivable kind for sale in shoulder bags or on handcarts, in wheelbarrows and mobile bookcases. Bookholm boasted over six hundred publishing houses, fifty-five printers, a dozen paper mills and a steadily growing number of factories producing lead type and printer’s ink. There were shops offering thousands of different bookmarks and ex-libris, stonemasons specialising in bookends, cabinetmakers’ workshops and furniture stores filled with lecterns and bookcases, opticians who manufactured spectacles and magnifying glasses, and coffee shops on every street corner. Open for business twenty-four hours a day, most of the latter had inglenook fireplaces and were venues for authors’ readings.
I saw countless fire stations in Bookholm, all extremely spick and span, with gigantic alarm bells above the entrances and horse-drawn engines towing copper water tanks. Disastrous fires had destroyed a substantial proportion of the city and its books on five separate occasions, for Bookholm was accounted the biggest fire hazard in Zamonia. Because of the strong winds that were constantly blowing through its streets, the city was cool, cold or icy depending on the time of year, but never warm, which was why its inhabitants preferred to remain indoors, heat their houses well and - of course - read a great deal. Their ever-burning stoves and the sparks that flew in the immediate vicinity of old and highly combustible books created a truly dangerous state of affairs in which a new conflagration might break out at any minute.
I had to resist the impulse to dash into the nearest bookshop and root around in its stock, for I would not have emerged before nightfall and first I had to find somewhere to stay. So I strolled past the windows with shining eyes, endeavouring to make a note of the shops whose wares seemed especially promising.
There they were, the ‘Dreaming Books’. That was what the inhabitants of this city called antiquarian books because, from the dealers’ point of view, they were neither truly alive nor truly dead but located in an intermediate limbo akin to sleep. With their existence proper behind them and the prospect of decay ahead, millions upon millions of them slumbered in the bookcases, cellars and catacombs of Bookholm. Only when one of them was picked up and opened by an eager hand, only when it was purchased and borne off, could it awaken to new life. And that was what all these books dreamed of.
I spotted a first edition of Tiger in My Sock by Caliban Sycorax! The Shaven Tongue by Drastica Sinops - with Elihu Wipple’s celebrated illustrations! Hard Beds and Soiled Sheets, Yodler van Hinnen’s legendary, humorous travel guide - in mint condition! A Village Named Snowflake by Ivan Palisade-Honko, the much admired autobiography of an arch-criminal written in the dungeons of Ironville and signed in blood by the author himself! Life Is More Terrible than Death, the despairing maxims and aphorisms of Parsifal Gunk, bound in batskin! The Ant Drum by Semolina Edam - the legendary mirror-writing edition! The Glass Guest by Zodiak Glockens
piel! Hampo Harrabin’s experimental novel The Dog that Only Barked Backwards! All these were books I’d longed to read ever since Dancelot had sung their praises to me. I flattened my snout against each window in turn, groping my way along like a drunk and progressing at a snail’s pace until I finally pulled myself together. I forbade myself to take note of any more titles and resolved to gain a general impression of Bookholm. I had failed to see the wood for the trees, or rather, the city for the books. After my cosy, dreamy existence in Lindworm Castle, which was enlivened at most by an occasional siege, the streets of Bookholm bombarded me with a hailstorm of impressions. Images, colours, scenes, sounds and smells - all were novel and exciting. Zamonians of every species passed me and each was a stranger. The castle had had nothing to offer but the same old procession of familiar faces, friends, relations, neighbours, acquaintances. Here, everything was alien and unfamiliar.
I did, in fact, run into one or two visitors from Lindworm Castle. When that happened we paused for a moment, said a polite hello, exchanged a few empty phrases, wished each other a pleasant stay and bade each other goodbye. We all cultivate this stand-offish manner when travelling, if only because no one goes abroad in order to meet others of his own kind.
On you go, I told myself, explore the unknown! Haggard poets were standing everywhere, loudly declaiming their own works in the hope that they would capture the attention of some passing publisher or wealthy patron. I noticed some singularly well-nourished individuals prowling round these street poets: corpulent Hogglings who listened attentively and made occasional notes. Far from being generous patrons of the arts, they were literary agents who bullied budding authors into signing cut-throat contracts and then subjected them to merciless pressure, using them as ghost-writers until they had milked them of their last original idea. Dancelot had told me about their kind.
Members of the Bookholmian constabulary were patrolling the streets on the lookout for illegal dealers operating without licences. Whenever they hove into view, handcarts were hurriedly wheeled off and books stuffed into sacks.
Live Newspapers - fleet-footed dwarfs dressed in their traditional galleys - hawked the latest literary gossip and scuttlebutt through the streets and charged passers-by a modest fee to read the reports on their strips of newsprint, for instance:Heard the latest? Gopak Trembletoes has auctioned his novella, Lemon Icing, to Nodram House, Inc.
Believe it or not! The editing of Ogdon Ogdon’s novel, Pelican in Pastry, is going to take another six months!
Outrageous! The last chapter of The Truth Drinker by Fantotas Pemm was lifted from Kaira Prudel’s Forest and Folly!
Bookhunters were hurrying from one antiquarian bookshop to another, eager to convert their booty into cash or receive new orders. Bookhunters! You could recognise them by their miners’ lamps and jellyfish torches, their martial attire of durable leather, their chain-mail shirts and pieces of armour, their weapons and equipment: cleavers and sabres, pickaxes and magnifying glasses, ropes, lengths of string and water bottles. One of them emerged from the sewers at my very feet, an impressive specimen wearing an iron helmet and wire-mesh mask. These protective devices were more than just a defence against the dust and dangerous insects in Bookholm’s mysterious underworld. Dancelot had told me that Bookhunters not only competed for booty in the bowels of the earth but fought and even killed each other there. Seeing this fully armoured creature emerge from the ground, panting and grunting, I could well believe it.
But most of the passers-by were tourists attracted to the City of Dreaming Books by sheer curiosity. Many of them were being shepherded through the streets by guides with metal megaphones who loudly informed their charges, for instance, that Marduk Bussek had sold his Valley of the Lighthouses to such-and-such a publisher in such-and-such a building. Chattering and craning their necks like agitated geese, the tourists trailed after them, marvelling at the most trivial things.
My way was repeatedly barred by uncouth Bluddums who thrust flyers into my hand announcing which poet would be honouring which bookshop with his presence and reading from his works at ‘timber-time’ that evening. It was a while before I learnt to ignore this form of ambush.
Tottering around everywhere were small life forms dressed up as books on legs and advertising works such as Mermaid in a Teacup or The Beetle’s Funeral. The book costumes tended to restrict their vision, so they sometimes bumped into each other, toppled over with a crash and strove to regain their feet amid roars of laughter.
I paused to marvel at the dexterity of a street entertainer juggling with twelve fat volumes at once. Anyone who has thrown a book into the air and tried to catch it will know how difficult that is - though I should add that this particular juggler possessed four arms. Other strolling entertainers, who were disguised as popular characters from classical Zamonian novels, would recite passages from the relevant works by heart if tossed a coin or two. On one street corner I spotted Janggli Patosh from Men in Checked Jackets, Oku Okra from The Weeping Stones and Zanilla Sputum, the tuberculosis-racked protagonist of Mantho Snam’s masterly novel Sorcery in the Alps.
‘I am but an Alpine Imp,’ the Zanilla impersonator cried dramatically, ‘whereas you, my beloved, are a Troglotroll. We can never be united in matrimony. Let us end it all by jumping into Demon’s Gulch!’
Those few words sufficed to bring tears to my eyes. Mantho Snam was an absolute genius! It was all I could do to drag myself away.
Move on, I told myself. Notices in shop windows, which I studied attentively, carried advertisements for poetry readings, literary salons, book launches and rhyming competitions. Itinerant dealers continually tugged at my sleeve and tried to foist dog-eared volumes on me, loudly quoting from their rubbishy wares as they followed me for streets on end.
While escaping from one of these importunate creatures I came to a black building with a wooden sign over the entrance stating that it was the Chamber of Hazardous Books. Slinking up and down outside was a Vulphead who addressed passers-by in a low growl, baring his fearsome teeth. ‘You enter the Chamber of Hazardous Books at your own peril!’ he rasped. ‘No children or senior citizens admitted! Be prepared for the worst! We have books in here that can bite! Books with designs on your life! Toxicotomes, poisonous books that can strangle and fly! Genuine, every last one! This is no ghost train, ladies and gentlemen, this is for real! Make your wills and kiss your nearest and dearest goodbye before you enter the Chamber of Hazardous Books!’
Stretchers laden with bodies draped in sheets were being carried out of a side entrance at regular intervals. Despite this and the muffled screams that issued from the boarded-up windows, however, crowds of spectators were streaming inside.
‘It’s only a tourist trap,’ I was informed by a flamboyantly dressed Demidwarf. ‘No one would be crazy enough to make genuine Toxicotomes accessible to the public. How about something really authentic? Interested in an Orm trip?’
‘Eh?’ I said, mystified.
The Demidwarf opened his cloak to reveal a dozen little flasks inserted in the lining. He glanced around nervously and closed it again. ‘That’s the blood of genuine authors with the Orm circulating inside them,’ he said in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘One drop of it in a glass of wine and you hallucinate whole novels! Only five pyras2 a flask!’
‘No thanks,’ I said dismissively. ‘I’m an author myself.’
‘You Lindworm Castle snobs think you’re something special!’ the dwarf called after me as I hurried off. ‘Ink is all you write with, not blood! As for the Orm, very few of you ever acquire it!’
I was evidently in one of Bookholm’s seamier districts. It was only now that I noticed how many Bookhunters were hanging around, engaged in shady business transactions with disreputable-looking characters. Jewel-studded volumes were produced from sacks and handed over in exchange for thick wads of pyras. I must have strayed into a kind of black market.
‘Interested in books from the Golden List?’ I was asked by a Bookhunter dressed from
head to foot in black leather. He wore a mosaic mask depicting a death’s-head, a belt with a dozen knives in it and two axes in his boots. ‘Come down that dark alley with me and I’ll show you some books you’ve never even dreamt of.’
‘Many thanks!’ I cried, beating a hasty retreat. ‘Not interested!’
The Bookhunter uttered a demonic laugh. ‘I don’t have any books anyway!’ he yelled at my retreating figure. ‘I only wanted to wring your neck and cut off your paws, then pickle them in vinegar and flog them. Lindworm Castle relics are much in demand here!’
I left that nefarious neighbourhood as fast as I could. A few streets away all was normal again - no one to be seen but harmless tourists and buskers staging popular plays with puppets. I breathed a sigh of relief. Although the Bookhunter had probably been joking, I shuddered at the thought that mummified portions of a Lindworm’s anatomy possessed a certain market value in Bookholm.
I plunged once more into the stream of passers-by. Some cute little Hackonian dwarfs on a school outing were toddling shyly along hand in hand, big saucer eyes on the lookout for their favourite poets.
‘There! That’s Mostyn Rapido!’ they would cry, excitedly pointing someone out with their tiny fingers, or: ‘Look! That’s Namby the Sensitive having a coffee!’ - whereupon at least one of the party would faint.
On and on I roamed, and I’m bound to confess that my powers of recall are overtaxed by all the marvels that met my eyes. I felt as if I were walking through the pages of a lavishly illustrated book in which each flash of artistic inspiration was surpassed by the next: walking letters advertising modern printing presses; murals portraying characters from popular novels; antiquarian bookshops whose old tomes literally overflowed into the street; multifarious life forms rummaging in bookcases and vying for their contents; huge Midgard Serpents hauling wagons full of second-hand rubbish driven by uncouth Turnipheads who pelted the crowd with trashy old volumes. In this city one was forever having to duck to avoid being hit on the head by a book. The hubbub was such that I caught only snatches of what was being said, but every conversation seemed to revolve around books in one way or another:‘. . . I wouldn’t read a book by an Uggly if you paid me . . .’