For obvious reasons of guild privacy, I was not permitted to read the Liber Alephi, but the guardian of Q was kind enough to tell me select notions from their devotional text, doubtless taking care to omit a great deal so as not to subject the book to the eyes of the profane.
The Guildmaster's suspicion of me as a foreigner was waning, almost as though I had ceased to be of any alarming significance. His nonchalance trickled down to the remainder of the tribe who took very little interest in me, my travels, or the land from whence I came. In fact, they seemed to lack that bone of curiousity most others are born with, and so my incessant questions must have seemed odd, if not mildly offensive and exasperating. I more than made up for their signal lack of any astonishment while they regarded me like one would the presence of a chirping migratory bird.
I cannot reliably say just how many weeks I spent pacing those winding stone corridors and black sands, alighting in one workshop or another (they were all of homogenous size and contents save for the difference in letter). To say that I was permitted to observe their work is too formal an acknowledgement when, in fact, they took increasingly less interest in my presence. In each of the 26 workshops, all hewn in stone, there was a monumental letter (also of stone) in the centre announcing the workshop's charge. By the evidence of small stone chips strewn around these sculptures, the letter was always being refined and reshaped. A baffling array of instruments and measurement tables bespoke of perpetual modification and analysis. To say these people took letters seriously would be a crude understatement: for them, the letter was a religion, a way of life, and the reason for existence for which no higher purpose could exist. The fact that I had no trade in the letter placed me in the maligned position of being inferior.
What also astounded me was the staggering volume of archives each letter had associated with it. For example, in workshop F, a copy of Anatole France's The Garden of Epicurus had every F in the text reverentially circled in ink with a single bold underline. The guardian of F could tell me from memory how many times the letter F appeared in the book which he said was factored into his ongoing statistical analysis. I learned from him that F appeared on average 97 times out of 1000 characters in the period preceding World War II, but appeared 106 times subsequently. When I inquired after the discrepancy, the guardian made motion with his hands suggesting there are some mysteries about a letter only the guardian of that letter is entitled to know.
The guardian of Y was much more forthcoming, almost friendly, when I visited him. He even elected to show me a book that pleased him containing Jacques Derrida's Ulysses Gramophone.
“Not here how the philosopher counted the number of instances of Y-E-S in Joyce's Ulysses,” he said. “When it comes to the inscription of letters, there are no accidents.”
“Do you believe that authors intentionally add a set number of particular letters in their works?” I asked.
“Yes and no. Rules govern language and predict what can come next in the construction of a word. There are no words in any language where an X is followed by a K, but Y follows L frequently. Sound and structure determine orthographic interconnectivity. Each letter has a limited range of options for what they can connect to, and this is determined by the small range of sounds it can fit with unless modified by another letter.”
“Like how G can be hard or soft, 'grab' or 'lodge', right?”
“Yes. Determined by rules of convention, mutations in language, borrow terms, and the like.”
“Can you explain why my being here is not considered an accident?”
“There are rules some cannot see, but still follow without knowing it. Certain connections in the universe follow broad patterns that may extend as far back as time's beginning. Every choice made in life, as in letters for the formation of a word, is an exclusive one that annihilates all other possible choices. Granted, there are some choices that are more highly probably than others. Y follows L commonly even though K following X is theoretically possible but not probable. In your case, you came to the desert. You knew it was a possibility that you would be cheated, become lost, all the risky and perilous misadventures that eventually brought you here. Some choices are more likely than others. You could have come here and strangled me or talk to me – the latter choice was more likely. If someone greets you, it is more likely that you return the greeting with something in kind, and highly unlikely that you take that occasion to slit your own throat or recite a passage from an encyclopedia or peel a grapefruit.”
“I couldn't have known in advance that I would find myself here since I did not know 'here' existed.”
“As I said, choices are made according to rules, but not everyone is aware of the rules. Choices are sequential, and most people make them in specific circumstances without realizing that these choices are formed by all previous experience.”
I would not be granted much more insight into this strange tribe of orthographers, for the Guildmaster summoned me to say that he had arranged for my departure. It was time for me to make new choices. But, at the heart of my attempts to understand these people, I continuously came up against the wall of their true purpose. To what end this guardianship of letters? The answer would be given me by way of a riddle.
“Words are clean, and names are clumsy,” the Guildmaster said. “Some must dedicate their lives to the protection and regulation of the word's smallest and most fragile units so that words may continue to thrive. The things we name – feelings, objects, ideas – cannot survive without the concurrence of letters that guarantee the sense and sound. We fashion, we study, we develop so that others may be free. It does not trouble us that so many take these tiny units for granted, or do not understand the vital significance of single letters, but neither do many who eat think of the harvester, those who use tools think of the toolmaker, those who blindly obey the laws of the land think of the one who wrote them into existence. Go forth, Jason Johns American. The letter is yours to wield, and ours to comprehend.”
And so it was done. A member of the guild escorted me for several miles, that tribal fortification swallowed by distance and the stirring of another storm. My guide left me at the nearest small town, gifting unto me only one statement: “It is written. The infinite Aleph knows, and men believe they are free. It is the way of the Aleph and the way of men, their differences united by the pattern of the letter.” That was the last I ever heard or saw of the orthographers.
Since then, I endeavoured to locate where they might have been situated, poring over maps and researching any mention of them. However, I turned up nothing, and resolved to think the whole affair a hallucination brought on by desert exposure. The idea still torments me from time to time, that there is a group of chosen people given the duty to uphold the building blocks of language. Who appointed them? I can no longer jot down even the most frivolous thought or compile a simple list without feeling the tug of what I so carelessly employ.
Who indeed is the typesetter, die Setzer?
11
“Dear Colleague”
Operating as I did with books on the two levers of academia and connoisseurship, I could expect a double volume of emails attempting to enjoin me to submit an abstract at some cryptography conference or entice me to purchase a particular volume. These varied by grades of relevance and intended target, the magnitude of which describing if the email was meant for me personally or just a list of people who just happened to be clustered by the same general interest. I received my steady share of “dear colleague” or “dear sir” emails that were either spam or near-spam: blanket calls to support this or that editorial endeavour or share the news about some conference that had only a few keywords connecting it to my specific research interests. These emails I would scan, the click of my delete button faster than getting past the first line or two. But this email was different, despite its drab subject line.
A scholar I had never heard of teaching out of a pocket-sized university in an afterhtought of a town. His name was unfamiliarly, but wi
th the usual bunting of a scholar, Dr. Gregory D. Pickman, and he started off with the usual formalities of praising some obscure article I had published in an equally obscure journal some many years ago. With empty flatteries out of the way, he asked if I would not consider discussing what I know about librarianship on a more esoteric level, thinking my cryptographic work may be of some benefit to a little research obsession of his. It was a polite “feeler” email, so I felt inclined to respond with measured appreciation and light inquiry:
Dear Dr G. D. Pickman,
Thank you for your kind words in regards my article, “An Examination of Ligatures as a Key to Decoding the 'Pseudo' Liber Maleficorum.” It has been a while since I had been reminded of that particular work, and it has brought back good memories of my research time devoted to it.
You mentioned in your message a request for assistance regarding the matter of librarianship and decoding some peculiar messages you have found in your own research. Although I find myself with very little time these days, I suppose it would depend on the length of involvement this would entail, and more importantly if my skills may prove of any use at all. Without knowing much more about your project, I am not in a position to say either way if I could commit to it. If you could elaborate further, this would help orient us towards answering these questions.
Regards,
A. Gimaldi
Pickman took a day to respond:
Dear Dr. Gimaldi,
I have no doubt that someone with your impressive record of decoding and deciphering would be of vital assistance or input. I do fall considerably short on the decoding side of things, but it may be necessary for me to move forward. As I stated in an earlier email, my primary research interest is library phenomena, especially histories. I have been met with the full force of a beguiling mystery in the last while that is prompting me to develop a branch of library studies entitled Paralibrary Sciences. I have a draft here for your consideration. It perhaps does not necessitate saying this, but this is an unpublished piece and I will count on your professional discretion in not sharing this with anyone else for now. Your input from the perspective of your expertise, or any other stylistic matter including questions of clarification, are fully welcome. I do hope you will have the time to assist me, and I would be very much indebted to you for any input you can provide.
All the best,
G.D.P.
His email was burdened with an attachment I downloaded and read off my screen. It batted itself out between being pedantic and conversant:
Paralibrary
(A document describing three paralibrary experiences that I have witnessed)
If Paralibrary Sciences is not already an academic subject ensconced in some institution, then it would have to be invented. Paralibrary phenomena is far from common, perhaps even less so than the occurrence of self-alleged psychics, and I would conjecture that less than one percent of the population has ever encountered it. The problem is that, unlike other paranormal phenomena and its study, there is no standard for measuring paralibrary phenomena, no version of Zener cards to test the claims and evaluate the evidence, no eminent C. D. Broad style thinker conducting intensive research on the subject.
I have scoured the very location of these phenomena for any mention of these events occurring, but have only turned up the usual monotony of foul murders perpetrated between the book stacks and the like. No research, to the best of my abilities in searching, speaks of the things I have borne witness to, nor attest to the events I will herein describe.
The events I will describe took place in three separate university libraries, and I have taken the small liberty to name each case. I refrain from naming the location of the libraries themselves to prevent tampering by those who would deem fit to stage hoaxes and upset the objectivity of the research. By “paralibrary phenomena”, I do not mean ghosts or supernatural occurrences; the term covers behaviours and actions that make use of the structure and content of libraries outside their normal intention. For this proposed study, I exclude those actions by the merely disrespectful or adolescent. So, I do not concern myself with the plethora of campus myths of undergraduate students having sex with one another in the dark stacks in the upper floors as well as those who would choose the library as a proxy milieu to get drunk. General hooliganism and non-library related gaming is also excluded from my study.
A. Library of Congress Control Number Postal System
Allegedly there is a group whose name I have not yet been privy to. They are a quiet and serious group from what I can gather, and their members scattered throughout the country, but their chief means of correspondence occurs solely (as far as I can gather) in this particular university library.
This was my entry into paralibrary research. I first occasioned upon their correspondence as anyone might - by sheer accident alone. While pursuing one of a few of my academic interests, I drew a book from the stack, a text evaluating the critical reception of J. K. Huysman's Marthe. By the third chapter, I encountered a folded piece of paper. I would have thought nothing of it, thinking it to be a bookmark or some other clutter previous borrowers abandon between the pages of a book. The folded paper had an inscription penned in a very delicate and refined calligraphic hand. It read: C.V.I- Your Attention. Once I unfolded this small square of paper, I read the following:
From D.D.R. to C.V.I
The meeting will not be taking place as announced, but will occur at our alternate, 5-7e-89l-r at Charon's Hour. I suspect PW.xxx of countervailing the proposed amendment to the Charter, in violation of the Charges. Can the twelve depend on your support? Meet one week prior at the second alternate. In the light of fraternity, D.D.R.
I do confess that the chances of encountering another such note in a library whose holdings neared two million volumes was astronomical at best, but chance did throw another book in my path with another similar letter tucked inside its pages. The next letter was more explicit, even citing the call number of the text where the intended recipient was to address a matter of particular importance. From what I could gather, an election of sorts was in the making, and so there was a great deal more correspondent chatter via letters in books. Eventually, following one led to the next, I had catalogued 22 books where correspondence was frequently taking place.
The general theory was that each member of this group was assigned a book as their effective post box. The meetings so often cited in the run-up to the mysterious election only took place in a mutually agreed upon location, but this location was a book and I eventually was able to recognize it by the decimal coordinates. “Alternates” were also commonly mentioned, and this referred to an alternate book-location for meetings to be “held” and votes to be “cast”. I would presume that alternates were important in the event that the primary book was checked out or the notes accidentally discovered. The notes themselves were cryptic and virtually impenetrable, but I was able to suss out clues by sleuthing ever further - and this is something the general populace would most likely not do.
It stood to reason that if the group had an alternate “meeting place” to reduce the chances that their flow of correspondence would be stymied by accidental borrowing of the book, then each member must have had an alternate book that functioned as their post box.
Through some deduction, I was able to discover the location of the “vote”. The notes inside were small scraps of paper held inside a small envelope, each of them signed by the respective voter - not by name or acronym, but by book call number:
Knight of E. Archive
F.R.W (I) G.L.M (II)
PW1009.Z356 1962 - II
VerWord: Embedded (89)
And so on for each slip of paper. Each of the ballots had already been typed on one of those antique typewriters, and the voter had only to fill out their choice between I and II as well as a “VerWord” which I gather to mean a verification word to identify the voter to prevent other members from impersonation. I tracked down one of the voters' location-book and check
ed what I assumed was the page number upon which the verification word appeared. Surely enough, on page 89 of the book, the word “embedded” had been lightly underlined, initialed, and dated. I did not inspect every slip of paper, and I was certain that there was more than one “polling station”.
I am sorry to report that I never did discover the hierarchical structure of this group, nor precisely what it was they stood for, did, and so forth. I also have no information about just how many members this group had, or if they had affiliate groups in other libraries. A very personal matter caused me to uproot from the city in which the library was situated, causing me to abandon any further researches...Not that they would have borne much fruit after a particular incident.
The incident attests to my regrettable sloppiness in regard managing this research with utmost discretion. How the group discovered that they had been discovered, and an outsider was actively following their activities is uncertain to me. Perhaps the method they employed in depositing correspondence in each other's post box books involved placement at a certain orientation or page number, and I do confess that I was not all too careful in replacing the letters in the precise manner in which I had found them. Or perhaps a member had spied me on more than one occasion moving in a very suspicious pattern to precisely the books that were assigned to them. How I knew was discovered was the result of the very method of sleuthing I relied upon. When returning to a particular member-assigned book, I found a letter warning of “an impertinent snoop” alighting upon a list of texts listed by their call numbers. I had inspected this book but a few days earlier, so I knew the correspondence was fresh. How I knew they were on to me was that the letter also included my investigative pattern which I never deviated from. Every second day I would return to the library and go through my list of known books, and this sequence was recorded in the correspondence. By the second book I investigated that day, there was no doubt that I had been identified and my research unwelcome, for the letter was addressed to me, “the snoop”:
The Infinite Library Page 16
