“What is this product you keep going on about?” asked the philosopher. “This sounds like some sort of focus group for a time-share.”
“The product is the synthesis of we six.”
“A merger of our personalities?” questioned the scientist.
“Not quite,” Ensopht answered. “More like a merger of our types, what we each represent. I won't bore you with the details, but there is a standing theory of typology where these types wear us like masks and not the other way around. The person who would be artist is 'inhabited' or 'haunted' by the artist type, for example.”
“It sounds very much like we are forming a sort of superconductor,” said Wally. “Or some sort of great type-collider.”
“Something to that effect. At any rate, you've each been selected for reasons only the prophecy and the Librarian know. Gentlemen, we are on the verge of doing something of incredible historical significance. Our merger dares to bring to light all that is best of these types, held within one man who will be the Avatar. In broaching the impossible, embrace that most impossible thought: a mountain without its corresponding valley.”
“This sounds ridiculous,” moaned the philosopher. “Really, what is this? Is this some kind of gimmicky focus group? Is this some cheap marketing ploy for some new brand of soda pop? Count me out.”
Just as the philosopher was pushing his chair out in preparation to leave, Ensopht boomed, “Sit down, Russell. I am far from finished. I am not asking for your participation, I am telling you to participate. You really have no choice.”
“What benefit do we see out of this?” Leopold asked.
“Benefit? That you have been instrumental in the shaping of the future.”
“In other words, we don't get paid. Count me out, too. I don't do volunteer work, and I couldn't give a toss about the future. Fuck history and fuck the future, that's what I say.”
“Your narcissistic nihilism is all too obvious, Leopold. It comes off as petulant and self-serving. I would have thought you, as an artist, would have been enthusiastic about gaining a renown you could not possibly achieve on your own. This is a collaborative creative effort. Consider this your last chance at any measure of success, for it is written that otherwise, in less than a year's time, you will fail in attempting suicide, and spend the rest of your days in abject poverty. You shall never taste the delights of artistic recognition, Leopold. And, I suspect, you know this to be true if you honestly inspect yourself.”
“Written where?” Leopold challenged. “Ooh, you really shake my core and make me tremble with your mighty pronouncements! Give me a break. You're just some fruitcake. I'm going to change the channel on this stupid dream.”
“You go right ahead, Leopold. You will find there is no way out, and this meeting you find so unpleasant will be over much faster if you just play along. Indulge us. The type that you inhabit is the typeface of the script that must be followed.”
“What kind of art do you do?” asked Wally. “I like art!”
“Please, gentlemen, let us bring this back to order. All your questions will soon be answered, but I must petition for your patience and attention. You see, I have access to a very special library, an infinite library that has in its stores every possible work by every possible being at every possible moment. This is how I know what it is that I know. I have read your histories, and I have read your possible histories. I have read your futures, and many of your possible futures.”
“How can such a library exist?” Leopold inquired. He was genuinely interested since it reminded him of Borges, and by lateral association tugged on his interest in the infinite, in deserts, and so forth.
“Well,” Ensopht continued, “let us consider one man. Let us suppose he wrote in every moment of his life, never slept or ate or took time out to do anything else, and compiled a massive collection of volumes. Now picture this same man in different social circumstances like having been born in Russia, or having been born two centuries ago, of having only one leg, of being rich, poor, married or unmarried, as a woman, with diabetes, as a banker or soldier, and so on. Now picture this man being visited by every possible person in every possible place in every possible time, speaking every possible language.”
“That set of volumes would be monstrously large,” said the philosopher. “It would fail to be of any significance for truth, which only orients itself toward possibility from the firm ground of established facts.”
“Yes, it would be vast. Yet we are only considering one man. Picture every being doing the same thing. Include every possible being - those who were aborted or died prematurely by illness or war or murder, the possibility of twins or triplets - being granted an infinite life from the beginning point of time itself. Even then we have not fully grasped the immensity of this library. Each being is in contact with other beings, so what if everyone was in contact with everyone else? What of those stories? The ruling principle of the infinite library is possibility and contingency ad infinitum. What of the possibility of other intelligent species in the universe? Surely this would massively increase the library's contents. Again, a multiplied, exponential possibility would present itself if these species intermingled. What of every combination of phrases, words, or even letters? When the million monkeys rewrite a Shakespearean text with but one spelling mistake, it is still a different text, another text to be catalogued as distinct from the Shakespearean work. What about a book about this library, or a book about that book? Or a book about a man who wrote a book on a book about a story that makes reference to a particular book? It is in the library as well.”
“That sounds wonderful! I'd love to have a card for that library!” beamed Wally. “Give me an example of one of these impossible books.”
“As you wish, Wally. The story goes like this: Alberto Gimaldi wrote a biography of on the alchemist Zeander Mathius who lived in 1602. Zeander's main occupation in his later years was to create a collection of translated codices of the arcane poems of Guarni, who lived in 1477. Zeander was very intrigued with one of Guarni's references to an Arab mathematician of the late 12th Century named Al-Hamadi, who was attempting to prove a geometrical formulation as part of a new metaphysical hypothesis. Zeander devoted an entire codex to Al-Hamadi. Alberto, in the interests of making the biography accurate, located this codex and studied it. He discovered a very disturbing reference, and so contacted an Arab literary historian to verify said reference and to lend him more of Al-Hamadi's writings. Upon receiving the completed works of Al-Hamadi, there was a postscript that spoke of a particular man named Alberto who was writing the life story about a little-known alchemist named Zeander. Upon discovering himself, literally, in the story, it proved too much for him. He abandoned his research and was never heard from again.”
“Another! Another!” Wally said exuberantly, clapping his hands and bouncing in his seat.
“Not right now, Wally. But, still, think of it: have you ever wondered what Shakespeare had written on Hegel or the Nazis or Kafka? It is in the library. Another good book is Christ's emendation to Einstein's treatise on the many virtues of porous plastic, and Julius Caesar's Policies for reducing congestion in airports. And perhaps you would like to read the dialogues between Freud and Plato or Robert Graves' translation of the Mars Republic's political convocations of 2133, or Yeats' poems for the internet, or Napoleon's conquest of Canada. What of Hitler's treatise on the arquebus, or the history of King Geoffrey Chaucer of Spain, or Heraclitus' Protestant reforms of New Guinea?”
[This same sensationalist list-making was how Castellemare snared me in the first place, and it was employed again in the Backstory and now here. Even the wording is similar, as if it were just the items in the list that changed, the structure of the seduction remaining. And yet here as well was another cheap attempt to name me - this time as some researcher living in the 1600s].
“But history would be one big, anachronistic jumble of displaced causes and effects,” said the scientist. “You talk of these other realit
ies as if they existed as truly as our own - a coexistence of multiple worlds. It is all very fanciful and may make for science fiction, but not science.”
“Not to mention,” added the philosopher who was far from convinced of Ensopht's rendering, “that these speculative fancies are simply absurd and ridiculous. It would be the work of an overactive imagination or a madman. What use would this library serve? Nothing could be known since all is possible. There is no room for truth in a library like you describe. It simply cannot exist. If this library is the only connection to all these possible worlds – a theory I find repugnant – then this would make this library a necessary being. Metaphysically speaking, the library would be god.”
“In deference to the empirical method, I cannot say that this library you speak of is impossible, but highly improbable,” said the scientist.
“Maybe I'm not educated enough to grapple with this or make the right connections here,” said Leopold, “but what does a trippy library have to do with this synthesis?”
“The Library is total. The Library has already foretold what must happen, and it shall happen. I was asked under what authority I am acting, and this is my answer. This synthesis is destined to occur because it was written, and it was written long ago. As for your participation – each of you – you do not have any choice in the matter. This is going forward whether you choose it or not. You can cooperate or be coerced. Consider this our first meeting. I will say no more, but rest assured we will all be meeting again fairly soon. Wake up.”
And with that, the white room dissipated from view, and each of the participants returned to their respective wakefulness. It was not yet dawn when Leopold bolted upright on his futon, finding himself in a sweat. He fished around in the dark for a cigarette and replayed the dream to himself before tiredness recaptured him, and he fell back asleep to be treated with more conventional dreams in a fugitive slumber, all focus redirected to its blurry kingdom of morphing shapes and colours resolving only temporarily into recognizable things.
21
Demolitions (De Moliri)
If I hadn't been so focused on the man standing in front of me with the Jack O' Lantern grin jaggedly sliced across his bony face, I may have paid more attention to the sound of paper being torn or the tickle of smoke in my nostrils. The room was narrow, but extremely long, more of a corridor. Along the one side where I had entered the conveyor belt continued, but stationed every few feet were hooded figures busily and silently going about their task: removing books from the belt and destroying them. Their obscene hoods, billowing like hammers' heads, reminded me of the image in Serafini's Codex Seraphineanus of undertakers unrolling the skin off the dead in some alien rite. Facing me with that mocking grin was that interminable enigma of a man, Castellemare.
“Gimaldi! I would say this is a surprise, but all is written... at least somewhere.”
“What's going on here?” I asked, indicating the row of hooded people, their faces entirely obscured save for eye slits.
“A little friendly terrorism according to one man, and an act of preservation to another. We're performing a necessary purge.”
“What for?”
“These fabulous books are corrupt. They simply must go. I really wish you hadn't closed that door behind you since my people could surely have been spared this infinite labour if only we could get to that blasted machine. Setzer left nothing to chance, and these heavy, locked doors are a real corking difficulty. It was only by dint of some bizarre fortune that we were able to penetrate this far into the territory. Alas, my plans dashed! If only I had known your progress in this maze, I would have posted someone to catch the door as you entered. But, as you can see, there is far too much work to be done.”
“Why are you intent on destroying Setzer's books? He had told me that you two were merging library contents.”
“Is that what the fool – may he rest in peace – told you? Do you actually think I would have seriously consented to such a preposterous idea? It would contradict the very idea of the Library. No, it must be preserved from the likes of such saboteurs. Your dearest and most departed friend, Anton Setzer, trebled his nefarious production, causing all sorts of havoc... books from the Library being pushed out so grievously into the open. But this is of no concern to you at the moment. For now, let me say that I am impressed with your progress in this labyrinth. Setzer had a habit of making intricate locks, and not all locks as you have discovered are on doors, and not all doors are literal.”
I was piecing this together. “You feigned cooperation with Setzer as a means to contrive the destruction of his text-producing machine.”
“Your powers of deduction are gaining in keenness.”
“Did you have Setzer murdered, too?”
“On that, I must plead innocence. Not that the vile act didn't serve a coincidental benefit for me, of course. I wouldn't have gone about things in such a crude way. Rather, it is the work of the crudest variety of codgers that harp on purity like the most obstinate of clergymen. Not that I disagree in principle with their efforts – at least not entirely.”
“The Devorants,” I added.
“Yes. They had as much reason to despise Setzer's actions as I did, but for different reasons, of course. I am entrusted in maintaining the integrity of the Library while they are fortifying against impurities in knowledge. They see the Library with envy since they would love to access it, but their public front is to declare it – and me – an aberration of the laws. They have the arrogance to believe that knowledge is the birthright of humans, but I think differently on the matter. Scholars are testy about their access to knowledge, but they are powerless in the face of aggression by those who care not about books. The Library of Alexandria was burnt to the ground in 48 BC, living on only in legend or restored to a pale shade of its once illustrious renown. Shortly after the Great Fire that annihilated from the historical record so much knowledge now lost to us forever, a league formed with the purpose of preserving knowledge and books against unfortunate accident. It was decided that the only safe way to protect books from harm was to deny any and all access to them, regardless how well-intentioned the scholarly seeker may be. Hence, my role, for although the scholar may well regard the books, when one person comes, there may come others with less favourable intentions. Don't think this textual protectionism is designed to punish humankind through some greedy hoarding...
“But this is just one tracing on the map of my purpose. Do not ask me how it happened, but there appeared a rift where those entrusted with safekeeping the books came upon the infinite nature of the Library. All possibilities began multiplying the number of books in the collection, all possible worlds. It is as though every possible world contrived to perform the same function in preserving the books; so, the collections were merged. In each possible world, there was some catastrophic event that destroyed a great hub filled with books, and each possible world there emerged the necessity to protect them. I am the Head Librarian, the one chosen to protect the books.”
“Why did you decide that I could keep the books I had taken from the Library?”
“Library recalls are such an inconvenience,” he said with a toothy grin. “Besides, there are reasons why certain books must fall into certain hands at certain times. There is some degree of determinism in the universe, but it is always revising itself in the face of changing circumstances and free will. I know my manner may seem odd to you, but what you have to realize, dear Gimaldi, that I preside in so many possible worlds, each with their differences. You're not the only Gimaldi I speak with, for instance, for in another possible world, there is a Gimaldi much like the one you have doubtless read about in those books. As the Librarian of all possible worlds, I am extremely busy. But, yes, reasons, reasons... Some books are predestined to come into one's life at certain times. We all know that feeling if we are sensitive to it. Have you never by chance picked up a book in a store or in your own personal library and discovered that it was exactly the book you need
ed to read right then?”
“Yes, it does happen on occasion, sometimes with mysterious frequency.”
“Books and life are imbricated, a great braid of destinies, an intertwining of purpose. Do the books live for us, or do we live for the books? I would not demote books as merely being useful for us... No, I think the purpose of human life is to produce and advance the lives of books. We are but the agents and servants of books.”
“If what you say is true, then books are alive, and we are little more than the means of their survival.”
“Just like many of us consider animals: merely as a means for sustenance. We may depend on animals, could not live without them, yet we subjugate them to our needs. Books treat us no differently.”
“What is the purpose of the Backstory?”
“That? You would know better, I'm sure. Far be it from me to lay down some singular and absolute interpretation. Take from it what you will. Absit omen – may it not be a predestination. Of course, it could be, or something similar in a figurative register. There are big things happening, Gimaldi, very big things, but very big things are always happening. It only seems so vitally important to you since nothing very big has happened in your relatively short life. The meta-narrative is much older than us all, and will outlive us. All I can say is that things will be unpleasant for a while, but moments of unpleasantness are nothing new in history.”
“How long will this go on?” I asked, indicating the row of tireless workers.
“Forever if need be, or until we can get to that infernal machine. It is hard to find good employees, as you can well imagine, so this will just be another concern I must add to so many others. As Setzer's machine produces, my people will destroy – an endless and epic cycle worthy of myth. I must ask: where is my faithful Angelo?”
The Infinite Library Page 33
