With glazed eyes, he nodded. He knew the break would never come, and that he'd remain hungry one way or another.
Russell's shift was finally over. He decided to go home, change into academic costume, and haunt the campus pub. Cleaned and changed, he left his home and boarded the subway where he was on the same car as another man he recognized from the dream, but a man who went nameless. Despite how absurd it felt for Russell to strike up conversation with more people that happened to be in his dream, at least he could take some solace in the fact that Wally Wyman had it as well. He overcame his reservations and stood in front of the nameless man.
“We have met before,” was Russell's opener.
“Yes, I remember you,” the man replied flatly as if it were no consequence.
“Then I can fairly reason that the dream was real.”
“The dream was a dream.”
“What do you think it meant?”
“The prophet told us what it meant. We would all meet again, out here. And so, now we are.”
“Yes, but to what purpose? This synthesis this so-called prophet was going on about – it seems ridiculous and farfetched.”
“Maybe to you, but I know it to be true.”
“How?”
The man was obviously becoming irritable and exasperated with Russell as if the issue was impossibly plain. “Because it is written.”
“Yes, but this courts the notion of determinism.”
“Ok, cool the philosopher bit. Putting a big, fat 'ism' on the end of your words doesn't impress me. What is it that you want?”
“Who are you? I am unclear about your role.”
“It is written that my role is supposed to be unclear. I'm the unknown element.”
“How nice. And what is that supposed to mean, really? You may not be impressed by my philosophical parlance, but I am not impressed by mystery.”
The subway car was by this time nearly empty.
“This is how it is going to go,” said the nameless man. “You are going to play your part, and you're going to play it well. I am going to do the same.”
“And what is your function in all of this, this synthesis.”
“You might say I'm the most important ingredient. I'm horror,” he said, getting up to exit.
The way the man said it unnerved Russell. He felt a chill in the way the man uttered the word 'horror', and was inclined against his better judgement to believe it. No, the man did not appear horrifying in any way – rather innocuous, really. But the flash of red, maybe blood, upon this man came to Russell's mind. Perhaps true horror does not go so literally garbed, but rather disguised in the appearance of the achingly normal.
Russell was not in the mood to let this be. He put his hand on the Third Man's shoulder to prevent him from departing. The Third Man jerked away.
“This is my stop,” he said icily.
“I don't for one minute buy any of this claptrap,” said Russell.
“I'm going to tell you this one time and one time only,” he replied as the subway was rolling to its stop. “You're going to cooperate, willingly or not. You'd do best to work with us, and with me, than against us... or me. Touch me again and I'll sew all your orifices shut.”
There was no doubt in the Third Man's cool delivery that he meant it.
5
the scientist, the prophet, and an opera
They will come no more, the old men with beautiful manners.
-Ezra Pound, I Vecchii
Dr Aymer, out of respect for one of his colleagues who moonlighted as a cellist for the symphony orchestra, went to the theatre for their rendition of Mahler's Kindertotenlieder. The program notes gave shape to this particular Mahler piece, based on the death of children. The piece itself bled with this terrible sentiment, and according to the program, Mahler's younger brother, Ernst, had died of congenital heart failure in his arms. Uplifting stuff.
Ensopht had come to this symphony as well, more for the reason that he found the theme of the death of children to be strangely indicative of how he perceived the human condition. If pressed, he would have told you that the dead children were a metaphor for something well beyond what anyone would consider germane.
Mahler's pain was expressed in the heavy meal of Wagnerian influence, violin bows that jerked skyward in unison, falling back. Those who were emergent wealth and wanted to mitigate their absurd guilt for neglecting culture, postured hard and fought against the embarrassing social ruin of falling asleep. Dr Aymer himself felt drowsy, and even the rich otherworldliness, the overarching sonority, and grieving strings did not reach him as it did others. An old man turned around abruptly and snarled at Dr Aymer not to kick the seat. The seats were small, and more so to Dr Aymer who was taller than most. Suddenly, words that were not his own - but had appeared in the red lion sketchbook - this without Dr Aymer's knowledge - popped into his head. He knew better than to utter them aloud, but they ran in a taunting refrain: I'm sorry, are my legs kicking your seat, disrupting your enjoyment of Bruckner's 7th? It is the length of my legs, I'm afraid, legs that would have better suited someone with a corresponding torso. Luckily for all of us concerned, my growth plates have long since closed. Let us rejoice that my legs do not protrude from my forehead, for I am quite sure that you would rather contend with this small discomfort than to have me accidentally kick you in the head. Never you fear, for you are old and will die soon. By then, a lifetime's worth of having your seat kicked will be at an end. Oh, does my manner offend your sensibilities? Does my garb clash with your bourgeois pomp and money-pimping ardour, your highly refined sense of Epicure? Perhaps next time I will follow your example and dress like the dearly departed.
It was a strange and unlikely polemic to randomly erupt in Dr Aymer's mind, himself being of a docile and agreeable disposition. Stranger still that the mental episode made reference to Bruckner and not Mahler. Would not the mind make a proper adjustment to the present events, or was this thought caused by some external agent? Perhaps his mind associated Bruckner with Mahler: similar type of music, similar epochs. Yes, that had to be it, unless... There had been a flashing image in his mind as the polemic ran its course, an image of a younger man dressed in punkish clothing, an earring, offensive t-shirt, was in his own place, uttering these phrases. It then occurred to Dr Aymer that this event may have mirrored another event in the past, but to whom did it belong to? Who was that scruffy young man? He then had recourse to memories that were not his own, surfacing in a spontaneous genesis. Random memories beyond those of the young man began mysteriously surfacing, entirely occulting his consciousness: “I am Major Morell. It is March 26th, 1834. Bells that I cannot see or adequately locate have been ringing since February 2nd in my Suffolk home. I find myself at my escritoire, tracing a mutilated face on a page without knowing why”... “I am a Silurist poet, and I cannot paint in words what manner of beastly sight coming out of the fen”... “I am a Fourteenth Century friar. We must build walls of brass to defend ourselves against impious invaders that cannot be seen with the eyes, but that the Lord has imparted to me by the Grace of his vision and that have illustrated in secret”... “My name is Frederick Lerida. I first started seeing gruesome phantasms on the 24th of February, 1791 that I have dutifully reproduced on this page by way of a sketch... My name is Jason Johns and I have lost my way in the desert only to be rescued by a member of a strange tribe of glyph-makers... My name is Ian Plenkowitz, an artist. The codgers are giving me grief for trying to enjoy Bruckner's 7th just cuz I don't need to dress like a posed man in an open casket to think the music beautiful.”
As this tumult of confused memories not his own viciously circulated through his mind, he didn't realize until quite later that he had been whining in pain and foaming at the mouth while his face was in rictus. Ensopht's eyes followed the whining distraction twelve aisles away and recognized the geneticist. Without hesitation, Ensopht left his seat and ushered Dr Aymer outside. By this time, the confusing memories collapsed in on themselves, an
d Dr Aymer could be heard to mutter as if in a trance, “The basalius is the carbuncle's house.” His body then swooned from exhaustion.
“Mahler not to your taste, I presume?” asked Ensopht wryly. “Quite the accompanying tone poem you were issuing in there – or was that an interpretive critique?”
“What? I... Do I? No. You?” Dr Aymer said with stuttering confusion.
“Yes, you know me, my speech-stilted friend. Let's go somewhere warm and talk - if you promise not to break out in any more tone poems, that is.”
Ensopht eased the overwrought Dr Aymer toward the vibrating core of the city, a frozen shower of stillborn sparks trapped in the office tower sheer glass faces. They entered a pub that Ensopht had visited once before.
“Do you like it?” Ensopht asked with the same wry smile. “This pub had been closed for a few weeks due to a somewhat fortuitously unpleasant incident.
“What happened to me out there? I mean, what came over me? I was enjoying the symphony and suddenly I was assailed by a montage of maddening thoughts. Did I fall asleep and have a nightmare? I must be overworked, that must be the explanation. Perhaps a vacation is due. Did I cause much fuss? Thank you for assisting me. Do I know you from somewhere? Your face seems familiar.”
“You vaguely recall my face. Remember... “
“That dream... You know, I met the artist, Leopold. Such unexplainable events have been occurring since then, you have no idea. And now, this, this unfortunate lapse of mine.”
The server came around and asked for the two men's order.
“None for me, thank you,” said Dr Aymer.
“He'll have a whiskey,” smiled Ensopht. “I will as well.”
“No, really,” Dr Aymer protested. “I really can't. I'm on this stomach medication and -”
“And you will enjoy it. Humour me.” And then to the server: “Make those doubles, no ice.”
The server disappeared, leaving the two men in their booth.
“Have you given any thought to the synthesis, doctor?”
“No, I'm sorry... I have been very busy lately, and I cannot say that I truly understand it, to be honest. I had dismissed the dream as just that: a dream, albeit a very strange one. I really have nothing much to go on other than your saying that it involved the six of us. Beyond that, you were not forthcoming about the details.”
“It is moving forward, and we've been able to roll out the next phase. Your little attack tonight attests to the fact that it is all underway, that all is happening according to plan.”
“I cannot say I like the sound of this. It feels as though I am some kind of puppet.”
“Embrace that which is out of your control,” said Ensopht.
“What is this synthesis? I would feel a bit better about this strange phenomenon if you would apprise me of its purpose.”
“We are making a new man. He will have parts of all of us.”
“What sort of man?”
“The sort of man you are becoming, doctor. These thoughts you've been having, these shadowy intuitions, these troubling episodes... These are the things of which the new man is made.”
“To what end? Assuming, of course, any of this is even remotely possible.”
“An avatar of a brand new age. The end of forestalling the inevitable. We must embrace something horrible so that the world can release its energy.”
“This sounds a bit new-agey to me.”
“I am going to illustrate by way of an example... If you'll allow me. Do you see that woman over there - yes, the semi-pretty one with the low-cut blouse and tight pants - what automatically springs to mind? Give me your first, uncensored impressions.”
“Um, I don't know what you're getting at or what kind of game this is. Let's see... human, female, presumably between the age of 19 and 25, five feet and six or eight inches tall, about 120 pounds, caucasian... Listen, I really don't know what you're asking me. I can offer up some obvious details, but you're obviously looking for me to say something more.”
“You are right. I do not want a bland observation. What I ask for is much more on the basis of opinion and free-association of thought. Don't fight it.”
Dr Aymer screwed his eyes tighter. He was unsure of what the strange man was asking for. Was he looking for something poetic? Dr Aymer knew enough about himself to know that he was no poet. He tried anyways. Quieting his mind, he let loose with the ambling thoughts that passed there, but thought them instead of voicing them. He evaluated the young woman, moving from the slight prognathism of her face, the slender suppleness of her form, the presumable soft texture of her young skin. His thoughts lost their reins and suddenly very disturbing thoughts entered – thoughts of performing experimental surgery, to apply a scalpel here, append there, something vaguely biomechanical, artistic. The woman was now filled with new possibility.
“Is there something the matter, Doctor?” asked Ensopht, still in rictus.
“I am having terrible thoughts. In some of them, I see a man that is not me, but is partially me... He is using women for art, using his scientific skills to make grotesques. If this is the result of a synthesis, I want no part of it. It is sick and depraved. I just want these thoughts to go away.”
“Why don't you talk to the young lady?” taunted Ensopht. “Enact what needs to be enacted. Follow the crescendo of an entirely new will.”
It is not recorded by this author what the doctor actually did – whether he took up on the provocation or not. What we may say is that the doctor was indelibly changed. What mattered was that the will of art and the will of science conjoined that night, under the light of exquisite atrocity.
Whatever had happened that night with Dr Aymer and the lady had visited Leopold by way of thought. Instead of Dr Aymer, Leopold was in his place. Leopold was smitten with the moment and absolutely rapt with his further delving into the sketchbook. That toxic book, crammed with lubricious images of horror, manipulation, orphaned fragments, and other unsettling matter had a bewitching effect. None of the fragments made sense in their arrangement, along with the sketches, but each was like an incantation or an invitation to draw closer into it, to become the book itself or surrender to it.
Red lion sketchbook fragment:
On Piotr.
The gun is located in the top drawer just beneath the typewriter. The typewriter was next to the drained bottle of scotch and the stuffed ashtray. The gun was loaded, and had been for twenty years. It had been loaded and ready ever since Piotr had arranged the pact with himself: “at the exact moment I write the perfect novel, I will put the nozzle in my mouth.” And one day, on a gloomy March afternoon, he did. Piotr was pleased with himself. A shot rang out and quickly receded back into the angry hum of the world...
But then Leopold was thrust into a dream, and the dream went like this:
I awoke on a landing at the very top of a long, stone-carved stairway that wound down along the inner wall of what appeared to be the inside of a colossal cylindrical shaft. Behind me was a sealed black stone door that I could not budge despite all efforts, and judging by my attempt to rap upon it, it was solid and so gave off no report of an echo. The stairway itself jutted from the stone wall as though a natural continuation of the very wall from which it was attached. Attending this endless stairway was an iron rail, positioned on the outer part of the steps, a little less than hip height. Seeing as there was no way to budge the monolithic door, I decided to make the perilous descent down these mysterious steps.
6
where a sixth meditation produces the monster of the extended substance, the body.
Chanted by all six, in dream or vocalized, wherever they happened to be at that particular moment: “There are children with mirrors everywhere, and they do not know why they are holding them. There is a long gallery of masks that are picked up and replaced at irregular intervals. There is the screaming streak of colour across my eye, and something eerie felt through the press of my fingertips. There is a sound like bells that is incessant, but
the chiming seems mechanical. Everything is both an irritation and an ecstasy. And there is me and there is you, but that doesn't seem to mean much anymore, the divisions like shutters dropped down randomly between my-thought and your-thought, my-body and your-body. Something outside of the relation of my thought to itself guarantees what it is I sense, grants me substance, but it is no sort of god. And so, suddenly, the carnival of the senses entered into harmony. And everywhere the chorus is sung:
The normalcy I craved was slowly returning to me.”
27
The Day After
The normalcy I craved was slowly returning to me. Although I no longer had a supply of books to sell, I still had money in my account to sleuth for deals on the internet in order to rebuild my catalogue. I took an early lunch in the downtown core, and visited all my favourite bookshops. I was seeing books in an entirely different way, and although the idea of the infinite Library once frightened and defeated me, I realized that it was nothing more than the fragility of the ego that made me feel this way. It did not matter that everything that could have been written by my hand already existed, for the books were more important than the authors, and the purpose of writing is communicative, instructional, and a means to provide pleasure. And it also didn't matter that one did not have every single book ever produced, for the attempt to collect an entire set of anything was merely a cheap way of trying to recollect oneself. I was at peace with the idea of the Library, perhaps even quietly happy.
I still had in my possession the 7th Meditation as well as the collated book from Setzer's labyrinth that I decided, with some irreverent cheek, to dub Finis Logos. The Backstory was still missing, but I couldn't exactly say that it was a terrible loss.
The Infinite Library Page 40
