It was not a good analogy, but it was the first thing that came to the mind of the worn out teacher leaning over an astronomical globe and atlas with the young girl. There were blackholes and galaxies. There were new stars and there was emptiness. It was like filling, overflowing and draining countless bathtubs of bubbles and sparkling water. The bell rang and the young girl gathered her textbooks and notebooks into her bag, and stepped out into the afternoon. She surveyed the old street with its abandoned buildings, closed shops, automotive garages, empty lots of weeds and rusted cans, and small humming factories. Coffee cream splashes of a dying sun fell on cracks, dust, stains, warped wood, corrugated steel, tarnish, rust and ash. The world really was dirty, she thought. And yet, who could be taking all those baths up there in the night sky where the stars were so clean, shiny and fresh?
Some paraloi survived the long and disastrous space voyages to arrive on a strange and most serene planet of islands, high mountains, floating and sinking cities, and beautiful skies with captivating cloud formations. They were brought by gondolas to one of the main cities, a complex of canals and elegant towers stretching from the seabed to the sky. They passed through ancient colonnades and quiet courtyards with plashing fountains. They came to a pale white tower with a commanding view of the ships, harbours, islands, distant white mountains and open sea. It was twilight. The paraloi were served dark wines. To drink the shadows, said a diplomat, in an expression they did not quite comprehend. Night fell and brilliant unknown stars in illegible constellations burned beyond the windows. A bald, tall, thin man with a distinguished and pleasantly distorted face welcomed them into a vast library and orrery with windows and balconies complete with telescopes. It was said that he was one of the great oligarchs and also the head librarian. The paraloi plied him with questions, scribbling formulas and sketches on paper that had been provided for communication. The old librarian welcomed these with tears in his eyes, and at one point embraced a large piece of sketch paper, holding it to his chest with deep gratitude and appreciation. The local diplomats explained that this was the most thoughtful and beautiful gift imaginable, a truly respectful gesture, as the old librarian was a lover of cataloguing. The paraloi shook their heads and whispered, explaining what they had meant by their diagrams and mathematics in relation to the nature of matter, world-mapping and star voyages in their paralus. The old librarian smiled and gently explained that they were mistaken. Their mathematics and physics were but metadata, or cataloguing devices. The universe was actually a library built to look like a planetarium. In fact, one could call it both. Every planet, comet, cloud of gas, every satellite, black hole and event horizon was a book. The worlds were clouds of language and narrative. Wherever one looked, one saw something to read. The death of a star, for example, was not the destruction of matter per se, but a chapter in a book of changes within the great moment of the library, the greatest book. The old librarian was eager to hear of the other books in their corner of the universe. The paraloi were perplexed by his revelation and by his joy.