To read the book of time is to be inspired to write other books, and thus every planet and every world has become a library. On a machine planet a shepherd read the great book of time while tending to his sheep of cast iron and lead. Only one in a hundred sheep would provide steel wool; only half would survive the galactic winters. Through dusted concrete pastures, down tunnels of naked light bulbs and across railroads and scrapyards and mounds of coal and slag, he faithfully led the sheep, resting now and then to smoke or search for straw and stray tools. When he had finished reading the book of time by the light of an old train signal, burning like a tiger’s eye in the darkness, his heart burned with a thousand books, tens of thousands of thoughts, hundreds of thousands of words. At the same time, he hungered for more books, more words, more thoughts to devour. Not a single new codex turned up on his nomadic searches, but he did find a book of blank pages, a book that rather resembled the book of time. The only thing left was to read and write as time permitted, and this is what he did. A word or two by matchsmoke, one page here and there in the company of growling and purring metallic sheep. One day, in the graveyard of rubber tires, the censors arrived with gendarmes and arrested him for reading a forbidden book, for plagiarism and for crimes against truth. They seized the two codices—one bone-white and the other gray like steel wool. The interrogations began at once while the bailiffs and sergeants built a ready-to-wear gallows in a matter of seconds, anchoring it on a mound of coal dust. The censor read out the charges again and demanded the reason for the shepherd’s activities and his refusal to strip for his execution, which was a crime of resistance. The shepherd claimed not to have known that the book of time had been banned. Great books were difficult to come by, and he had found his copy in an abandoned kiln, where books turned up now and then, most of them half-burnt as kindling. Since he had so little time to read or write, he had been forced to choose. And thus he chose both—he copied words from books, especially the book of time, which was the only reading material still in his possession—so that he could immerse himself in the joys of both impression and expression. The censor shook his head in disgust. The shepherd said that from time to time he would slip into a daydream or trance, and during those minutes or hours his pen would not follow what was printed in the book but what randomly appeared in his mind. Thus, in the thousand pages of his bone-white codex that still had some blank spaces left, at least one hundred had not been copied, but had come from the pain in his heart and head. For this reason, the shepherd requested that he be allowed to wear his coat and hold his codex as he hanged. It is a strange thing to hang a legend. And the poor sheep were left alone.
In a city far away and long ago, a bookseller came with his cart of books and made speeches to the wind and to the passersby. Rarely did anyone buy a book from him. Quite often, they harangued him for his monologues on the planets, on spirits, on truth and on the end of time. Some threw stones at him, cursed him, or shouted so loud that nobody could hear what he was trying to say. Then one day, he vanished. A time of plague and famine came, and some of the gentler citizens went in search of the bookseller, hoping he would have a book of medicine. After a long journey, they found him dwelling in a shack on the gray coasts of a winter sea. The shack was empty save for some old machinery, a cast iron frying pan and a cold hearth. Where are your books? the travelers demanded. I don’t have any, said the bookseller. Where are they? they shouted. For we are in dire need of them! The poor man looked at the hearth. I burned them all, he said. I burned them to keep my wife warm for we had nothing else. Where is your wife? they inquired. My wife is dead, he replied. The wind soughed in the crude chimney and dark clouds began to roll in from the gray sea. As the travelers were ready to depart in despair, the poor man told them her name, but they could not hear him because of the glory of her name and of the wind that shredded their faces.
They called him the legend or the angel. In the distant past, he had visited their planet of stone and had given them the book of time, a codex filled with philosophy, starlight, good grain, whales, and warnings. He was good at teaching, healing, and opening hearts to infinity, but the legend always warned of a great meteor. The book of life, he insisted, would help everyone survive the great burning, whether they departed or stayed. One day, he vanished. Centuries passed. Copies of the book of life could be found in every library and household, but few read it. Nevertheless, the people of that distant planet continued to celebrate the legend, making stone statues and paper effigies of him, gathering on special days to exchange gifts and drink ale, or telling children apocryphal bedtime stories of the legend’s exploits. It was during a great festival for the legend that he reappeared, looking nothing like his effigies and seeming quite awestruck at the quantities of ale, the bright lanterns, the colorful mounds of gifts. Not knowing who he was, some of the people, in a show of hospitality, invited him to speak to their festive assembly. Standing up tall and straight, he pulled a bone-white codex from his coat pocket and began to read. Only a handful of people recognized the words from the book of time. Closing the book, the legend declared that it was the eve of the great meteor and the great burning. The air filled with bitter laughter and angry scorn. An older woman, offering him a pint, gently explained that the last heretic to say such things had been exiled from the world two centuries ago and had probably added his skeleton to the great whirlpool, a handful of moons and exoplanets where the people of that planet sent their human refuse. The meteor, explained another, was a metaphor for hate, and the real legend had used such language to teach kindness and justice. Were there any living beings in the whirlpool? the legend asked, ignoring their reproaches. Quite a lot, conjectured a young scientist, who seemed very nervous. The exiles maintained contact with the mother planet now and then by firing up great flashlights that could blink out codes. They used this to broadcast meteorological and astronomical reports or warnings. In fact, they seemed to be telegraphing now. The scientist pointed upward. It was a beautiful sight. A coil of lights flashing one after the other in the dark sky, spiralling inward, going dark, and then spiralling outward in strange rhythms. The legend said it was time to depart. Only the scientist followed. The others returned to their ale and opened their gifts. As they boarded the rectangular, blue-black ship resembling the coal tender of an old railway train, the legend asked the scientist what the flashlights from the whirlpool had telegraphed. It’s nonsense; it’s no longer one of our words; it’s not a word we use anymore, the scientist mumbled. What word? the legend demanded as the box car ascended into the starry night. Miserere, the other whispered, as a great light blossomed ahead.
The cardinal clutched his chest and fell backward into an indefinable abyss. When he opened his eyes, he was sitting upright on an ornate chair in a long, empty chamber of bone-white walls. A pale, almost golden light passed through the ornate windows and gleamed on the hardwood floors. Exquisitely crafted in a late renaissance or early baroque style, a wooden desk stood at the far end of the room. Standing up, the cardinal approached the only door, but it was locked and all he could hear through the keyhole was the infinite wind and the sound of breakers. He walked over to the writing desk, upon which sat a book of empty pages and a brass cage with a wren inside. The wren looked through his eyes. The cardinal wept into the sleeve of his robe. And then the cage was empty. The bone-white walls transfigured.
Long ago, a man who raked leaves for a living bought a book of woodcuts. That night, he fell asleep gazing at the beautiful wood nymphs depicted in the prints. Throughout a strange, restless night, he dreamt of other lands, woke up to the sound of creaking and the scent of smoke, and drifted back into disturbing, somnolent visions. In the morning, he felt wet, and began to scream in silence at the sight of the blood splatter on his body and sheets. And yet, he was unharmed and there was no sign or clue as to where the blood came from. Whenever he read the book of woodcuts, the same thing happened again and again, dreams of smoke, scraping, sawdust and a heady fragrance of ink and warm bodies. And in the mornings, he felt the mysterious damp of a stranger’s blood. One night, after raking golden leaves and sweeping dust, he went for a long walk into the countryside, carrying his book in his coat pocket. It was snowing in the woods, every snowflake a cold, falling star. In the mallow twilight, he sat under a tree, lit a smoke and a candle and read his book. Moments later, a different smoke drifted by as he read, and he heard a soft gasp or cry. The sounds returned, and now he recognized the gentle noise of sawing, cutting, carving, sanding, and burning. Driven by unknown passions, he followed the other smoke that curled among the trees. At times the smoke seemed almost tantalizingly corporeal, brushing up against him, caressing him, holding him close before dissipating again into shadow. Are you the spirit of a wood nymphs, trapped in the woodcuts that have captivated my heart? The smoke returned, swirling about him with a moan that expressed pleasure and pain. The sky had darkened, and he wandered further, striking matches from time to time, only to see trails of blood splatter following the smoke that led him deeper into wilderness, into being lost and full of sorrow. Both his coat and clothes were drenched with wet snow and blood. It was cold on earth. When he struck the last match, all the pages of his book were blank. The book burned, and by its light he thought he caught a glimpse of her, and he could not help but wonder if he had seen the spirit, not of the beautiful wood nymphs, but of the woods that made the paper and ink. In the darkness, the naked smoke embraced him and would not leave this time. Golden leaves and snowflakes clothed them.
An old grandfather found a raw youth sitting under a cypress tree lost in despondent thoughts. The old man asked what was wrong. The youth said that he had gone to see the priest, to ask about the book of life in heaven. The priest had said that it was just a symbol and there was no actual book in heaven. Wonderful, the old grandfather sighed, feeling a strange bitterness well up in his heart. Now they have even taken away his books and the right to read.
Long after the writer died, new works of his kept appearing in the bookstores, lovely codices of excellent binding, fine paper and elegant fonts in rich, dark ink. One of his readers set out to investigate, and hurried to the winter cemetery, where the black shadows of tombs rose from blankets of snow. At last he found the desecrated grave, and the writer sitting up in his coffin scribbling away by the light of a hurricane lantern. One can never sleep, the poor writer moaned, as he penned another line of bravura prose. There are mounting death taxes and debts in this world and in the other world. Are you not miserable? I am miserable. I now have the infinite time and silence I always wanted, I write better prose and poetry than I could ever have imagined in my waking, breathing life, but all I want is to sleep, to sleep and dream of something different!