She was a young girl, a whisper of mist—seven strokes of ink on an empty page. In a moment, she might not even exist. One brush of wind could have thrown her away into a different dead end, another narrow corridor of closed gates and steps that echo and stay a long while, their sounds diffusing into the fresh darkness, wandering passages of endless stairways, broken sidewalks and blind shop windows. After a while, it seems that she did blow away. Like a dead leaf detached from its twisted branch. She left a few strands of her golden hair clinging to his coat, which had embraced or imprisoned her form.
The calligrapher loved to write and paint and make books. When he was not conducting official business, he read books of philosophy, thought about the world, and wrote or painted in his quiet house, sipping endless cups of tea. White mountains, black trees, worlds of snow, clouds of words, dragons of mist, and phoenixes of light covered the pages of many books alongside texts of parables and poems. The city sometimes summoned his texts for printing with great expectation; at other times, the city forgot him and his manuscripts. One day, the wind and rain rushed down upon the city, scattering rooftiles, breaking down walls and flooding homes. All of his books soaked up the dirty water and then bled out streams of rust and ink. The citizens wondered what he would do. Most thought that he would hang himself from his own willow tree. Instead, the calligrapher repaired roofs and walls wherever he could. Then he dried out his books and sorted them. While burning some, he examined the others that were disfigured but not burnable. With new soot from his fire, he made new ink and painted on the dried but disfigured pages that he had not burnt. When he ran out of these, he returned to buying new paper, but something had forever changed. Once again, he was painting, but always with blotting papers below the pages he painted on and with extra blotting papers at hand to place on top of his paintings. On certain days he would remove a blotting paper from beneath, and affixed his seal to it, to the unfinished poem or landscape of blots and marks. On other days, he would press a blotting paper to the top of a wet page and seal it after taking it off again, its dampness bearing the ghosts of brush strokes. Through abstractions of dark raindrops and pale silences, the calligrapher rebuilt the lost landscape.
There was a reader with rare tastes, who found the small sum of books that he wanted to read and reread. After working his first job as a youth, he spent his pay to buy these wonderful books. What little remained he used for food and clothes. Work prevented him from having the time to read. Because of his literacy and erudition, he was hired by a library, and this seemed more conducive to his heart’s desire, but there he had to catalogue books, and still had no time to read his own. By and by, he was hired as a teacher, for it was clear that he had a real gift for words. Now, it seemed he would be able to read what he wished, but now he had to read and teach what the curriculum prescribed, and none of his books were in the canon, and none of the students were in the least bit interested in his books. From there, he moved on to buying a bookstore, supposing that with a better income, he would buy himself some leisure time to read. Again, he was thwarted. None of the customers seemed interested in the books he liked; they seemed more interested in hunting for trifles and recommending the commonest things. Moreover, the government required him to read laws, tax forms and other reports that stole his time and energy. The man grew weak and the bookstore went bankrupt. The man retired to a monastery, where he hoped the silence and peace would afford him a reunion with his books, but the abbot forbade him from having his little collection delivered. In despair, he burned down the monastery, and was sent to prison in exile. In the prison, he lost weight and suffered, but the warden, chaplains and other inmates allowed him to have his small library delivered, to read to his heart’s content, and even to read to them. Although he thought the pleasure of this freedom somewhat limited, somewhat short of the glory that could have been, he accepted his lot, and contemplated his books, wondering if he had chosen the right texts, and if the texts were really the same as they were when they had first shone their dark bold ink and soft, bone-white pages.