The Infinite Library (12 page)

“So you are trying to make things more difficult for Castellemare? Why?”

“Because, my friend, it amuses me. Whereas I could have stayed mired in these terribly maddening questions of the infinite like yourself and feel that there is no point to production of any text, I have learned the hardest lesson: the need and importance of
play.
What can one do in the face of such an impossible infinity but laugh and find ways to tweak it, to have some degree of mastery? I restore control over the endless flux by following a deviant logic. To the domain of order I introduce the clinamen of chaos. Oh, it isn’t enough to collapse order, but I put it through its paces. Of what interest is a logic and a reality that goes untested? Yes, I am playing with Castellemare.”

“Do you think he knows?”

“He must. He can barely keep up with the number of texts that have been displaced. I am sure it gives him a headache. He is desperate for more reliable employees. That desperation makes him seek far and wide and lower the criteria. No offence, but you aren’t his ideal candidate.”

“None taken. I have no basis for comparison beyond Angelo. But don’t you worry that this will increase the chances that one of those dangerous texts may be discovered by those not familiar with the Library? Would that not cause untold chaos?”

“A storm in a teacup. You scholars amuse me, amplifying the importance of your station and that of knowledge. The world will not be thrown on its ear if something is discovered. It may just be perceived as a fraud anyway, or relegated to the pile of so many other unsolved puzzles for the academic to dicker with. Do you really stand by the arrogant assumption that bizarre knowledge and contradiction actually means anything to the world? When two-thirds of the world does not have clean running water, I really don’t think a newly discovered version of Revelations is going to have any impact. At best, it will have people scratching their heads for a little while, and only a small percentage of them at that. The wars, famine, television shows, and the mass production of novelty key chains will continue unaffected. Keep all of this in its proper perspective. Reading is the domain of the shrinking few. You could tell a crowded bus station of people that Hitler died in 1965 in Stockholm after losing the Crimean War and you will barely find a small pocket of people who would disagree. Do you really think a book that would substantiate that view would make much of an impression on those that simply do not know history? And if it were written by some breast-enhanced celebrity, then it would be taken in without question.”

“That’s a pretty cynical view.”

“A dog’s bark is not as real as its bite. I like to think that this is the real view.”

“Then I don’t really understand Castellemare’s desperation.”

“He overworks himself. He makes the fallacious error of illicit importance. He is afflicted with the mania that comes with the position of Librarian. Books have a curious effect on those with certain predispositions to fall into obsession. I know what his affliction truly belies: the absolute meaninglessness of his entire Library. To have everything is to know nothing. Too much information is no information at all. Endless disputes, contradictions, and the like is a kind of truth, but never a solid and singular Truth. For all his infinite books, and mine, there may as well just be one: it is all chimera. The Truth is unattainable. It is constructed.”

“Isn’t that a rather nihilistic viewpoint to hold?”

“Submit to the view that truth is attainable and you suffer the worst kind of nihilism. When it comes to light that your found truth is so paltry, arbitrary, an infinitesimal piece of a puzzle of so many truths, and then you realize that your efforts were for naught. Embrace the reality that truth cannot be acquired by one or many hands, and you begin to feel… free, no longer chained to the ballast of a lone ship tossing restlessly upon a sea that knows or cares not for your version of truth. Even a sailor knows that the sea speaks the truth where the ship is but a small and inconsequential interloper enfolded within the force of waves and currents. I should stop speaking in nautical metaphors. Anyway, what is the value of all that 'information' in the Library?”

I tried to crunch up a response, but he beat me to it: “Information that is immortal, eternal, is always present has no value whatsoever. The sum total of knowledge, especially if it is eternal, is zip. Remember that there is no past or future in ecstatic time: only all of time in the present. This means everything that is knowable exists in that state, and its value is nil. What would give information value? That is the next project! Information decay. But how is that possible if there is no past or future? Ah, but I lied! There is: the irreversible arrow of time! Anyway... I must allow you to make your departure; it is late for me and I feel fatigued. Thank you for stopping by. Hopefully I was able to shed some light on some of your nagging problems. If not, well,” and he shrugged.

Setzer escorted me from the workshop and to the front entrance. It seemed somewhat an abrupt ending for his giving forth on the topic of infinity and truth.

“Remember, Gimaldi,” he said in parting. “All the books may as well be just one. All of it, chimera. Wisps of smoke. Fabulations and mirages. Safe journey. We may meet again, but I doubt it, and hopefully not too soon. Everything is a portent, a prognostic sign!”

With that he closed his door and I was left numbly in the hallway pacing slowly away, processing all that I had heard and seen. But if what he said held true, and he was dedicated to displacing more books out of the Library, why was I not being tapped for more work? There was something unsettling about Setzer's answers to me. It seemed as though, in some way, he found the idea of an infinite Library a grotesque misunderstanding. In fact, there were shades of W.O. Quine in what he said, although Quine was far more coherent. In Quine's assessment of Borges' Library of Babel, he reasoned that the library was finite and could be reproduced in a matter of seconds by simply writing a dot on one page and a dash on the other, reproducing the entire contents by Morse code. But then couldn't the same be said of writing out the alphabet and simply saying that the rearrangement of the letters would produce every possible variation?

The visit with Setzer was perplexing, and I had no reliable way of testing whether or not he was mad.

6

Shelving Duties

C
astellemare had sent me a plane ticket in my brief absence with a letter attached:

I was Paris-bound. Castellemare had sent a driver to pick me up at Charles de Gaulle airport and I was whisked to a small but presumably expensive apartment in the shadow of a cathedral. It was dusk, and the lights had just turned on, blotting out much of the Paris scenery with a wash of sodium light. I was brought up two flights of stairs to the temporary abode of my employer who was attired in a rather ridiculous looking petticoat and surrounded by a clashing mass of antiques and furniture. It was much in the same style of tasteless opulence I had seen at his Bidaccio location.

He flashed that broad grin at me, “Ah, Gimaldi! Welcome to the City of Love! Thank you, Alain, your services are no longer required for the now.”

With that, my driver – who had remained silent throughout the trip and seemed quite frowsy – left us alone.

“So, down to brass tacks, eh, Gimaldi? If I recall correctly, and I generally do, you don’t smoke. That is good because smoking is not permitted in the library. Absolutely prohibited. Fire hazard and all. Also, no eating, so I suggest we nip out and get something to eat before we start. No sense gumming up the books with our dirty hands, eh? I have also taken the liberty of getting you some gloves for the handling of the books. They are silken, and just right for the job. We can look like mimes – won't that be a scream, putting on the dog and all that? Of course, someone like yourself knows all too well how to handle rare and valuable books, and each one of them is priceless and unique. Call me finicky, but I will still ask you to sterilize your hands in the wash basin prior to even donning the gloves. Precautions are important. We are all impure.”

“I am unbearably eager to see this library,” I said, not bothering to correct his assumption that I was indeed a smoker of the worst kind: the sort whose attempts to quit designate an endless Sisyphean struggle.

“Silly boy! You’ve already seen it in a way… Are not all libraries and even the most modest collections not extensions of the One Library?”

I was overcome by a strange sense of guilt, and was working hard not to betray the fact that I had secretly consulted with Setzer. Castellemare had the features of one who always knew more than he told, as if he could read my every thought. I pocketed my feeling, justifying it by believing that I had every right as a curious individual to follow the trajectory of my inquisitiveness. Being under employ did not mean being under ownership, and I was certainly free to roam the field to procure answers for my own satisfaction. My feelings of guilt were temporarily suppressed, my conscience appeased.

While I applied the alcohol sanitizer as directed by my employer, I asked, “if the Library is infinite, how will I travel to remote locations to reshelve books?”

“We do not move; the Library does. It orients itself in the proper position relative to our coordinates. You won’t feel it. Blink, and you are looking upon an entirely new and different shelf. This is essential since I have about 200 pallets of books to replace in their proper locations.”

“How many books does each pallet hold?”

“Roughly a thousand or so.”

I was shocked. “That will take an unbelievably long time.”

“That is why I require your assistance. We’ll do the first pallet together until you get the hang of it, and then we’ll work on our own pallets.”

“Another question: if you are able to pull any book from the library you ask for just by dipping your hand into any shelf, why can they not be replaced in the same way?”

“It just doesn’t work that way, Gimaldi. Oh, it would be ideal if it did, but there are mysteries to the Library that even I cannot fathom. The universe is rarely convenient, and when it is, it is by happy accident rather than design.”

“Okay, I'll grant you that, but why did I have to come to Paris if I could have just entered the Library from any book collection, such as my own?”

“Because, Gimaldi,” he stressed, “I like Paris.”

I was still eager to continue pressing Castellemare further, since for every answer he gave, three more question marks emerged.

“Castellemare, what causes these rifts, these compromising situations where books go missing?”

“Ah, my dear Gimaldi… accidents in physics – no matter how fabulous and absurd those physical laws may be – happen. Of course, there are times when the hand of physics can be nudged at the elbow by saboteurs, jesters, fools, and villains. So many more books have gone missing as of late that I may have to hire a larger team of reacquisitionists… Sigh, and that means training and having to contend with occasional flubs. Poor Angelo…”

“So, what you are saying is that someone else’s efforts may be making your job a bit more harrowing?” - I felt flushed; I was giving myself away so stupidly and openly.

Castellemare pulled me in closer, and with a kind of unreadable grin said, “Gimaldi, you know very well
who
is causing problems; you visited him not too long ago.”

I was stunned. “How did you know?”

“He telephoned me,” he said, beaming.

“I don’t understand…”

“That is more than evident. We are in a competitive gambit, but it doesn’t mean that we don’t have the occasional bout of civil discourse. Besides, he expressed some concern about you, and so do I.”

“But he betrayed you. You’ll have to pardon my confusion and disbelief. This is not typical behaviour.”