Wisdom of an Author

I once again was drawn to the library by an invisible thread, to do nothing but pour over the knowledge safeguarded between the covers of its volumes. My favorite game was wandering the library's shelves until I got lost, pretending to hide from the outside. All I wanted was to read and learn from these books with their hidden gems of knowledge in the vast coal mine of the world. And the further away I could get from the world, the better.

I am a slow reader, and after meticulously scraping every word of every paragraph, I stop to ponder what the author was trying to say, begging the book to let me read between the lines.

But may years ago, I realized a sad reality: no matter how many volumes of philosophy and criticism I consumed, it was only words. The ideas, the knowledge, the author themself was locked inside the iron pages. I wanted to know what had been going through the author's mind as they scribbled down the first thesis. What prompted them to write this, what were they saying, and why?

I wished so desperately to consult with them, but I had yet to find an author worth reading who was still alive.

In search of something new, I wandered into the library again, trying to get myself lost. Strolling among the bookshelves, my feet walked automatically as I poured over my latest obsession: a book of poems. After closing the book and noticing a change in lighting, I looked up to an unfamiliar scene.

This obscure library was the work of fantasy; I had been here before only in my dreams. It was wonderful from the mosaic floors to the dark mahogany bookshelves to the navy ceiling sparkling with lifelike stars.

I had no idea how I had arrived, but this place was as far away from the world as possible, and I was determined to read every line on every scrap of paper before searching for a way out.

I scanned the shelves for intriguing titles, recognizing each one. Every book in this library I had read at one point; it was a collection of memories and wisdom I had acquired throughout my life.

I tore a book from the shelf, glancing at its title, 'The Question of Society’ by Arthur Aristeo. I cracked the spine and read the first words my eyes landed on.

“Yet when practicality fails and the system is upheld only by tradition, revolution will occur, because those inside the system did not find the system to justify itself, and they would rather return to the dark days, to chaos, because they believe working toward no goal preferable to working toward a goal they did not agree to.”

It certainly sounded fancy, but the words fell through the sieve of my subconscious. I looked up to ponder them, but froze at the sight of an old man leaning against the bookshelf, smoking his pipe.

“I was in college when I wrote that.” he mused, checking his pocketwatch. “My English thesis, on the dangers of submitting to a system.”

In fear, I slammed the book shut, and the mysterious man disappeared. But curiosity bade me to open it again, and after I read through the same passage, the man returned, smoking his pipe while carefully watching my expression.

“Are you actually Arthur Aristeo?” I asked him.

“I am.”

My fear of being taken for a fool flew away as the questions in my mind wrestled to be the first asked. “What did you mean when you wrote this? What’s it trying to say?”

Aristeo tapped his pipe against his lips thoughtfully. “Any system at all is preferable to chaos, but sometimes the people living in the system would prefer chaos to a system that doesn’t make sense.”

The puzzle in my mind began to click. “And what made you write that?”

“Why do anything if it doesn’t justify itself? I’m not saying eliminate a system, I’m simply suggesting it’s better for everyone if we fix it.”

I said my farewells to Aristeo and returned his book to the shelf, reaching next for ‘Cue the Music’ by Elijah Terrick.

“Happiness is an inalienable human right, yet some chasing it haven’t the faintest idea what it really is. If the definition of happiness changes with every person, how can we as a society chase down any one aspect of it?”

“You like that one?” a young Elijah Terrick asked me, sitting regally on a book cart.

“What did you mean when you wrote this?” I begged him.

Terrick shrugged. “Not much, really. I just had some thoughts and needed to write them down. I had the ideas, I just didn’t know what to do with them, so I hoped my words would reach someone who did.”

“But what does this passage mean?” I coaxed. “What are you trying to tell the world?”

“Just a simple message that I had to learn the hard way. Everyone deserves happiness, but sometimes others are happiest...when they’re not around you.”

I scavenged that library endlessly, opening books and interviewing their authors. Every author had something to say, and their books were their legacy that they begged others to hear. And I never appreciated those dusty volumes more than when in the presence of the one who decided the world would be better off with these words in existence.

Every question I ever had about the endless streams of knowledge was answered that day. And the vast universe within the books became increasingly and increasingly small.

Finally, I reopened 'The Book of Poems' that I had brought with me to speak to Edith Acrillic, my favorite author. I spoke with her for hours about her numerous poems and writings.

"But why did you write these poems?" I inquired.

"I don't know, it just felt like the right thing to do." Acrillic laughed. "Most writing is like that, you don't know how you get the right words, they just happen. It's as if the story's writing you."

But before I could ask what she meant by that, Acrillic's poetry book fell from my hands and slammed shut on the floor.

I awoke with a start, my head on a pile of open volumes. I had fallen asleep on my study table, surrounded by ‘The Question of Society’, ‘Cue the Music’, 'The Book of Poems', and dozens more. I was back in the library I knew so well, and when I threw open a book the author did not appear.

I do not believe I dreamed it, only that it was a rare gift. That mysterious library is still out there, and in it the authors wait to share their wisdom with the next eager passerby. All it takes is someone willing to listen.