Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-24821182-20150517114825

Flipping the pages, reading quickly. Enlightenment and entertainment, the two hallmarks of any piece of literature. Excellence, beauty and nostalgia immortalized on the paper, the parchment, and on the backs of pictures of days long gone. On fire, the ink beneath his fingertips. The momentum increased, faster and faster still. All under the shimmering glow of an old oil lamp. So much to read, so little time. So much history and so many people. He had to read all of it. Every single word on every single page in every single text in arm’s reach.

He wiped his tired eyes and reached out for his mug. The coffee had gotten cold. It always did. He downed it all in one swig, imagining that the caffeine would renew his energy and keep him up for just a few more hours. It never did. At some point, possibly very soon, his eyelids would become too heavy, he would struggle to keep them open, but it would be in vain. He would fall asleep, have nightmares about not having finished that encyclopedia, that biography, that 1700-page book on Western civilization.

But he couldn’t indulge in these patterns of thought, search for a root cause for his compulsive need to read everything. That would waste a lot of time. Time that could be spent reading more books. Life is activity. Death is inactivity. Though he remained in a static posture, crouched on the oaken floor, his mind was racing. Turn the page. His focus was unyielding. Reread that section. He wanted all the details. Begin the next chapter.

Then suddenly, the phone ringing in the kitchen shattered his focus, if only for a minute. Whoever it was calling him at… 3 AM, had it really been that long? Whoever was calling would have to wait until he had finished this chapter. Surely, they would understand, or if they didn’t he could explain it later. He finished the chapter and started reading the next one, having completely forgotten the caller. It probably wasn’t important.

Sometimes, when reading older books, he would find some humorous phrasings, bits that by today’s standards wouldn’t have flied. He was reading a brown leather-bound tome from 1912 titled A Study of European Nations, coming across such jewels as:

''”The Russians adhere to the Greek Orthodox religion, in which the exterior worship of God is a central element. They fast 200 days a year, and religious icons are placed in houses and raised by roads. The priesthood is unenlightened, and more than half of the population can neither read nor write.''

''Russia is a fertile country that can provide food for a large population. The administration is subpar, though, and the Russians themselves are by nature otiose. Farmers must pay inordinate taxes of their lands, and the greater part of the populace therefore live in utter poverty. Only a minority get sufficient and nutritious food. Because of this, Russian workers cannot perform as well as other peoples (e.g. Englishmen). Due to lack of proper food, they consume great amounts of brandy and tea (8-10 cups for every meal).''

(…)

''They grow sugar beets, flaxes, hemp, and tobacco. But the soil is by no means treated well. In Great Russia, a village’s soil is owned and tended by the villagers in unison, and each villager seeks to work as little as possible.”''

He giggled. How absurd. How absurd it is that historians once wrote like that. How wonderful. How wonderful it is that today’s historians are free of prejudice. He jotted the page number down on a scrap of paper next to him, for it was beautiful in its own right. Such phrases contribute something special to the literary work and elevate it to a higher level, he thought. It was as if these discrepancies between what is accepted writing today and what was accepted writing yesterday tore open the fabric of time itself, allowing the reader to peak into radically different societies with different norms and different views.

Knocking on the door. Silence. More knocking. Go away. A voice calling, although too faint to hear. Leave me alone to read in peace, I’ll rejoin your illiterate world momentarily. He was very adamant about this, not intending to stop reading until he had finished this next section. Suddenly, no more knocking. Footsteps outside the door, getting fainter. Then, later, he heard the rustling sound of paper being pushed beneath the door and over the floorboards. An envelope by the foot of the door. Who sent it? He would go check its contents when he had finished this book.

Another jewel, this one from Medicine in Central Asia, a book written in 1978:

''“The People’s Republic of China is a modern industrialized country, but in the industrialized areas, the air is still fresh and clear. The workers themselves decide how the workplace is set up. The safety measures and requirements adopted are followed by the word, as the workers themselves enforce them. The polluted air is led through such good filters that all mercury and other dangerous substances are sorted off, and only clean air gets out. The Chinese know that merely taking control of the means of production will not be sufficient. If the environment is polluted and destroyed, the very roots of life will be destroyed as well – along with the very conditions of life. Frequent measurements of the air ensure renewability.''

''We know today that anything affects everything. The Chinese have known for thousands of years that even the tiniest part of the matter we and all other things are comprised of are pieces of a greater entity: our solar system.''

(…)

''Here on Earth, the greater question isn’t how, but what you should eat. For two thirds of the world’s population, this is a dilemma of large proportions. Indeed, capitalism enforces the commerce of resources from areas that become inhospitable. Starvation, decease and death are the consequences of this.”''

A book written in a time where you could still breathe in China. How amusing. How special. It’s like he was there, celebrating the marvelous technology that enabled factories to consume toxic chemicals and fossil fuels and still, inexplicably, let out nothing but the purest air. He didn’t believe in condemning people for not knowing what the future would hold, but surely that sounded too good to be true. Still, ignorance is bliss. What was in that envelope? He had to know. As soon as he finished reading this sentence, he would go pick it up. He was getting tired. So tired. But just a little more reading.

He reached out for mug and saw it was empty. What happened to my coffee? He needed to go make more. But focus! He couldn’t waste any time thinking of coffee. He absolutely had to read this. No phone ringing, no knocking on the door, and no lack of coffee would distract him from finishing this book. But what was in that envelope? He had to know. As soon as he finished reading the preface to this next book, he would go check. So tired. Here’s another one, this one from Astronomy for Middle School from 1950:

''“Mars, the Red Planet, is slightly smaller than Earth. The distance from the Sun to Mars is approximately 1½ AU (see astronomical unit). When Mars is closest to Earth, the distance from here to Mars is 55 million kilometers. One circulation around the Sun lasts 1.88 years. The seasons on Mars are therefore double the length of those on Earth. One day on Mars is only half an hour longer than a day on Earth, as its turning around itself is slightly slower.''

''Seen through a telescope, Mars looks like a little red disc with dark green spots. The red is possibly sand desert with a rust colored surface. The green might be moist, perhaps a form of plant life.”''

Yes. Plant life – or Martians. One of the two, definitely. But how were they supposed to know? It’s easy to pass judgement now that we know better. It’s easy to say: You should have done such and so, or thought this or that. When we aren’t in the same position, we can easily point fingers at those who might not be as enlightened as us. Still, he wrote it down. Because it was funny.

A loud knocking on the door. Leave me alone. He would be there in a minute. What was in that envelope? He had to know. He got up, finally, and figured that now I’ll answer the door and pick up the envelope, and I can continue undisturbed. As fast as his mind was, his body moved slowly across the room. Old age. Cancer eating away at him. He had to get back to the books soon, find those gaps in time, and journey to the past, where he was young and strong.

He stood by the door, the knocking having ceased. He had no doubt that someone was still out there waiting for him. But he didn’t know what to do: open the door, or open the envelope? The person knocking might lose his patience and leave again if he did the latter first, only to return and disturb him later. Surely, whoever it was would understand. He would greet the person as soon as he had finished reading whatever was inside of the envelope. He heard a voice calling again, clearer and just outside, although muffled. A plea for him to open the door. The woman – and it was a woman – was worried. Something about his medication. Right, my medication. He would take it as soon as…

Anyway, he tore open the envelope. Inside was a tiny book. He didn’t recall having ordered this book, but it looked fairly old and quite interesting. In gilded letters, the title read The Times We Live In, the book being beautifully bound with a red leather spine and a rugged black cover. He flipped the book open and began reading. All distractions ceased. It was nothing like any book he had ever read. It was a biography. His. From infancy to childhood to adolescence to adulthood. Only period of his life not included: His old age. No illness. No struggle. No pain. No hurrying to do anything, and no searching for gaps. Never again.

Beautiful, so beautiful. He felt it all return to him, his careless life and the ignorance that comes with living in the past. Times when the world was so much more mysterious. Now we know everything, he thought with great sadness, and if we don’t then we will eventually. Nonetheless, he let himself be absorbed holly by the little book, relishing in its warmth and familiarity. This was life. He was happy.

Then he collapsed on the floor. 