The Librarian (Fourth Draft)

Years of research and not even a hint. The closest historical record I could find alludes to the Library of Alexandria, but even that is just a mere shadow. No, the library I am interested in is not limited to any structure built by man.

I do not remember how I had stumbled upon it. I was not even looking for it at the time. Perhaps I was dreaming. Or suffering the effects of hallucinogens. Had I crossed a rift in reality? Or attained the state of nirvana while meditating? Whatever the case, my entry into The Library has been clouded by memory and attempts to re-enter had failed.

I am sure though that at one point, I was in The Library. It cannot be classified as a place in the fullest sense of the word for it does not occupy any space, or time, for that matter. The Library exists outside of our world yet is still accessible to some. One of my theories is that it lies in the nexus between temporality and eternity, still a part of reality yet ignoring its limitations.

The Library is vast. It has no center and all around are endless corridors of bookshelves, each twice the size of any man. At first, I thought it was an optical illusion. Maybe something out of Borges. But there were no mirrors, just shelves and the books they contained. I do not know how long it took me, perhaps the equivalent of an hour in the real world, to verify that. I passed several dozen bookcases only to find that I still had further to go in either direction.

The shelves seemed to be made of wood, dark and thick. There was nothing distinguishing about them, except for the fact that they all looked identical and one could not tell one bookshelf from another. Even the books they stored all looked bland and uniform, each sharing the same size, cover, and paper. I wondered how one files the books.

I tried scratching the shelves to leave a mark, my trail of breadcrumbs in this wooden wilderness. But the shelf resisted and looked no different from the one beside it. I fumbled my pockets for a knife or even a pen but they were empty. Strange, considering I never leave home without a pen.

I was about to grab a book, using the shelf with an empty slot as a reference when I heard a voice. This voice was not something my ears heard but rather something that echoed in my mind, an idea that does not seem to leave your memory. One could mistake it for one’s own thoughts but there was something that separated me from "it". I knew that what I was "hearing" wasn’t my idea for I was determined in navigating this labyrinth through any means possible.

And then it occurred to me. What if this library that seemed to have no end contained all the books in the world? Not just the books that have been written but are being written and have yet to be written. If that was so, what place could hold such an infinite collection?

I realized that I was beyond space and beyond time. Even more mysterious than the place I was in was the source of these thoughts. Who could be here aside from me? But every library has its librarian, the caretaker of knowledge, the guide of souls.

Was it a him or a her? I do not know. As far as I was concerned, the librarian was a voice in my mind, a presence that defied all logic. Not all logic, just my logic. There are scientific journals that explore the possibility of telepathy. And one of the debates of philosophy is the ability of man to communicate directly with the other without requiring a medium.

At this point, the distinction between my thoughts and the librarian’s thoughts became blurred.

Lost histories, forgotten tomes, sacred scriptures, unfound journals, burned books, banned manuscripts, apocrypha, encyclopedias, compendiums, anthologies, best-sellers, short stories, vignettes, novels, classics, sonnets, free verse, litanies, essays, plays, scripts, tragedies, comedies, translations, myths, legends, epics, codices, literature of unborn civilizations – all these were available. I knew where each book was, its subject matter, and which shelf it lay. I merely had to choose. One.

Why one? Such a small number compared to the thousands of books published every year, such a small number compared to the authors born in my lifetime, such a small number compared to the translations of The Iliad and The Odyssey.

Tick. Tock. No clock was ticking for I exist out of time. But my heart was pounding, my brain racing for answers. Breath deeply. Again. Yes, things are becoming clearer now. Which book to read?

Surely not history for even the accounts of what happened on November 22, 1963 are too numerous to be contained in merely one book. And an account is only as truthful as its author. The Library, after all, does not discriminate. There is a twinge of curiosity about the future but this library is not limited by the physical laws of the world. A text written in the future I might read but who can say that what it contains will actually occur? All the possible futures, as well as all the possible pasts, are documented.

How about books on empirical data? Somewhere in this library is the formula that will convert lead into gold. But would I really care to know what that formula is? Would I even remember it once I leave this place? Would I risk the answer to one of the many questions that plague my life for something as trivial as this?

I think The Library is playing a cruel game on me. I could spend the equivalent of years in this place and still not decide. I am Althea and Meleager both at once, holding my fate before me. Choose and I regain my mortality. Not choose and I will be trapped in despair. I envy the All-father who was able to exchange one of his eyes for a draught in the Well of Wisdom.

Wait! This place is a library, even if it is the result of some cosmic machination. There is one person who would be able to read all the books in The Library for that person is as much a part of The Library as its books.

Who art thou, librarian? You have neither name nor gender, merely is. You know where all the books lie, what each one contains. Surely one must have been tempted? Ah, I see. Every treasure has its own safeguards against its caretakers. Did the Egyptians not bury the architects of the pyramids with the structures they themselves designed? Yours is a harsh existence. You know where all the books are but you are blind. You cannot read the very works you guard. The irony. I wonder what kind of life you live.

Perhaps it is actually possible to know. A biography of the librarian. That is the book I want to read. Unfortunately that is the one book that does not exist. There is no one to write about the librarian, no soul to narrate your existence.

What if I write a book about the librarian? But the nature of The Library is to have all the books, including that which has not yet been written. All the books except one is a contradiction. Would I create a paradox? There is a book on paradoxes.

A book I have written. Yes, that is a more plausible request.

Immediately, I knew the exact location of the book I was interested in. I passed a few shelves, turned a few corners, and then passed several more shelves. There was this book that looked plain and no different from the rest but I knew its pages contained my name. I held its leather covering and started turning the pages. I saw the title and I saw my name. It was indeed the book I had written, or rather will write.

In my hand was a book about The Library and its librarian. A paradox it seems. I wonder what would happen next. I turned the pages. And turned. And turned—

The Librarian

Years of research and not even a hint. The closest historical record I could find alludes to the Library of Alexandria, but even that is just a mere shadow. No, the library I am interested in is not limited by any structure built by man.

I do not remember how I had stumbled upon it. If I remember correctly, I was not even looking for it at the time. Perhaps I was dreaming. Or suffering the effects of hallucinogens. Had I crossed a rift in reality? Or attained the state of nirvana while meditating? Whatever the case, my entry into The Library has been clouded by memory and attempts to re-enter had failed.

I am sure though that at one point, I was in The Library. It cannot be classified as a place in the fullest sense of the word for it does not occupy any space, or time, for that matter. The Library exists outside of our world yet is still accessible to some. One of my theories is that it lies in the nexus between temporality and eternity, still a part of reality yet ignoring its conditions.

The Library is vast. It has no center and all around are endless corridors of bookshelves, each twice the size of any man. At first, I thought it was an optical illusion. Maybe something out of Borges's The Library of Babel. But there were no mirrors, just shelves and the books they contained. It took me perhaps an hour (I cannot really say for there is no time in The Library) to verify that. I passed several dozen bookcases only to find that I still had further to go in either direction.

The shelves seemed to be made of wood, dark and thick. There was nothing distinguishing about them, except for the fact that they all looked identical and one could not tell one bookshelf from another. Even the books they stored all looked bland and uniform, each sharing the same size, cover, and paper. I wondered how one files the books.

I tried scratching the shelves to leave a mark, my trail of breadcrumbs in this wooden wilderness. But the shelf resisted and looked no different from the one beside it. I fumbled my pockets for a knife or even a pen but they were empty. Strange, considering I never leave home without a pen.

I was about to grab a book, using the shelf with an empty slot as a reference when I heard a voice. This voice was not something my ears heard but rather something that echoed in my mind, an idea that does not seem to leave your memory. One could mistake it for one's own thoughts but there was something that separated me from "it". I knew that what I was "hearing" wasn't my idea for I was determined in navigating this labyrinth through any means possible.

And then it occurred to me. What if this library that seemed to have no end contained all the books in the world? Not just the books that have been written but are being written and have yet to be written. If that was so, what place could hold such an infinite collection?

I realized that I was beyond space and beyond time. Even more mysterious than the place I was in was the source of these thoughts. Who could be here aside from me? But every library has its librarian, the caretaker of knowledge, the guide of souls.

Was it a him or a her? I do not know. As far as I was concerned, the librarian was a voice in my mind, a presence that defied all logic. Not all logic, but merely my logic. There are scientific journals that explore the possibility of telepathy. And one of the debates of philosophy is the ability of man to communicate directly with the other without requiring a medium.

At this point, the distinction between my thoughts and the librarian's thoughts became blurred. I had questions and I thought of the answers. Who is this mysterious librarian? A librarian, having neither name nor gender but merely is. Who built this place? If I really wanted to know, I should read one of the books. What's stopping me from reading that book? Finding that book. How can I find that book? I will know where it is located if I should choose to read that book. Why should I not choose that book? Because of one condition. What condition is that? That I can only choose and read one book before returning to the world. What other books might I be interested in? Books from various topics are available, from the lost histories of various civilizations to epics yet to be written. Could I read about what really happened on November 22, 1963? Only the accounts of various people, some true and some false, for The Library does not discriminate. Could I read about empirical knowledge such as the formula to turn lead into gold? Yes, but I would not remember it once I left this place. Could I read about the future? Perhaps, but The Library has documents on all the possible futures so any account I read may or may not actually happen. Can I read a book that will teach me how to obtain riches? A book is only as credible as its author. Can I read a book that will be the next Odyssey? Yes but I must first choose a language and a culture. How much time do I have before I must choose? As much as I want for time is not a factor here. Am I immortal? As long as I am in The Library, I am outside of time. What happens if I try to kill myself here? Trying is not necessarily equated with success. What happens if I tear a page from a book? I must first attempt it. Is it possible to succeed? No. Can I steal a book? I can only take with me what I brought with me. Does that include knowledge? Yes. Then what is the point of reading? Understanding, appreciation, pleasure, and all the other values associated with the human experience. Does the librarian read? No, for the librarian is the caretaker of The Library and every treasure has its own safeguards against its caretaker. What is stopping the librarian from reading? The librarian is blind. Then how does the librarian know where all the books are? The librarian simply does. What if someone reads to the librarian? One must first find the librarian in order to do so. Where is the librarian? Inside The Library. Where in The Library is the librarian? In a place one would never find. How long have I been having these thoughts? The question is irrelevant for time has no meaning here. What book should I read? Only I can answer that question.

I've had questions all my life and I was given the opportunity to find the answer to at least one of them. I could not choose though. My questions were either trivial or could not be answered because of The Library's condition. And then a thought occurred to me.

Is there a book about the librarian? No. Why not? Because there is no one to write about the librarian. What if I write about the librarian? Then there will be a paradox for The Library has all the books and all the books except one is a contradiction. What will happen if there is a paradox? There is a book on paradoxes.

I took a deep breath before resuming my train of thought. Does The Library have a book that I have written? Yes. Can I read it? Yes.

Immediately, I knew the exact location of the book I was interested in. I passed a few shelves, turned a few corners, and then passed several more shelves. There was this book that looked plain and no different from the rest but I knew its pages contained my name. I held its leather covering and started turning the pages. I saw the title and I saw my name. It was indeed the book I had written, or rather will write.

In my hand was a book about The Library and its librarian. I had caused a paradox. I wonder what would happen next. I turned the pages. And turned. And turned. Nothing happened. And that is the problem. I am forever trapped reading my book I will never get to write.

?

A Chinese Education (May 20, 2003)

I was three years old, surrounded by relatives and friends of my parents. They were all babbling in this strange language I could not decipher. And then one of them approached me and babbled a few words. I merely shook my head and said in English I didn’t understand what they were saying.

“Doesn’t he know Chinese? Well, he should.”

My parents would then look disappointed and approach me, asking me to talk in Chinese, a language they never bothered to teach but expected me to speak just the same. I just merely looked at them with wondering eyes.

A year later, I was sent to Xavier, a “prestigious” all-boys private school that had Chinese as part of its curriculum. Of course never mind the fact that they were teaching Chinese Mandarin but my relatives expected me to speak Chinese Fookien, two different dialects.

The first thing that was taught to me was my name. Yang Te Tsa. All Chinese names comprise three characters, each having only one symbol. It was difficult to memorize at first since my name had complex and numerous strokes. My mother used to joke that one of her friends wanted to be named Ee Er San, which is translated as one two three, because each character had the same number of strokes as the number it represented. That was in nursery.

Our formal foray into the Chinese language began in grade one, where we started memorizing Chinese characters aside from our names. Learning to write “a” went side by side with learning how to write “mu”, the character for tree.

Over the years, we would tackle more complex characters as our knowledge of the language began to grow. But in actuality, it didn’t. Most sessions involved mindless memorization of words and their meaning which will soon be forgotten by the end of the quarter. We didn’t even know our seatmate’s Chinese name so that whenever the teacher would call someone, only that person would know that he was being called. Our Chinese names were as unknown as the money hidden in our piggy bank. To top it off, even our ineptitude was laughed at. During exams, the teacher would write on the blackboard the entries that needed to be filled out, such as the year and section. Under the name, he would put “ta pen niyow” or big cow as an example. Some students would write “ta pen niyow” on their test papers.

As for me, my parents and relatives still expected me to speak Fookien, even though no one was teaching it to me. They reasoned that I was being taught Chinese in school. But my rebuttal of being taught Mandarin and not Fookien fell on deaf ears.

I don’t know when it happened but sometime during grade school I realized an anomaly in my name. My last name was Tan but the first character of my Chinese name (which usually serves as the clan name) didn’t correspond with the other Tan’s in my class. And I did ask around so that I knew that last names correspond to a particular Chinese character. So why was mine different?

Apparently, it’s because Tan isn’t my real family name but Yu. Me and my siblings were using my mother’s last name instead of my father’s, at least legally. When I confronted them with this, they merely shrug and blamed it on paperwork.

By the time I was in grade five, Chinese became the subject everyone dreaded. No one understood it except one or two students in class, which is mainly attributed not to studiousness but more to the fact that they came from a Taiwanese family thus the language they were using at home was Mandarin and not the typical Fookien. At this point, cheating became rampant. Whether it was copying from your seatmate, scribbling notes on your hand or handkerchief, or taking a look at the book when the teacher wasn’t looking, we call became familiar with it. It even reached the point that students who don’t normally cheat in other subjects cheat in Chinese. And of course, the excuse was this. “It’s only Chinese. There’s no point in learning it. We won’t use it anyway.”

I only took my Chinese seriously (meaning an effort to actually retain what I had learned) in grade six because anime dubbed in Chinese was showing on cable. I’d stay awake until 10 pm just to watch these shows. It surprised me that I was able to apply, even if it was just a little, my knowledge of Chinese Mandarin.

And then in high school, I found out we had it easy. In Xavier, you only had one Chinese class per day. In other Chinese schools, you also had Math in Chinese, History in Chinese, even Science in Chinese. Compared to students of those schools, we might as well have been mute.

But our Chinese ineptitude stayed the same because the all-girls school right next to ours suffered the same fate as we. Xaverians and ICAns didn’t really speak Chinese even if it was part of their school curriculum. The best we could come up with is Chi-tag-lish, a combination of Chinese, Filipino, and English. Or if they do speak Chinese, it’s with the Fookien dialect rather than Mandarin.

So here I am, after suffering thirteen years of education in Xavier, still unable to engage in a conversation in Chinese. My parents and relatives are disappointed in me and still expect me to speak Fookien out of the blue.