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:
Gimaldi,
I promised long ago that you would also be serving in the Library, and I have been remiss to make good on my promise. I require you to meet me in Paris - that lovely city of intrigue and luxuriant living of the wondrous otium and rebellious streak - to assist me in the reshelving of books. It is a tiresome labour, I am afraid, and not as thrilling as going on the wild goose chase for slipped books, but I am sure you will find the task suitable to your taste. I will, of course, have to train you in the particulars of how the books are catalogued according to a rather strict and inflexible order. You may as well be apprised of the full range of your duties, and this is one of them.
Until anon, ta ta!
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
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:
Gimaldi,
I promised long ago that you would also be serving in the Library, and I have been remiss to make good on my promise. I require you to meet me in Paris - that lovely city of intrigue and luxuriant living of the wondrous otium and rebellious streak - to assist me in the reshelving of books. It is a tiresome labour, I am afraid, and not as thrilling as going on the wild goose chase for slipped books, but I am sure you will find the task suitable to your taste. I will, of course, have to train you in the particulars of how the books are catalogued according to a rather strict and inflexible order. You may as well be apprised of the full range of your duties, and this is one of them.
Until anon, ta ta!
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
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