They were in Nair’s favorite section, the library. Some aisles had a clearly defined genre, like romance, fantasy, non-fiction, but others were so absurd Nair cackled, almost doubling over. There was an aisle for Dead Authors, which must have meant classics, but when Mike asked a clerk, he assured them that, unfortunately, many contemporary authors died before finishing their works. He escorted them to duologies that should have been trilogies, unfinished series originally planned for more than five entries, and even short story collections that should have been prologues to epics that were never out. It was a very depressing part of the library.
Taking a corner, they appeared into another aisle, its signboard hovering midair over its long shelves. Lazy Authors. Everything in here was by authors who had either long since given up on their works, or were just too busy juggling other side projects. But that didn’t stop readers from picking up some of these books.
Then they appeared into a bustling section with long shelves that scraped the ceiling. The name was by far the most careless and stupid Mike had ever seen, but it made Nair voice how much it resonated with her. No Need for Full Series. According to the clerk, anyone could buy whatever title they wanted regardless if it was book one or ten from the same series, that they didn’t need to buy the whole thing in one-go, because that would be too expensive, too high a bar for entry into the world of reading, and a big investment in case readers didn’t like the first book.
Next was Easy and Thoughtless, which was, based on Nair’s description of the books she saw, quick reads with no emphasis on thought-provocation or messages to express. It was the second busiest aisle after the No Need for Full Series. So far, everything in this mall made a point of keeping them entertained until their last waking moment. In an age where all people could think about was their endless problems, it made perfect sense for them to escape their heads and jump into new worlds that only wanted their entertainment, be it through, TV, music, videos, or the least harmful of all, books. What they failed to notice, however, was how addicting entertainment really was. It was, so far, the only legal drug. But unlike a drug, which usually satisfied from a single dose, you could never have enough entertainment.
For our endless problems, we usually seek endless entertainment.
But are books actually a thoughtless experience for the reader even if they don’t open a window for introspection? The point of a story is to open new worlds accessible only through your mind’s eye, to make you see people that are hard to find in our difficult world. We follow a character because we find a friend, mentor, or even a fascination in them. But what if the book was a drag, the characters bland, the plot stupid, or the progress non-existent, would that make it a waste of time?
I suppose it would. Sometimes our life seems to go at a turtle’s pace, so why follow a path we know is wrong with a heavy shell pinning us down? The world is slow and suffocating, but does a book or story have to be?
New Readers followed, straight through into the library like a loose arrow. Here, the clerk pointed, every book was between seventy to two-hundred pages. For the kids, it was nothing but stories about heroes their age saving a magical world, a kingdom, or something more significant yet a lot smaller in the case of the protagonist’s family or friends. One of them was a wildly popular and well-received epic that ended with the main character sacrificing his country to save a friend and a girlfriend. There were some fairytales as well, short volumes, numerous sequels and entries. For teenagers, a dedicated part of their own, there was emphasis on family struggles, self-discovery, school life and, heavily, romance. They dedicated a whole row of shelves to a story about a young girl struggling with anxiety and self-doubt, which somehow materialized itself in the form of a ghost that followed her wherever she went, telling her when she would hear a rejection for something she wanted or asked. And finally adult, where there was no overarching theme. Poetry in a corner, short stories for renowned philosophers and, unsurprisingly, high fantasy.
Nair found the subject most curious and was soon in a deep discussion with the clerk about the rise and fall of reading.
“The problem people have with books is that they are forced upon them,” Nair said, to nods of appreciation and satisfaction from the clerk. “Why give a child books that grown men think are too boring? How do you expect someone to enjoy a book if they were convinced from a young age that it’s boring?”
“Exactly why we believe in this section for New Readers,” said the clerk. “Here, reading is hobby, not homework.”
“Thank you!” Nair blurted out, too happy to contain her excitement. “Kids are supposed to read for fun before they read for education. But I suppose education is good for the kids because it makes their parents feel better.
Mike chuckled, stepping closer to join. “Not all parents are like that, Nair.”
“I will tell you what parents are like. They will tell you to stop playing and pick up a book. You do that and try to smile when they are scowling, even though you are doing exactly what they want. In some miracle, you develop a hobby for reading, except they won’t like what you read now. They want you to read about the history of some long-fallen nation or about geography or even poetry.”
Mike tried to interrupt but she spoke over him. “Your parents don’t want you to enjoy reading, they want you to read the books they enjoyed or couldn’t finish. They want you to finish what they started. They can’t understand that everything they do changes their kids’ lives forever. A child is a character his parents write. And just like a true author, they will give him endless love as well as endless problems.”
Thunderstruck, frozen to the floor, Mike raised his eyebrows. He never would have thought to see Nair explode in anyone’s presence but his. The problems she always complained about dogged her, and when she finally met someone sharing one of her interests she seemed to trust him enough with her secrets, even though she had no idea what his name was. It was a discussion just Mike and Nair were supposed to have; she knew him well, trusted him enough. Maybe it was interests that identified people, not their name. He held her hand, urging her to continue their shopping, but she said she was finally in heaven and asked if he would really agree to removing her.
The clerk took them to a most fascinating area in that library. All the shelves here had posters of an author beaming at them. It was none other than the legend Rorbow Rast, brilliant in name and works. Whoever named him must have been a foreseer or perhaps lucky. When flipped, it translated to Borrow Star. By all means, he managed to be a star and succeeded in letting people borrow not only his emotions in writing, but the very feeling of his descriptions. During his short lifetime, he bewitched the very words and paragraphs he crafted so that a reader felt and heard whatever atmosphere he described. Mike picked up a random book from the collection, turned to a page, and read a line detailing the patter of rain against a bedroom glass. It was moments before Mike could hear it in his ears, planting a wide, satisfied smile to his lips. On the same page, the character was shivering, and in less than a moment, Mike felt an icy tongue slithering down his back; he shivered. He turned to another page, where the character was holding out his hands against the fire. The book grew warmer all of a sudden. And finally, a page whose number he knew by heart, where an erotic scene was playing out. A warm, wet sensation engulfed him as he felt the flick of a tongue, the tip of a set of teeth, and the inside of a mouth in his pants. Instinctively, his hand and knee flew to cover himself, giggling. Nair, chuckling, snatched that copy out of his loose grip and told the clerk to wrap it.
“You haven’t read that one yet, have you?” he asked.
“Not all of it. I can’t read it standing in the library.”
“Well, we are buying it, then.”
Mike found himself leading Nair somewhere he liked to visit very often. Books as Letters and Messages. Here, every title was, in the simplest way possible, a message sent to a lover, to the society, to a world leader, to parents, or to children. He gravitated to the books that were letters and messages to a lover. Some of them, as the clerk explained, were a collection of back and forth between the author and their partner, such as the famous Letters from under the door, which told the legendary love story of Vesseless and Maryssa, who were known as the boy behind the door and the girl behind the door, respectively. Others, however, were subtle pieces of art, most of them underappreciated or sadly unrecognized. They were an engaging narrative woven with hints of love, pain, and anguish. Some of it was a confession of love, others a retelling of the hardships that plagued the author’s life once he sipped the poison of love. But there was a single entry that sparked some controversy among the audience. This particular book was, by and large, an attempt from the author to win a love he wasn’t meant to have. Alone with myself, was the title. He picked it up and, flipping through, the first line captivated him. It was a question actually, the most beautiful and depressing he had read in a while. The entire first paragraph was nothing less than poetry that borrowed the likeness of a novel, classic in every aspect.
How can you hate someone for loving you? I find myself asking questions I can’t find the answer to. But I can tell you one thing. The worst thing you can do to your heart is to offer it to someone. Keep it safe in your chest, because it will never be safe in their hands. If, however, you still insist on parting with it, don’t suppose they will be tender with their fingers; after all, women find it beautiful to grow out their nails. And when they leave, don’t suppose they will leave you the heart you gave them.
When the clerk asked if they were buying it, Mike nodded and handed the book over, even though parting with it after such a strong opening was like closing a window that permitted a cool breeze and a beautiful view
The last section in the library on the first floor had a peculiar title which, like the rest of its neighboring parts, categorized its contents almost rudely. Highly-acclaimed mediocrity. The clerk was too honest it almost seemed he didn’t care if any of his customers avoided this aisle altogether. Most of the entries here, he explained, were plot-less meanders of angst-ridden characters with a shallow understanding of human nature dressed up as depth. Others were merely trend-chasing one-timers that cashed in on the success of breakthroughs or genre-breaking titles. Some of it, and he expressed it in a heartfelt, pained whisper, were in fact a genius study and analysis of humanity and philosophy that lacked a sense of progression or even an interesting story. The side characters there were nothing but triggers of monologs that spoke truly but dully. And the very last books in there were highly-rated fictions with a enjoyable appeal that melted as soon as you thought about it for a second. Most of it were the works of celebrities or influencers with a passion for storytelling and video-editing coupled with the backing of a loyal fan base.
“if you thought about for a minute, however,” the clerk said, “you would realize how much longer you spent thinking than the author. And that’s the problem with rating; it directs people's expectations before trying it out themselves. Even if just a single individual expressed how good something is, you will start looking for the good aspects and forget about the journey. If, on the other hand, someone tells you it’s bad, you will associate that rating with that work until you see other people praising it. You will, in a word, dive into whatever you want to experience with the mentality of a critic, not a consumer. But I suppose that is the golden age of reading, we can’t escape the need for rating and reviews to save us some time. Very confusing, but then again, when was truth and lies ever straightforward?”
“I want to ask you about a specific book,” Nair said, winking to Mike. “Where do you keep copies of My Life in Death?”
The clerk, sighing, smiled. “Future Classics.”
Mike couldn’t understand either of their smiles. A classic in today’s times meant it was hard to read, written in a way people didn’t appreciate, too difficult to get through for the average reader, or the dialog had problems that people dressed up as being forced or unnatural. A future classic, he pondered, meant that it would blow up after his death probably get multiple adaptations to the big screen, artworks, and comic books. The price to that, however, was his death, even better and faster if he took his own life. What sad affair.
He hid his disappointment under a quick and painful shrug, and again he found himself lost in his head, looking for a way out with what little remained of his breath.
