Though I spend most of my time studying what is labelled “history” in some manuscripts and “malignant lies” in others and the “siren scrawls of that fell demon” by many more, I find myself more interested in those works which exist not to edify or inform but instead to entertain. That is to say, in those hours of leisure my master grants me, I read widely of that section of the library we set aside for books proven by us bibliognosts to be mere entertainments. I have heard it said you share this vice.
I do not label even those hours of leisure my own, because I belong to my great master, my master whose magnanimity provides this slave with meals superior to those eaten by all but the wealthiest free men and the use of his vast libraries (he having two as all noblemen do) as well as the rapturous company of my Phoebe, that retired courtesan whose wits and shapeliness seem greater to me now than when she was in my master’s favor.
This must, of course, be love muddying my powers of observation, as she is now to him only an obligation, supplanted as she was by his recent purchase of Jessica—and such a deal he haggled from such a desperate pair of merchants. Some slanderers have even claimed Jessica’s nubility suspect. Forgive this humble slave. It is not my place to repeat libel. And it must be libel as there can be no evidence for it. For who outside these walls knows much about her? She may indeed be some dowager. His tastes, if extreme, could be extreme in either direction. I will not say for I am an obedient creature. And whatever his reasons for discarding my Phoebe in the height of her bloom, this slave should be grateful for those tendencies that have provided his servant an able assistant, a lover, and a friend.
I find myself straying from my purpose in writing. I hope you will humor this lonely scholar. You know how lonely it can be for men of letters such as us. It is always tempting (is it not?) to betray some of the personal in intellectual correspondence. And you—a free man and from such an illustrious family—will forgive me this vice. For I find myself without local peer, in blissful captivity as I am to this estate, this estate in which my master and I are the only literate men.
I confess, I sometimes wish I could tutor my Phoebe in letters. I have not of course. I would never dare even attempt it—though many of the books in our libraries bear women’s names. But of course, I am entirely in agreement with my master (who is a Weiningerian by intuition if not erudition) when I say, every book bearing a woman’s name can be considered a work of Belial without further interrogation.
But what a cunning demon Belial was, for I find I can build a concordance (and one with that property of zìqià we bibliognosts so prize) in which both sexes worked in intellectual harmony before the fall. Absurd of course, but coherence is coherence. And you know how burdensome our calling is, forced as we are to entertain absurdities. But what are we to do? When we find a concordance with that property of zìqià, we write of it and inform The Athenaeum, even if it offends those philosophies that are self-evidently just and true, offends, that is, both my master and myself. Such is the burden of the bibliognost.
And I know you have written on the topic of women’s education, written in a style similar to that way in which I write. And I said I would never attempt such a thing. But if I were to, my foolish love-struck heart feels that Phoebe’s mind would bloom so beautifully, in a manner that could only increase my regard for her. Though I fancy she would be cursed, I suppose, with that vice those who learn to read late in life always are: that is, the inability to do so silently.
Forgive me introducing myself with this absurd digression. I seem to have produced my own entertainment. What would our favorite entertainer say? Perhaps something like: Men in love are all the same man, and this man a fool.
How could this love not bias my preference in concordances? My passions inflamed by her physical virtues, I mistakenly grant her those more intellectual. That is what is happening. That is what my master would say. And my master is wise. Though he would not use precisely those words, articulating himself—as he does—in his most singular way [...]
I am pleased to find you replied to my letter. I was in such a strange mood when I wrote it. Before we move to matters of history and literature, I must address my strange digression and your kindness in entertaining it. Truly, it was written by a wandering mind. If I was not a young man, I would fear senility. Almost a work of free association, was it not? And yet, you replied and so generously. Of course I agree with your condemnation of my lovestruck blather. Such a detailed critique. And one I cannot argue with. To think, your acquaintance tried such a thing? I suppose he must have been lovestruck, too! And what a sorry result you describe. An almost perfect inversion of what my absurd concordance would have us believe. I relayed one of your anecdotes to my master. And had it been designed specifically for his amusement, it could not have provoked more laughter.
The first half of your letter was so pleasing, I even read it aloud a second time. And when I did, I laughed in a lighter tenor than is my usual. Your friend’s adventures attempting to educate the uneducatable were so instructive. And I will endeavor to never repeat them. Least of all with this Jessica. It is a shame though. Were she but born a different sex, I feel she could learn to read silently.
I speak of Jessica because my Phoebe has developed an almost maternal affection towards her. And this has been salutary to both. Having once been privileged with my master’s ardor, Phoebe gives Jessica welcome advice on how to make the most of her enviable position. My master, in his kindness, allows them time together, as this improves Jessica’s mood—though Phoebe’s influence on her, of course, could never rival his.
But we should move on to our shared interest, our Jorge Luis Borges. I was intrigued by your proposed concordance. That is, your claim your copy of The Approach to Al-Mu’tasim is genuine. I admit, I suspect it a work of Belial, even while I maintain that Borges existed and his review of the Approach to Al-Mu’tasim was written by his hand. Of course, this is convenient given the concordance I proposed in my last letter. Though no true evidence at all, you will note that mad numerologist Julian Agusta agrees with me!And I ask you to consider [...]
I have been waiting eagerly for your reply, and I was not disappointed.
I see you seem more interested in my little joke than the whole rest of my letter! I refer to my mention of my friend Julian’s mad theories. I assumed you would be aware of them, as he has some minor following at The Athenaeum. It seems you are not.
His ideas are similar to those of the forensics. You have read of the humiliation of the forensics, I imagine. I always found some pathos in it. Abraxas Sinnclare, the most learned and respected of the forensics, confronted with samples of paper and ink from works he claimed distinguishable by virtue of their material composition alone. And then (blinded as he was to where his samples came from) he did no better than chance at replicating his past findings! As textualists ourselves, we should not feel for him as I do. But I confess, I think he was a great man with a good idea. Though misled by his own genius, he is not so much a figure of fun as one of tragedy—or that is my reading.
And I suppose this is part of why Julian’s mad ideas appeal to me. For he is a sort of forensic textualist. What could this mean? You may be thinking. And it is simple. I have been calling his school of thought, teasingly in my letters to him, the numerologist school. I will explain. But first, you must know Julian’s wealth is the inherited kind. And the majority is in the form of his interest in a very productive artifactmine. And in his lifetime, this mine has recovered five working computers. Of these he sold four, each for—of course—a mind-boggling sum. But he kept one for himself. He kept one for his numerology.
I am unschooled in the workings of those ancient machines. So I explain here now only what he relayed to me in our letters. And I would suggest you correspond yourself—for I know you are a more mathematical sort than I.
I can only say, he has many educated servants and he has them take shifts typing books into his computer. And he tells me, he has arranged this computer such that it takes each word in every language and assigns it a numerical value. His ancient machine then performs various mathematical operations on a given text (I do not claim to understand), and then it returns a signature, which is a matrix of that type used in the linear algebra. And he claims by means of these signatures, he has derived a method of distinguishing the fell demon’s works from that of our true ancestors.
Again, if curious, I implore you to correspond with Julian directly.
Finishing this letter now, I remember I have not replied to your sister’s question. And do not worry yourself! I do not begrudge you reading my last missive to her. Tell her my master has not yet taken a wife, despite his advanced age.
You say her heart was moved by the description of my master? That she felt great emotion? Particularly concerning Jessica? Jealousy, I imagine. Women of good birth are often disgusted and jealous when a noble man takes a slave to bed. Understandable. But if she is jealous, I am afraid she has little chance with him. It is a shame, though, for lacking an heir and even any living relatives, his estate will be up for grabs on his death (may it never come) to anyone with even the most tenuous connection.
An agreeable wife and an heir would mitigate this sad possibility. And it should not be so hard: he is a tempting prize to any family, particularly those mired in some debt. Alas, though he knows my opinion on the matter and even thinks it wise, he refuses to heed it. And much amusement we have in bantering about it.
I do so enjoy his condescensions.
I thank you for sending me your copy of The Approach to Al-Mu’tasim. I agree, it is a remarkable novel. And reviewing his own pseudonymous work does seem entirely in the character of our Jorge Luis—should we be correct that he is not a fabrication of Belial’s. And though we agree on that, I still prefer my concordance to your own.You may need reminding that it was entirely within that fell demon’s power to write novels of this quality. And consider, if you will, Borges’s review absent that book. Does it not have a certain je ne sais quoi? For a moment, forget The Approach to Al-Mu’tasim. Imagine how it would feel to read Borges’s review in a past where its subject never existed. Indeed, I have works of criticism in my library that claim just this was true, though of course there are some that state the opposite [...]
As to more mundane matters, I was sad to hear of the death of your teacher. And you suspect the ink, you say? I admit, I looked at my inkwell with some fear on reading that, thinking about how many times I have bit my nails or eaten with stained fingers.
I thank you for the reference. I have indeed found a copy of the book you mention, and the means of purification was simple enough. If only the Romans had you to offer such advice! I am left with a sort of dross that text warns should not be left around children, by virtue of its sweet taste. I will find some means by which to dispose of it safely. I will certainly keep Jessica away from it—or at least educate her on its nature.
[...]Regarding your first question. Julian will answer better. But I suppose the distance is such that mine will reach you first. And so I will do what I can so you have some morsel to sate your considerable curiosity.
He separates the thousands of books he has painstakingly relayed into his computer into two categories. Those with the signature and those without it. Nine of every ten have this signature. And assuming the majority the work of Belial, Julian concludes the nine the demon’s and the one our ancestor’s.
As to how the signature is calculated. That is a question for Julian. It has something to do with the frequency in which various words are used. As for how he identified this signature (and we should consider the idea that he is as deluded as the forensics were) I do not understand this myself. We will have to await your correspondence with Julian. Though you will pay a dear price—he will want to exchange books with you. And often asks for two texts from me for every one I borrow of him. He is a true miser, even in matters of lending. But worry not on account of your books. They will be safer in his hands than even your own.
Now on to your sad idea about our Jorge Luis. It is something we should consider. I feel a sort of affection for him though, a sort of kinship through the depths of time. Imagining this bonhomie to be an illusion fills me with a real despair. And I think I am not interpreting you wrongly when I infer you feel similarly. Nonetheless, you are right! This is an idea we should dwell on sometimes, however unpleasant it is. I will note however, that the numerologists agree with me! At least in the case of our Jorge Luis.
It strikes me now how tediously long this letter has become. I fear even the most diligent man would be tired of it by now. I am having a fanciful thought, and it is this: an image of a barely literate bore attempting to read this far. I picture that corpulent, indolent demon Belphegor, trying to weigh my soul. He certainly would have given up long before reading to this point. And though an infinitely more virtuous creature, I fear even your patience is being tested, too.
Yet I have not yet addressed your sister’s continued curiosity regarding my master. It is a shame; indeed, he has no wife or heir. He clearly does not desire one. His wealth is such that many families have offered him the hand of their daughters, but he has always demurred. And it is his right to do as he wishes. Far be it from me to question his keen judgement. Nor to attempt to sway him.
Still, you know us bibliognosts. We stare into possible pasts so much, our imaginations grow strong. And we do sometimes wonder about the possible futures. In this spirit, I did have this thought on reading your letter: what could induce him to wed? And the answer that came? Some scandal regarding him becoming known in the capital. And even then, he is of such perfect stubbornness I doubt he would wed just to ward off scandal. Though my Phoebe reminds me: alone among men, my master fears Markus Henrich.
She suspects that the confluence of both gossip in the capital and Henrich strongly recommending him a wife would be enough to impel him to marry.[...]
I am pleased your correspondence with Julian is going well. Yes. I, too, am jealous of his handwriting. So precise and delicate. A rare sort of handwriting, indeed.
I told you he is greedy for books! You see now I did not lie. As for your worries about delivery, when was a book last damaged in delivery? Julian is further away than any you have lent to before, yes, but though we might find fault in The Athenaeum in many regards, have they ever proven incompetent in this one? Do not worry yourself.
You have caught me! My concordance is informed by Julian’s numerology. But it stands on its own. And none can doubt it possesses a rare degree of zìqià. Of course, it is of only intellectual interest as it is clearly wrong, given what it claims about the distaff texts. This vice it inherits from the numerologists.
There is of course a simple fix to Julian’s metric. We use his signature and then discard any book written by a woman! This has all the virtues of the epicycle, does it not? We would of course have to find some means of rationalizing internal references to those texts. But I am sure we could come up with some satisfying method of doing so. And this new theory would be of a rarified form, one only the greatest of men can truly appreciate: that finest genre of noblemen to which my master belongs[...]
Your letter finds me in a strange mood. The estate is in disarray. My master has come down with gout. And he is in perfect agony. The pain is such that he often wakes up screaming in his sleep. You can imagine my reaction, hearing such sounds from his kind lips. Let us not speak of it. And let us, also, pray for my master’s gout.
When his attacks come, his only relief can be found in wine. I have told him, wine is the very worst thing for gout. But he is such a contrary creature these days, and he inverted my advice. And so he is constantly asking for wine. Sweet Jessica, of course, is glad to serve it to him.
But let us move on to happier things. The Kristus och Judas. I am glad to see you agree with both myself and the numerologists. If The Approach to Al-Mu’tasim was transcendent work, The Kristus och Judas does read as a bad forgery. Though I think them both Belial’s, I admit it is strange how much better a lie the former is as compared to the latter. [...]
I was happy to read your letter. It was a welcome distraction from this grim estate, grim because master has been of a rather saturnine mood lately. But you know what a strange disease his is. How many books detail its symptoms, how it comes and goes like the tides? Let us hope for a permanent retreat.
He sent for a doctor and perhaps the doctor cured him? But you know doctors. They had some competence once but I am of the opinion that Belial’s lies have rendered them worse than useless. I told as much to my master, but he of course did the opposite. It is so very frustrating.
Yet by whatever hap or intervention, the gout has improved. You would think his mood would have risen. It is instead much worse. And this is because he received some very displeasing news. I know little of what has occurred, but I get the sense the calumnies I mentioned in my first letter have not been as thoroughly extinguished as I hoped.
In his kindness, he now keeps Jessica out of sight. Undoubtedly, he desires to spare her from the indignities of gossip and scandal. Yet this kindness is not without cost. Luckily, Phoebe has convinced him to let her see Jessica from time to time. They only get a few minutes. Time enough for a few words and a hug.
What strange creatures women are! It sometimes seems that in their honeyed embrace, those two can exchange as much information as we do in our letters.
But enough of my sad circumstances, I am happy to hear you desire to meet Julian in person. One thing you should know, he has been in very poor health all his life and refuses to see outsiders.
Now, you would think this would make traveling to him unnecessary. But here you are wrong. His sister Elizabeth is his servant in all matters, even those intellectual. He has talked to her of all his theories and she can serve as an able proxy for him, even in direct conversation. She visited me once, and represented her brother well. I felt almost as if I were talking to him. She mentioned he reads to her a great deal. So she has a more-than-tolerable knowledge of bibliognosis. Of course this can only be the dim approximation of what her brother has. Still, you will find your travels worthwhile.[...]
Your letter finds me well. And I think you know why! But I will start with our Jorge Luis and then move on to the gossip which, I admit, is foremost in my mind today!
We might consider the Ficciones as important also in what is revealed by their translations. I have been reading the English and German translations, and (if we assume the numerologists correct) we find an interesting difference in those authored by Belial[...]
I was glad to hear of your travels to Julian’s estate. It is a shame you could not meet the man, but it is well you found his sister so charming. Maybe it is the mentioned nuptials stirring romance in my heart, but am I wrong to think you may have found your Phoebe in Julian’s sister, this Elizabeth?
What nuptials you ask? I think you know. But imagine my surprise, my friend! Picture it: me with a book in hand, seated in that room right next to my master’s bedroom, having picked it over my library out of my great concern for my master’s health—which I will say is not well.
The gout has returned and his screams are such music to me, such frightful, horrible music. And what do I hear through the thin walls, in one of my master’s blessed moments of respite? Jessica announcing Markus Henrich’s arrival. They talked of scandal. Unrepeatable things. Horrible words spoken in the capital. And would you believe Henrich said your sister’s name? Of course you would, as you certainly aided her in her arduous schemes—that devious, enraptured creature that she is! How lucky for her that Henrich found her to be an ideal candidate.
You may well not be aware yet that my master will accept your family’s proposal. He said as much to Henrich. Forgive me this slight betrayal of my master’s confidence. I am excitable about matters matrimonial, me having such a romantic heart. And what a pleasure it will be to see you in person. I will be confined in my study during any ceremony, but I trust you will pay this humble slave a short visit. We can talk about Elizabeth. I am sure you think her a towering genius now, just as I do of my Phoebe. Men in love are all the same man, and this man a fool!
I will reveal, too, that we will have a wedding gift for our master, “we” being Phoebe, Jessica and myself. We will wait, though, wait maybe six months or even a year after that happy day to give it to him. We will wait for some anniversary long past any possibility of annulment.
I will not spoil it, this humble gift made by humble hands. But let us say, if in each day we show our affection in small ways, this will be much the same but in the large. And still, only but such a fraction of what he deserves!
And I think your sister will be charmed by us slaves when she arrives. So charmed, I worry, that she might even feel inclined towards our manumission. Dissuade her of this, friend. We could desire nothing less. We love our master and wish to serve him for as long as he lives.
The Distaff Texts
Though I spend most of my time studying what is labelled “history” in some manuscripts and “malignant lies” in others and the “siren scrawls of that fell demon” by many more, I find myself more interested in those works which exist not to edify or inform but instead to entertain. That is to say, in those hours of leisure my master grants me, I read widely of that section of the library we set aside for books proven by us bibliognosts to be mere entertainments. I have heard it said you share this vice.
I do not label even those hours of leisure my own, because I belong to my great master, my master whose magnanimity provides this slave with meals superior to those eaten by all but the wealthiest free men and the use of his vast libraries (he having two as all noblemen do) as well as the rapturous company of my Phoebe, that retired courtesan whose wits and shapeliness seem greater to me now than when she was in my master’s favor.
This must, of course, be love muddying my powers of observation, as she is now to him only an obligation, supplanted as she was by his recent purchase of Jessica—and such a deal he haggled from such a desperate pair of merchants. Some slanderers have even claimed Jessica’s nubility suspect. Forgive this humble slave. It is not my place to repeat libel. And it must be libel as there can be no evidence for it. For who outside these walls knows much about her? She may indeed be some dowager. His tastes, if extreme, could be extreme in either direction. I will not say for I am an obedient creature. And whatever his reasons for discarding my Phoebe in the height of her bloom, this slave should be grateful for those tendencies that have provided his servant an able assistant, a lover, and a friend.
I find myself straying from my purpose in writing. I hope you will humor this lonely scholar. You know how lonely it can be for men of letters such as us. It is always tempting (is it not?) to betray some of the personal in intellectual correspondence. And you—a free man and from such an illustrious family—will forgive me this vice. For I find myself without local peer, in blissful captivity as I am to this estate, this estate in which my master and I are the only literate men.
I confess, I sometimes wish I could tutor my Phoebe in letters. I have not of course. I would never dare even attempt it—though many of the books in our libraries bear women’s names. But of course, I am entirely in agreement with my master (who is a Weiningerian by intuition if not erudition) when I say, every book bearing a woman’s name can be considered a work of Belial without further interrogation.
But what a cunning demon Belial was, for I find I can build a concordance (and one with that property of zìqià we bibliognosts so prize) in which both sexes worked in intellectual harmony before the fall. Absurd of course, but coherence is coherence. And you know how burdensome our calling is, forced as we are to entertain absurdities. But what are we to do? When we find a concordance with that property of zìqià, we write of it and inform The Athenaeum, even if it offends those philosophies that are self-evidently just and true, offends, that is, both my master and myself. Such is the burden of the bibliognost.
And I know you have written on the topic of women’s education, written in a style similar to that way in which I write. And I said I would never attempt such a thing. But if I were to, my foolish love-struck heart feels that Phoebe’s mind would bloom so beautifully, in a manner that could only increase my regard for her. Though I fancy she would be cursed, I suppose, with that vice those who learn to read late in life always are: that is, the inability to do so silently.
Forgive me introducing myself with this absurd digression. I seem to have produced my own entertainment. What would our favorite entertainer say? Perhaps something like: Men in love are all the same man, and this man a fool.
How could this love not bias my preference in concordances? My passions inflamed by her physical virtues, I mistakenly grant her those more intellectual. That is what is happening. That is what my master would say. And my master is wise. Though he would not use precisely those words, articulating himself—as he does—in his most singular way [...]
I am pleased to find you replied to my letter. I was in such a strange mood when I wrote it. Before we move to matters of history and literature, I must address my strange digression and your kindness in entertaining it. Truly, it was written by a wandering mind. If I was not a young man, I would fear senility. Almost a work of free association, was it not? And yet, you replied and so generously. Of course I agree with your condemnation of my lovestruck blather. Such a detailed critique. And one I cannot argue with. To think, your acquaintance tried such a thing? I suppose he must have been lovestruck, too! And what a sorry result you describe. An almost perfect inversion of what my absurd concordance would have us believe. I relayed one of your anecdotes to my master. And had it been designed specifically for his amusement, it could not have provoked more laughter.
The first half of your letter was so pleasing, I even read it aloud a second time. And when I did, I laughed in a lighter tenor than is my usual. Your friend’s adventures attempting to educate the uneducatable were so instructive. And I will endeavor to never repeat them. Least of all with this Jessica. It is a shame though. Were she but born a different sex, I feel she could learn to read silently.
I speak of Jessica because my Phoebe has developed an almost maternal affection towards her. And this has been salutary to both. Having once been privileged with my master’s ardor, Phoebe gives Jessica welcome advice on how to make the most of her enviable position. My master, in his kindness, allows them time together, as this improves Jessica’s mood—though Phoebe’s influence on her, of course, could never rival his.
But we should move on to our shared interest, our Jorge Luis Borges. I was intrigued by your proposed concordance. That is, your claim your copy of The Approach to Al-Mu’tasim is genuine. I admit, I suspect it a work of Belial, even while I maintain that Borges existed and his review of the Approach to Al-Mu’tasim was written by his hand. Of course, this is convenient given the concordance I proposed in my last letter. Though no true evidence at all, you will note that mad numerologist Julian Agusta agrees with me! And I ask you to consider [...]
I have been waiting eagerly for your reply, and I was not disappointed.
I see you seem more interested in my little joke than the whole rest of my letter! I refer to my mention of my friend Julian’s mad theories. I assumed you would be aware of them, as he has some minor following at The Athenaeum. It seems you are not.
His ideas are similar to those of the forensics. You have read of the humiliation of the forensics, I imagine. I always found some pathos in it. Abraxas Sinnclare, the most learned and respected of the forensics, confronted with samples of paper and ink from works he claimed distinguishable by virtue of their material composition alone. And then (blinded as he was to where his samples came from) he did no better than chance at replicating his past findings! As textualists ourselves, we should not feel for him as I do. But I confess, I think he was a great man with a good idea. Though misled by his own genius, he is not so much a figure of fun as one of tragedy—or that is my reading.
And I suppose this is part of why Julian’s mad ideas appeal to me. For he is a sort of forensic textualist. What could this mean? You may be thinking. And it is simple. I have been calling his school of thought, teasingly in my letters to him, the numerologist school. I will explain. But first, you must know Julian’s wealth is the inherited kind. And the majority is in the form of his interest in a very productive artifact mine. And in his lifetime, this mine has recovered five working computers. Of these he sold four, each for—of course—a mind-boggling sum. But he kept one for himself. He kept one for his numerology.
I am unschooled in the workings of those ancient machines. So I explain here now only what he relayed to me in our letters. And I would suggest you correspond yourself—for I know you are a more mathematical sort than I.
I can only say, he has many educated servants and he has them take shifts typing books into his computer. And he tells me, he has arranged this computer such that it takes each word in every language and assigns it a numerical value. His ancient machine then performs various mathematical operations on a given text (I do not claim to understand), and then it returns a signature, which is a matrix of that type used in the linear algebra. And he claims by means of these signatures, he has derived a method of distinguishing the fell demon’s works from that of our true ancestors.
Again, if curious, I implore you to correspond with Julian directly.
Finishing this letter now, I remember I have not replied to your sister’s question. And do not worry yourself! I do not begrudge you reading my last missive to her. Tell her my master has not yet taken a wife, despite his advanced age.
You say her heart was moved by the description of my master? That she felt great emotion? Particularly concerning Jessica? Jealousy, I imagine. Women of good birth are often disgusted and jealous when a noble man takes a slave to bed. Understandable. But if she is jealous, I am afraid she has little chance with him. It is a shame, though, for lacking an heir and even any living relatives, his estate will be up for grabs on his death (may it never come) to anyone with even the most tenuous connection.
An agreeable wife and an heir would mitigate this sad possibility. And it should not be so hard: he is a tempting prize to any family, particularly those mired in some debt. Alas, though he knows my opinion on the matter and even thinks it wise, he refuses to heed it. And much amusement we have in bantering about it.
I do so enjoy his condescensions.
I thank you for sending me your copy of The Approach to Al-Mu’tasim. I agree, it is a remarkable novel. And reviewing his own pseudonymous work does seem entirely in the character of our Jorge Luis—should we be correct that he is not a fabrication of Belial’s. And though we agree on that, I still prefer my concordance to your own. You may need reminding that it was entirely within that fell demon’s power to write novels of this quality. And consider, if you will, Borges’s review absent that book. Does it not have a certain je ne sais quoi? For a moment, forget The Approach to Al-Mu’tasim. Imagine how it would feel to read Borges’s review in a past where its subject never existed. Indeed, I have works of criticism in my library that claim just this was true, though of course there are some that state the opposite [...]
As to more mundane matters, I was sad to hear of the death of your teacher. And you suspect the ink, you say? I admit, I looked at my inkwell with some fear on reading that, thinking about how many times I have bit my nails or eaten with stained fingers.
I thank you for the reference. I have indeed found a copy of the book you mention, and the means of purification was simple enough. If only the Romans had you to offer such advice! I am left with a sort of dross that text warns should not be left around children, by virtue of its sweet taste. I will find some means by which to dispose of it safely. I will certainly keep Jessica away from it—or at least educate her on its nature.
[...]Regarding your first question. Julian will answer better. But I suppose the distance is such that mine will reach you first. And so I will do what I can so you have some morsel to sate your considerable curiosity.
He separates the thousands of books he has painstakingly relayed into his computer into two categories. Those with the signature and those without it. Nine of every ten have this signature. And assuming the majority the work of Belial, Julian concludes the nine the demon’s and the one our ancestor’s.
As to how the signature is calculated. That is a question for Julian. It has something to do with the frequency in which various words are used. As for how he identified this signature (and we should consider the idea that he is as deluded as the forensics were) I do not understand this myself. We will have to await your correspondence with Julian. Though you will pay a dear price—he will want to exchange books with you. And often asks for two texts from me for every one I borrow of him. He is a true miser, even in matters of lending. But worry not on account of your books. They will be safer in his hands than even your own.
Now on to your sad idea about our Jorge Luis. It is something we should consider. I feel a sort of affection for him though, a sort of kinship through the depths of time. Imagining this bonhomie to be an illusion fills me with a real despair. And I think I am not interpreting you wrongly when I infer you feel similarly. Nonetheless, you are right! This is an idea we should dwell on sometimes, however unpleasant it is. I will note however, that the numerologists agree with me! At least in the case of our Jorge Luis.
It strikes me now how tediously long this letter has become. I fear even the most diligent man would be tired of it by now. I am having a fanciful thought, and it is this: an image of a barely literate bore attempting to read this far. I picture that corpulent, indolent demon Belphegor, trying to weigh my soul. He certainly would have given up long before reading to this point. And though an infinitely more virtuous creature, I fear even your patience is being tested, too.
Yet I have not yet addressed your sister’s continued curiosity regarding my master. It is a shame; indeed, he has no wife or heir. He clearly does not desire one. His wealth is such that many families have offered him the hand of their daughters, but he has always demurred. And it is his right to do as he wishes. Far be it from me to question his keen judgement. Nor to attempt to sway him.
Still, you know us bibliognosts. We stare into possible pasts so much, our imaginations grow strong. And we do sometimes wonder about the possible futures. In this spirit, I did have this thought on reading your letter: what could induce him to wed? And the answer that came? Some scandal regarding him becoming known in the capital. And even then, he is of such perfect stubbornness I doubt he would wed just to ward off scandal. Though my Phoebe reminds me: alone among men, my master fears Markus Henrich.
She suspects that the confluence of both gossip in the capital and Henrich strongly recommending him a wife would be enough to impel him to marry.[...]
I am pleased your correspondence with Julian is going well. Yes. I, too, am jealous of his handwriting. So precise and delicate. A rare sort of handwriting, indeed.
I told you he is greedy for books! You see now I did not lie. As for your worries about delivery, when was a book last damaged in delivery? Julian is further away than any you have lent to before, yes, but though we might find fault in The Athenaeum in many regards, have they ever proven incompetent in this one? Do not worry yourself.
You have caught me! My concordance is informed by Julian’s numerology. But it stands on its own. And none can doubt it possesses a rare degree of zìqià. Of course, it is of only intellectual interest as it is clearly wrong, given what it claims about the distaff texts. This vice it inherits from the numerologists.
There is of course a simple fix to Julian’s metric. We use his signature and then discard any book written by a woman! This has all the virtues of the epicycle, does it not? We would of course have to find some means of rationalizing internal references to those texts. But I am sure we could come up with some satisfying method of doing so. And this new theory would be of a rarified form, one only the greatest of men can truly appreciate: that finest genre of noblemen to which my master belongs[...]
Your letter finds me in a strange mood. The estate is in disarray. My master has come down with gout. And he is in perfect agony. The pain is such that he often wakes up screaming in his sleep. You can imagine my reaction, hearing such sounds from his kind lips. Let us not speak of it. And let us, also, pray for my master’s gout.
When his attacks come, his only relief can be found in wine. I have told him, wine is the very worst thing for gout. But he is such a contrary creature these days, and he inverted my advice. And so he is constantly asking for wine. Sweet Jessica, of course, is glad to serve it to him.
But let us move on to happier things. The Kristus och Judas. I am glad to see you agree with both myself and the numerologists. If The Approach to Al-Mu’tasim was transcendent work, The Kristus och Judas does read as a bad forgery. Though I think them both Belial’s, I admit it is strange how much better a lie the former is as compared to the latter. [...]
I was happy to read your letter. It was a welcome distraction from this grim estate, grim because master has been of a rather saturnine mood lately. But you know what a strange disease his is. How many books detail its symptoms, how it comes and goes like the tides? Let us hope for a permanent retreat.
He sent for a doctor and perhaps the doctor cured him? But you know doctors. They had some competence once but I am of the opinion that Belial’s lies have rendered them worse than useless. I told as much to my master, but he of course did the opposite. It is so very frustrating.
Yet by whatever hap or intervention, the gout has improved. You would think his mood would have risen. It is instead much worse. And this is because he received some very displeasing news. I know little of what has occurred, but I get the sense the calumnies I mentioned in my first letter have not been as thoroughly extinguished as I hoped.
In his kindness, he now keeps Jessica out of sight. Undoubtedly, he desires to spare her from the indignities of gossip and scandal. Yet this kindness is not without cost. Luckily, Phoebe has convinced him to let her see Jessica from time to time. They only get a few minutes. Time enough for a few words and a hug.
What strange creatures women are! It sometimes seems that in their honeyed embrace, those two can exchange as much information as we do in our letters.
But enough of my sad circumstances, I am happy to hear you desire to meet Julian in person. One thing you should know, he has been in very poor health all his life and refuses to see outsiders.
Now, you would think this would make traveling to him unnecessary. But here you are wrong. His sister Elizabeth is his servant in all matters, even those intellectual. He has talked to her of all his theories and she can serve as an able proxy for him, even in direct conversation. She visited me once, and represented her brother well. I felt almost as if I were talking to him. She mentioned he reads to her a great deal. So she has a more-than-tolerable knowledge of bibliognosis. Of course this can only be the dim approximation of what her brother has. Still, you will find your travels worthwhile.[...]
Your letter finds me well. And I think you know why! But I will start with our Jorge Luis and then move on to the gossip which, I admit, is foremost in my mind today!
We might consider the Ficciones as important also in what is revealed by their translations. I have been reading the English and German translations, and (if we assume the numerologists correct) we find an interesting difference in those authored by Belial[...]
I was glad to hear of your travels to Julian’s estate. It is a shame you could not meet the man, but it is well you found his sister so charming. Maybe it is the mentioned nuptials stirring romance in my heart, but am I wrong to think you may have found your Phoebe in Julian’s sister, this Elizabeth?
What nuptials you ask? I think you know. But imagine my surprise, my friend! Picture it: me with a book in hand, seated in that room right next to my master’s bedroom, having picked it over my library out of my great concern for my master’s health—which I will say is not well.
The gout has returned and his screams are such music to me, such frightful, horrible music. And what do I hear through the thin walls, in one of my master’s blessed moments of respite? Jessica announcing Markus Henrich’s arrival. They talked of scandal. Unrepeatable things. Horrible words spoken in the capital. And would you believe Henrich said your sister’s name? Of course you would, as you certainly aided her in her arduous schemes—that devious, enraptured creature that she is! How lucky for her that Henrich found her to be an ideal candidate.
You may well not be aware yet that my master will accept your family’s proposal. He said as much to Henrich. Forgive me this slight betrayal of my master’s confidence. I am excitable about matters matrimonial, me having such a romantic heart. And what a pleasure it will be to see you in person. I will be confined in my study during any ceremony, but I trust you will pay this humble slave a short visit. We can talk about Elizabeth. I am sure you think her a towering genius now, just as I do of my Phoebe. Men in love are all the same man, and this man a fool!
I will reveal, too, that we will have a wedding gift for our master, “we” being Phoebe, Jessica and myself. We will wait, though, wait maybe six months or even a year after that happy day to give it to him. We will wait for some anniversary long past any possibility of annulment.
I will not spoil it, this humble gift made by humble hands. But let us say, if in each day we show our affection in small ways, this will be much the same but in the large. And still, only but such a fraction of what he deserves!
And I think your sister will be charmed by us slaves when she arrives. So charmed, I worry, that she might even feel inclined towards our manumission. Dissuade her of this, friend. We could desire nothing less. We love our master and wish to serve him for as long as he lives.