AS THE BOOK CENSOR awoke one morning, filled with others’ words, he found himself transformed into a reader.
Lying on his back, he felt a stiffness in his neck; when he raised his head ever so slightly, he could see hundreds of books surrounding his bed, books he had no recollection of bringing home. One or two of them, certainly, but somehow the books appeared to have multiplied overnight, sprouting, dividing down the middle, copulating even. Piled up, one atop the other, towering over him, hemming him in from every side.
He remembered somewhat foggily that the books had thrown his wife out. But was that yesterday or yesteryear? Her spot in their bed was empty. Somewhere in his memory, he recalled that she had left the bed, her face red with rage, because of a forgotten book under the covers that had knocked her elbow. How accurate this was he wasn’t entirely sure; more likely than not, the book had bitten her.
He didn’t remember much of what had happened, akin to when an addict comes to their senses. Nighttime was the worst.
Because of his new job, he knew about the maladies caused by books—in fact, he had started to display some of the symptoms: metaphors cropping up in his head; persistent ache in his upper back; stealing books involuntarily; compulsive late-night reading by candlelight even when the power went out. One look and it was clear he had a problem: dark circles, excessive weight loss, pallid skin, bloodshot eyes, migraines, shoulder and neck pain, not to mention being more prone than others to all kinds of dark thoughts, as if he had been sentenced to forever seeing the glass half empty. He knew if he peeked inside his own head he’d find worry, depression, fury at the world. Of course he knew the signs—he’d taken an oath to avoid them when he filled out the safety and security procedures compliance form.
What he did remember from last night was his wife yelling at him to choose: the books or her. With her pillow under her arm, her eyes welling, she could barely believe it when he put his hands up to his mouth and whispered, “I can’t.”
“You’ve lost your mind!” she hissed.
And then she was gone. What had happened next? What had he done the whole night? Had he slept? Had he read?
The door slamming. Left alone with the books. He’d been scared but hadn’t wanted to reveal how vulnerable he was. He knew things his wife wouldn’t believe, things the other censors didn’t yet appreciate. Books could hear, bite, multiply, have sex. They had sinister protocols to take over the world, to colonize and conquer—word by word, line by line, poisoning the world with meaning. But he was meant to only skim the surface of language. He thought he’d had enough training to sidestep the hazards of the job. The image of the First Censor drumming the table came to mind, his words unforgettable: All language is smooth. There are no ripples. Stay on the surface, and you’ll be the best censor.
He hadn’t understood a whit of it. Language is smooth? What did the First Censor mean by ripples? But of late he’d grown to understand. He’d started spending nights climbing mountains and wading through swamps, sometimes falling down holes to the bowels of a secret world. Language was no longer confined to the surface. But if he shared what he thought, he’d be branded a heretic, delusional. He didn’t want to come across as out of control. A newly appointed censor couldn’t be defeated from the start. What would people say?
It had begun with one book. He tried to recall the dream, feeling its delicate membrane enveloping him like an embryo. He had been on an island, walking barefoot along a golden shore of smooth seashells, the sea roaring. He came across a discarded book in the sand. Heavy, he needed both hands to pick it up, and found beneath it a dozen tiny crabs waving their pincers in his face. Then one after the other they began to melt back into the sand, burying themselves as if they never existed. One crab pinched his leg, waking him up. He found himself in a room that was no longer just his room, for he wasn’t alone anymore but faced a beast of countless books, a book-beast that wanted to swallow him whole.
Setting his feet on the floor, he trod on book covers that were so numerous they could have covered the surface of the earth, searching for gaps on his way to the bathroom. He extended his leg toward another gap and steadied himself with his arms out wide, waving them around as if wading through a bog. Upon reaching the door, he opened it and poked his head through: his wife had left for work and taken the child to school. He was relieved to not have to face her that morning.
He splashed his face with water and rubbed his cheeks, hoping to remove the traces of the words he’d read. He had changed. He had the look of a reader—his gaze appeared to have turned in on itself.