——Are most of the books written in the ancient world lost?  Not likely, I say. It is just that the scholar is losing his or her memory, and makes a willful analogy. Is no one is listening to me? I say, ’tis a blatantly false analogy! Losing ones memory, surely, is not the same thing as losing faith in the survival of the past.  Losing track of a subject matter, and how to account for it, is not the same, even if as easy, as losing part of a recipe for dinner.  But she is catching up with a lagging, emotional sense that life is not quite matching to expectations. There is the lulling mood, the disenchantment, causing most of the books to be gone, and the ships that sailed, while the sauce she is stirring is a new taste sensation, so to speak.
——And therein too springs the cause, I say, to imagine a universal library, posit it, and place it in the fabled past. And to dream of its contents, the full menu.  Tacitly we succumb, give approval to, and license the notion of a lost library; and imagination can only tolerate or sustain the image as a totality. For imagination is just that: dependent on a single source. Worshippers of the unknown we are, she and I. Tossing darts against the dark blackboard, that must be rallied into one mystery. How much can I stand?–thinks a person. Hope and lament swing together . . .
——More is invested in imagining what is gone, for it fits the emotions you have, I want to say. Possible volumes in this ancient library that was lost just must contain summary explanations for things we do not get. Like people then were . . . people.  The universe was once not so much a secret! Though personally applying to my life, well, the lost world connected to this one must have suffered a shipwreck, or a fire, or a catastrophe that required several centuries to recover from–and we haven’t yet!
——Fantastic! Research into this supposed, universal library is now simulated by the experience of the lone person at his computer, late at night, with the moon at the window, or in the middle of the afternoon blazing outside, near the air conditioner, or secretly at his job, seeking to abide, both spur himself on and relax, in one action and one breath, on the total information highway. Inexplicably at his fingertips, the internet was born in a fit. To fit the mood, and he and I are not denied–but given access.
——What abides throughout my study is this hankering for one source, or purpose.
——And this is different entirely from what motive anyone ever had looking up something in an encyclopedia, on a rainy afternoon, or stranded in the public library. Those fat tomes sat around,.no one ever went there willingly, but it was as if they were compiled as if for a future day, when a scholar had the strength, and keen focus, to visit.
——Now, by God, I say we are reversed, it is the end of compiling altogether!  It is a radical shift, and I say this must in fact have been caused by the mood. Out of necessity, though no one is allowed, to listen to my theories.. I can only fancy that the computer has arisen, like a strange coincidence, out of a flurry of fingers typing, directed by the coiling and recoiling mind, out of confusion to answer to the new quest of her consciousness which, voila!, has now attained the image of a universal library in the rumored past. And secretly–it seems as if secretly, found the energy to explore in fits and starts, and cook it.

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