Free The Infinite Library by Kane X Faucher Page B

am sure that Angelo’s rather brash way about him may have briefly unsettled you. I am partial to him for his dedication and resourcefulness, as I am sure you have since discovered for yourself – between two covers lies an infinite expanse. I do hope he has given you the talk on our rules and regulations. You might say that I am like Lenin and my decrees are divine commands. Anyhoo, good work and all that. Don’t spend all your time with your beak in the books!
 
    Ciao
    Castellemare
 
    “ O Geoffrey, what have I done? I’ve conquered the moon, yet there is nothing left to do!” - Dominic Perstia, The Purloined Galaxy.
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    I wrote back:
 
    Castellemare,
 
    Angelo did apprise me of the rules, and I do not intend to break them. Much was said, and I have to inquire about Setzer since I am curious.
 
    Best,
    G
 
    With startling speed, Castellemare responded:
 
    “ G”,
 
    There are some topics we don’t bring up at table, and Setzer is one of them. Do not suffer yourself to inquire further. A good employee does not ask greedy questions, but merely takes what is offered. It is best not to question when Lady Fortune smirks.
    -C
 
    “ O Geoffrey, what have I done? I’ve conquered the moon, yet there is nothing left to do!” - Dominic Perstia, The Purloined Galaxy.
    ------
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    5
    The Book of Chimerae
     
    C ompared to ducking around on mysterious reacquisition assignments to pluck books of intrigue from unlikely places, my lecturing duties failed to keep anything but the slightest interest. A terrible feeling of monotony took residence within me, as unshakeable as a pernicious flu. The dullness of my everyday operations left me gazing blankly at my office walls or losing interest in the middle of a lecture where I was at least to show some feigned good faith in being interested. My boredom finally reached the level of my students. I fell into moments of distracted dithering and rambling in my lectures, which was fine since half of my class had their faces fixed on their laptops while their fingers worked overtime to engage in online chats of no scholastic, but vitally social, consequence.
    Perhaps more defeating was the ennui of knowing that to write anything, to research anything, was a pointless endeavour. If what Castellemare said was true, then all was already written, every possibility sewn up and expounded upon, exegeses of these that would run on infinitely. So, thinking of my own ambitions in research felt small and paltry since all the work had already been done by every possible me writing on every possible subject in every possible voice. I would have to content myself with producing the most infinitesimal sliver of relevance that would only be a repetition of what already existed in potentia in that infinite library. Perhaps there would reside the end product of my labours, identical in one edition, or written much better in another. The determinate fatalism of such a library emptied me of any resolve, and instead left me feeling deflated and listless. What, in fact, was the point of writing anything at all? The inexhaustible possibilities of my work already existed beyond that rift between the real and the infinite.
    I batted back and forth the possibility of quitting my university lecture post, and it was only the guilt of all the time I had spent to acquire it through a seemingly endless trial of papers, exams, and defenses to possess the requisite degrees that stayed myself from making any rash decisions. When faced with the existence of infinite possibility actualized, it is difficult to summon the meaning of this rather slim reflection of it.
    There also resided a troubling philosophical problem: if the books were infinite in their variation, this suggested that there were infinite worlds where in each resided another me. Perhaps not in all, but in enough of them to