This is the Book

There is a book which describes every aspect of its existence. It defines me in this moment and brings to life my world. Those of this world know it well, yet they cannot read it because no one can.

I am the bookkeeper. I hold the book in the palm of my hand, or on the glass table before me. The people come to me and ask ‘may I read it?’ and I say yes. But they do not read it; they cannot read it because no one can.

Once, a boy approached me and asked if I’d ever read the book myself. ‘You’re the bookkeeper,’ he said, ‘you must know what it’s about.’ When I told him I did not, he pouted and took it to read for himself. But he did not read it; he could not read it because no one can.

Many read it aloud to no avail. Some read in silence, and then forget only a moment later. I’ve watched people pick it up, read it through, and set it down—only to do it all over again a dozen times. I ask them afterwards what was so thought-provoking about it, and they say, ‘oh, I wouldn’t know, I’ve never read it.’

Its axiomatic impossibility baffled me for some time. A book which no one can ever read? Absurd, I thought. But I did not have the courage to read it for myself, because I knew it as well as anyone: the book could not be read.

A curiosity befell me one day as I was tending to the book. I had always been the bookkeeper, and I had always held the book in the palm of my hand, or on the glass table before me. So who had I been before the bookkeeper?

I wondered solemnly if the book could quell my hopeless query, whether written upon its pages was the answer to my every question. ‘If only I could read it!’ I cried in lament. But I made no effort to open it.

The foolish world around me had tried and tried again to explore its vast secrecy, and again and again they’d left knowing nothing more than when they came. I’d long since come to the conclusion it erased itself from the memories of all who consumed its knowledge. And if I had ever read it before, the memory hadn’t remained with me, either.

So of course I decided never to open it and make myself a fool; I’d stuck by that premise for a good many years. Now, though, troubled by my already fragmented memory, I considered it more carefully.

I’d perhaps misjudged the book’s gimmick. Maybe within its pages, instead of an amnesiac curse, was simply nothing of note. My ludicrous assumption remained unchallenged because I never bothered to challenge it.

‘Fine,’ I convinced myself. ‘I’ll just take a quick peek inside. That way I’ll know for certain.’ I flipped its brittle cover and, with an apprehensive breath, beheld its words: