memo from the library

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If you publish something, you want it read. You want to be influential.

There is so much published, and they all sought to be influential. Some lasted. Indeed, so much lasted, one might think that nearly everything that can be said about life, world, humanity, is said, waiting to be influential again, to be brought into another centripetal appreciation of legacies; or more, advancing what might last beyond our bones.

The Library is so large, so inestimably monumental. How could one plausibly dream of doing something lasting—more than self-possessedly idiosyncratic—not in light of the Library?

Otherwise, writing is ultimately: “See me in the world as worth your time just because I’m here. Give me stature, give me money for my entertaining.”

The chorus of Time smirks and turns away, back to its durability. “Read, fool. There’s no originality any longer that’s not aged in Us. Our serene Archive is all that matters on the forgetting Earth.”

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