Paragold (English Ver.)

Prologue

>> In the farthest corner of a library - and I would not be exaggerating if I claimed that the whole world is aware of that library's existence - a stack of books stood out among - far be it from me to overstate - tens of thousands of books.
Actually, the library consisted only of farthest corners, indeed it is difficult to describe. If you have ever had the honour - and only a few of us have - of entering this library, you should grow to understand my cryptic formulation. The pile of books I am referring to stands out for the simple reason - even if one were to stray into this far corner as an ignorant person - that these books were all written by the most famous author, whose name needs no further explanation.
Recently, someone had opened one of his books again.
Most unfortunately - and this is mentioned very frequently by the venerable librarian - these particular books were not only special in their content, but also particularly old. Because of this, it was unfortunately not uncommon for precious pages having gone into decay to fall victim to that very same phenomenon when they were opened and, maltreated, become no longer usable. It should be said, however, that it was not because of my efforts the library's world failed to learn about our book preservation methods. Architects have different duties there and even we cannot change that.
But still, much more important than the books' preservation is the written word, which of course has - you all know it anyway - long since been archived and copied hundreds of times for safekeeping in our own archives <<

- Peleggroz, author

Comment from an anonymous architect:

"I find it interesting at times how little our craft is actually appreciated outside of the authors' society. Everyone always talks about the authors, we on the other hand are often denied of any appreciation. Yet the dexterity and ingenuity of an architect in creating a book world are just asimportant as the creativity of an author. It has been my experience not too infrequently - and this is because very few people have had the opportunity to enter a work in which I participated - that people outside the authors' society are not even aware of our existence!
Whereas authors and common writers who compose ordinary, freely accessible books in addition to elaborate world books seem to be known to everyone.
I remember well the many times as I sat in my workshop, just once again workingon yet another mobile book shutter, the demand for which after their invention a good decade ago has been steadily increasing ever since, racking my brains over these things until I finally resigned myself to the relieving fact that, from a financial point of view, we architects have always shot  the bigger birds."

Note from a politician:

"What's the point of raising vast sums of money for architects, howevernoble, who cost a real damn pile of money,
when we have an author who can do it all on his own and doesn't even have to bepaid at all?"

___________________________________________

Within a not too conspicuous alley next to a popular shopping street, a door carrying the inscription "Samtelmoser Book Shop and Library" was unexpectedly pushed open. At this time of day, the owner, a somewhat elderly gentleman with thick forehead wrinkles, would normally not have expected any more customers in his shop, at least no customers who come to him with ordinary concerns. He, however, could not kick the young man out who had just let his old oak door fall back into the lock after he had prised it open, unworthy of its age, like an ordinaryshop door as he had just barely arrived still within the opening hours.

But he did not even want to that, for the person had by no means strayed into his shop for the sole reason that it had just started pouring heavily outside.
The librarian looked up from his reading, a thick tome he had been reading upto that point, and looked at the young man with narrowed eyes.
"G'evening" was the casual greeting the young man secreted indignantly as he leaned his umbrella against the wall beside the door. Thelibrarian squinted his eyes even wider, as if hoping to see him better in the sparse light of the overhead lamp.

He was already used to this sullen demeanour from him, many times he had stepped into his shop behaving in such manner. He very much disliked the way the young man stood there, bent forward and without tension in his body.
Not returning the rude greeting, he turned back to his reading with a sigh.
"If you want to go back to looking at the books in the archives, I won't stop you."
The young man nodded silently and then walked past the librarian to the backdoor. Suddenly he was grabbed on a shirt tail.

"Before you go, Oswald, at least tell me how your book is comingalong."
The man squinted over at him with a trace of bitterness in his gaze. Apparently, he also had Japanese features in his face.
"Bad."
"Mm... I see." After that, the librarian muttered something else the boy did not understand, it sounded Japanese, then the conversation was over.

In a far corner of the extensive archives, the young man found a stack of books that appealed to him, as the books in this stack had all been bound artistically and elaborately in a process that nowadays was only used for very special books, such as a unique copy of a classic for collectors. It was so elaborate and time-consuming and not every bookbinder could say that he had mastered this type of bookbinding.
But he had also drawn his attention to one peculiar title that appealed to him in a strange way and therefore that book was the one the young man pulled out of the pile. He blew the finger-thick dust off the cover and examined the illustration that had been engraved on the front of the book.

The image was abstract and difficult to describe. Rendered exclusively in yellow, orange and red tones, the geometric shapes and colour mixes could have represented a sunrise, but he was not so sure. When he opened the book, a few loose pagesfell out and slowly sank to the floor. This did not bother the young man nor did he feel that he had just damaged something very valuable. Secretly he even liked it when something like that happened.

Looking at the book for the first time, he immediately noticed that everything had been written down by hand. He flipped back to the first page, there the contents of the book were introduced with a few lines written in italics, the letters had been written slightly larger and separated from the rest of the text by a wide paragraph. The book was heavy in his hands, but he did not place it on a surface, remaining where he stood. Before he began to read, he devoutly brushed a few grains of dust off the page. Only then did the young man read the first sentences of the book:

"The island of which the story is told lay in the middle of a vast sea. It was not the only island there, but this sea was so incredibly vast that the other islands were simply very far away. If you stood on the island and looked at the horizon, you could only dimly make out those other islands. Though there was no fog or anything similar on the sea, the other islands simply were very far away. And now imagine that you are on the coast, on the coast of this island."

You had just read the sentences and your eyes were already jumping over the paragraph to the next line, when you realized in amazement that the letters, where before there had been a whole text, had all disappeared. Instead, you now looked at something you could not grasp or even describe. What you were now seeing in all your bewilderment was a hole that pierced the book up to the very last page. But you did not see through it, on the contrary, what you saw was an island with hills, trees and water around it, lying lonely and alone in the middle of a sea, just as the first paragraph had described. Then, a few seconds later, your eyes went black.

The librarian was jolted out of his half-sleep by the dull sound of a book hitting the floor. Instinctively he turned backwards, but then he realized what had happened. Calmly, he lit his Peterson pipe, which had been lying on the table in front of him next to his reading, and after taking a few short puffs, he stated:

"Mm; I suppose the boy has finally found the book. Took him long enough now."
Then he reached for the telephone - it had a strange peculiarity about it - and dialed.

The book remained on the floor.