It was quiet in the tower, apart from the skritch-skritch-skritch of distant quill on parchment. Shelves wound upwards, reaching far above, filled with books. Books. Everywhere. Books. Of every size and hue. Books. Old books, new books.
I caught my breath, but not before a single syllable had passed my lips. "Wow."
"Impressive, isn't it?" the librarian smiled, seeing in me a kindred spirit.
"How many are there?"
She shrugged her shoulder. "I really don't know. It's impossible to tell. I did to try to count them once, but I gave up. Besides, the library does a better job of it that I ever could."
"I see." I ran a hand over the row of columns in the shelf closest to me, feeling ancient leather new cardboard stained packthread against my fingertips. My hand lighted on one book. Somehow it felt right to my touch. "May I?"
"Of course."
I took the book from its place on the shelf. The title on the cover was written in lurid text against a paisley background. The Epic Story I Thought Of While High But Forgot When I Woke Up. I opened a page at random and read. The prose was scatterbrained, scattershot and scatological. "That's ... ."
"Some things are better left forgotten," the librarian said.
"I don't know." I put the book back where it had come from. "It reminded me of something by Burroughs, when he was in his cut-up phase."
"Really?" The librarian narrowed her eyes and peered at me over the top of her glasses. "We do have some of Burroughs' lost manuscripts here."
"Of course."
"Would you like to see them?" She gestured toward the lofty upper reaches of the tower.
"Maybe later." I looked at the shelves of books spiralling forever upward. Then a thought occurred. "How about the books I never wrote?"
"Let's see."
I followed the librarian, careful not to tread on her gown trailing behind her. She made her way to a wooden lectern bossed with carved owls, on which lay a great, leather-bound ledger. As we drew closer to the lectern, the faint scratching the pervaded the tower grew louder. The librarian opened the massive book, releasing the smell of paper foxed with age and still-wet ink.
"You're a short story writer?"
I nodded. "Never had the inclination to be a novelist."
She tutted. "Really?" The tilt of her head and the glint in her eye spoke of her disbelief. "We have a whole annex devoted to you and your friends. Shall we take a look?"
