There are five shelves for each of the hexagon's walls; each shelf contains thirty-five books of uniform format; each book is of four hundred and ten pages; each page, of forty lines, each line, of some eighty letters which are black in color. There are also letters on the spine of each book; these letters do not indicate or prefigure what the pages will say...

I wish to recall a few axioms.
First: The Library exists ab aeterno.
Second: The orthographical symbols are twenty-five in number.* This finding made it possible, three hundred years ago, to formulate a general theory of the Library and solve satisfactorily the problem which no conjecture had deciphered: the formless and chaotic nature of almost all the books.

*22 letters, the space, the commas and the period.

Jorge Luis Borges, The Library of Babel, "Labyrinths"

Reading requires a huge leap of faith, but I suppose not one any bigger than is demanded by going to sleep each night.

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After work you go to the grocery store to get some milk and a carton of cigarettes. Where did you get those bruises? You don't remember. Work was boring. You find a jar of bruise cream and a can of stewed tomatoes. Maybe a salad? Spinach, walnuts, blue cheese, apples, and you can't decide between the Extra Large or Jumbo black olives. Which is bigger anyway? Extra Large has a blue label, Jumbo has a purple label. Both cans cost $1.29. While you're deciding, the afternoon light is streaming through the windows behind the bank of checkout counters. Take the light inside you like a blessing, like a knee in the chest, holding onto it and not letting it go. Now let it go.

Richard Siken, "You Are Jeff (14)," Crush

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My idle dreams roam far,
To the southern land where spring is fragrant.
Wind and strings play on a boat on the river's clear surface,
The city is full of catkins flying like light dust.
People are occupied admiring the flowers.
My idle dreams roam far,
To the southern land where autumn is clear.
For a thousand li over rivers and hills cold colors stretch far,
Deep in flowering reeds, a solitary boat is moored.
Beneath the bright moon, a flute plays in the tower.

Li Yu, "My Idle Dreams Roam Far (Gazing at the South)"

I took a small path leading
up a hill valley, finding there
a temple, its gate covered
with moss, and in front of
the door but tracks of birds;
in the room of the old monk
no one was living, and I
staring through the window
saw but a hair duster hanging
on the wall, itself covered
with dust; emptily I sighed
thinking to go, but then
turning back several times,
seeing how the mist on
the hills was flying, and then
a light rain fell as if it
were flowers falling from
the sky, making a music of
its own; away in the distance
came the cry of a monkey, and
for me the cares of the world
slipped away, and I was filled
with the beauty around me.

Li Po, "Looking For a Monk and Not Finding Him"

The weather this week has been atypical for the season. Flip-flopping between hot, stuffy afternoons and torrential rainstorms in the evenings reminds me of springtime in Hong Kong, but autumn is never far behind a mid-sky crescent moon.

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"When we talk about the writer's country we are liable to forget that no matter what particular country it is, it is inside as well as outside him. Art requires a delicate adjustment of the outer and inner worlds in such a way that, without changing their nature, they can be seen through each other. To know oneself is to know one's region. It is also to know the world, and it is also, paradoxically, a form of exile from that world. The writer's value is lost, both to himself and to his country, as soon as he ceases to see that country as a part of himself, and to know oneself is, above all, to know what one lacks. It is to measure oneself against Truth, and not the other way around. The first product of self-knowledge is humility, and this is not a virtue conspicuous in any national character."

Flannery O'Connor, The Fiction Writer and His Country, "Mystery and Manners"

The other afternoon, a man came into the bookshop looking for some recommendations for contemporary American authors. My colleague admitted that she's never all that aware of a writer's nationality when she reads, whereas I feel that I have always been overly conscious of this detail. (Unfortunately, my recreational though involuntary obsession did nothing to aid me in fulfilling his request. I find my wanderlust continually punishable in these ways.) For me, where they are writing from and under what context (as a native, an exile, an expatriate, etc.) really shapes the narrative voice.

Take "Lolita" -- though brief, H.H.'s flashbacks spoke as much, if not more, to me about the growth of his character as did his commentary on the landscapes of mid-America. This could have been a little forced on my part due to the fact that I wanted a French* novel to accompany my Parisian jaunt (and by choosing Nabokov over Balzac or Flaubert I certainly had my work cut out for me). But as an American living in Paris, I was granted a certain privilege in being disclosed the thoughts of a Frenchman living la vie sauvage in my home country.

*A relatively loose and highly-debatable adjective.

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What are you building?
I want to dig a subterranean passage.
Some progress must be made.
My station up there is much too high.

We are digging the pit of Babel.

(Franz Kafka)

A remark I made yesterday concerning my disappointment in 21st-century skyscrapers (when buildings finally reach a height of two miles or more, opinions may change) was countered with the hope for an even greater achievement: a building two miles deep.

Frankly, I would prefer the natural light.

And so the process of creation begins.

The Pit of Babel

Es muß ein Fortschritt geschehen...
Wir graben den Schacht von Babel.

Some progress must be made...
We are digging the pit of Babel.
(Franz Kafka)

I am Katie Sharrow-Reabe and I am interested in structural and social architecture. Linguistic and cultural translation. Progress through retrospection. Subliminal and subterranean connections. And I would like you to help me put these fragments into a hole.

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