cellar allowed him to wonder for a moment if two of his senses had overpowered the other three. Holding The Book and knowing any story was a double-tap away had been one thing, but seeing them lining the space all around him - a new romantic fascination came over Holden.
In the silence, he noticed, from the sound of his own breathing, that his jaw had slackened, leaving his mouth open and vulnerable. Holden forced himself to abandon his shock for the moment, in fear that Winston would come to the stairs and see him standing there dumbstruck, and unloaded his box of sprinkler heads and tools. He stumbled into the nest of illegal paper and reached for the step ladder Winston had placed at the center of two aisles, no doubt to reach the top tier of shelving, and positioned himself below a pageantry of pipes to begin his fictitious renovations.
Over the course of the next seventy-two seconds, Holden breathed very evenly and allowed his eyes to soundlessly navigate the lines of the nearest shelving unit. He was simply amazed at the number of book spines and how the sheer volume of names embossed upon them with sparkling gold ink had chipped to leave a shadow of authors behind. He hadn’t come that morning expecting so much bewilderment. The reason he eventually rested on was the thickness. He had seen only a few books in his life and had never imagined the disturbing thickness of multiple books beside one another. So much information squeezed together in a printed form and yet, so little information taking up so much space. His digitized viewpoint was designed in the web of the internet and the green arms of The Book, where entire encyclopedias of knowledge took up less space than a pair of shoes. And yet, he instantly understood the man’s willingness to break so many laws and risk sacrificing his future for such tender obsession. Each one of those books had pages upon pages of shadowed text that, even at that very moment, were sitting stagnant, yearning to be flipped through. Among its dusty volumes, Holden could lock himself away and lose his life with a tome in hand. It was a dream he never knew he had.
A sprinkler head came free of its threading and fell to the ground, waking him swiftly from a dazed sleep. Holden had been unscrewing it, unaware. He stepped down from the ladder and reached for the fallen metal sprocket, but once down there, so near the closest shelf, he felt a duality of strength and sadness take over him and he dropped to his knees. The space around Holden seemed to pulse with an overwhelming power. It was as if the books were alive. And yet, there was a heartbreaking sensation lingering in the dust that reminded Holden of a job he had done a few years back at a small assisted living facility downtown. The two spaces shared the same air, and he knew why. It was the dissonant melody of life ending. Life that was barely holding on in a world that had forsaken it and moved on to something it believed was better.
Holden reached for the closest shelf and caressed the book nearest him. He felt the grain of the linen cover and memorized the sporadic stripes of black and white along the bead of binding, with a sympathetic spirit of guilt. In his jacket was The Book with all its gadgetry and perfection, the device he adored above all others. The Book suddenly seemed so arrogant. With the patience of an art connoisseur, he admired the novel in its entirety, memorizing the finest details, until he moved on to other books nearby. Holden felt a surge of excitement as he saw so many names beginning with the same letter. The shelves were in alphabetical order. His eyes scanned the walls until he discovered that in the shadowed corner, where a reading nook had been built with a small desk, couch and reading light, all grounded with a finely woven rug, was where he would find the letter he needed.
The step ladder folded effortlessly and Holden held an ear out for Winston. He remembered how easy it had been, when
In the silence, he noticed, from the sound of his own breathing, that his jaw had slackened, leaving his mouth open and vulnerable. Holden forced himself to abandon his shock for the moment, in fear that Winston would come to the stairs and see him standing there dumbstruck, and unloaded his box of sprinkler heads and tools. He stumbled into the nest of illegal paper and reached for the step ladder Winston had placed at the center of two aisles, no doubt to reach the top tier of shelving, and positioned himself below a pageantry of pipes to begin his fictitious renovations.
Over the course of the next seventy-two seconds, Holden breathed very evenly and allowed his eyes to soundlessly navigate the lines of the nearest shelving unit. He was simply amazed at the number of book spines and how the sheer volume of names embossed upon them with sparkling gold ink had chipped to leave a shadow of authors behind. He hadn’t come that morning expecting so much bewilderment. The reason he eventually rested on was the thickness. He had seen only a few books in his life and had never imagined the disturbing thickness of multiple books beside one another. So much information squeezed together in a printed form and yet, so little information taking up so much space. His digitized viewpoint was designed in the web of the internet and the green arms of The Book, where entire encyclopedias of knowledge took up less space than a pair of shoes. And yet, he instantly understood the man’s willingness to break so many laws and risk sacrificing his future for such tender obsession. Each one of those books had pages upon pages of shadowed text that, even at that very moment, were sitting stagnant, yearning to be flipped through. Among its dusty volumes, Holden could lock himself away and lose his life with a tome in hand. It was a dream he never knew he had.
A sprinkler head came free of its threading and fell to the ground, waking him swiftly from a dazed sleep. Holden had been unscrewing it, unaware. He stepped down from the ladder and reached for the fallen metal sprocket, but once down there, so near the closest shelf, he felt a duality of strength and sadness take over him and he dropped to his knees. The space around Holden seemed to pulse with an overwhelming power. It was as if the books were alive. And yet, there was a heartbreaking sensation lingering in the dust that reminded Holden of a job he had done a few years back at a small assisted living facility downtown. The two spaces shared the same air, and he knew why. It was the dissonant melody of life ending. Life that was barely holding on in a world that had forsaken it and moved on to something it believed was better.
Holden reached for the closest shelf and caressed the book nearest him. He felt the grain of the linen cover and memorized the sporadic stripes of black and white along the bead of binding, with a sympathetic spirit of guilt. In his jacket was The Book with all its gadgetry and perfection, the device he adored above all others. The Book suddenly seemed so arrogant. With the patience of an art connoisseur, he admired the novel in its entirety, memorizing the finest details, until he moved on to other books nearby. Holden felt a surge of excitement as he saw so many names beginning with the same letter. The shelves were in alphabetical order. His eyes scanned the walls until he discovered that in the shadowed corner, where a reading nook had been built with a small desk, couch and reading light, all grounded with a finely woven rug, was where he would find the letter he needed.
The step ladder folded effortlessly and Holden held an ear out for Winston. He remembered how easy it had been, when
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