Sons of the Book

W. dreams of the book both of us would write. The book under our names - not a book about a book, but a book. On its own two feet: a book. A book! And not a book about books! That's what we want, isn't it: to write a book that is greater than us, better than us? That will dismiss us as soon as it is written. A book that exists all by itself, with no need for us, that's what we want. A book that slams the door in our faces. A book that dismisses us, which says: go away! I'm too busy!

A book, and not a book about books, we agree. Not a commentary-book or an introductory-book, but a book that exists unto itself, that gave birth to itself from nothing and hangs there in the void. A book that does not need us. There it goes, we'll say, our Frankenstein's monster of a book. There it wanders, across the ice, sufficient unto itself, cleverer than us and better than us, the book that surpasses us in everything.

To make something we could not make. To write beyond our abilities. A book, and not a book about books: the book, on its own two legs, and running through the forest like Baba Yaga's hut. A book that made itself. A book that is not a fabrication, but something real. The book granted Pinocchio's wish to be a real thing. A living book, a living flame, a star which consumes only itself.

And who will we be, cast into the outer darkness by its glory? Who will we be, measured by our book? Ah, the book will not want us. It will lie in our hands, closed and inert. It sit on our bookshelves, dreaming its own dream. It will come, twenty-four copies of it in a big box, our free publisher's copies; it will come, ready to post out to our friends, to send out to the world … but the book will already be elsewhere. The book will already be having adventures of its own. The book will have already left us behind …

An, but it would redeem our lives, wouldn't it, our book, our son? It would justify our lives and redeem them, the swordstroke of the book. We will be the sons of our book, we tell ourselves. We will be fathers of our book, which will give birth to us as to its sons, that's what we dream of. That our book will give birth to us as it dismisses us, and sends us away, dreaming of what – somehow – we had done; dreaming, stunned, of what wrought itself from the mediocrity of our lives.