Reader Four
With best regards to Nancy, Homerist
To talk across centuries
all you need is
an old book
with annotations.
This edition of Homer’s Odyssey
had notes by three readers,
distinguished by
the ink, the boldness of the strokes, and the handwriting.
Reader Two responded to One,
and Three to One and Two,
doubling or tripling the underlining,
adding a question mark,
commenting on comments,
offering new thoughts
or taking issue,
sometimes words spilling over
to the next page and the next.
The new owner of this book stared in awe,
Then turned the pages with carefully.
The print conveyed the Greek text of The Odyssey
as it was known in the days of Champollion.
Overlaid were the quill markings of Reader One
the fountain pen of Reader Two,
and the blue ballpoint pen of Three.
From their erudition and precision, they were all scholars.
They corrected typos in the printed text
and instances where the first in a series of editors
misconstrued the handwriting he was working from,
or scribes may have miscopied manuscripts.
Sometimes they suspected the first written version,
strayed from the intent of the bards,
who we call Homer,
who reshaped earlier tellings
and still older legends —
layer upon layer of narrative,
transgenerational dialogue,
giving rise to this printed text
and the handwritten reactions of three readers.
This book was a miracle of time travel,
spanning two thousand,
maybe three thousand years,
and requiring only ink to make it so.
In the handwriting of the commentators,
holograph on top of holograph,
it conveyed not just their words and emphasis,
but also their styles
and sometimes their emotion
at a moment of puzzlement
or in the joy of discovery,
finding unexpected meaning and consequence.
These readers were not just scholars.
They were teachers as well,
reviewing this text repeatedly
over the course their careers.
And Two and Three,
instead of marking the pages of newly printed editions,
chose to write beside
those who came before them,
who died before they were born,
whose views they sometimes revered
and sometimes differed with,
who were sometimes wordy
and sometimes left little space for further comment.
Reader Two wrote carefully, respecting the writings of One
and not wanting to spoil them.
Reader Three, with little room to work in,
was more concise,
no doubt in awe of this book as artifact, not just text,
made with quality paper,
before the invention of pulp
that in a single generation could crumble to dust.
Having found this gem in a secondhand shop in Cambridge,
the new owner thought he should donate it to a rare book library
that would recognize its worth and preserve it in its present state
for generations to come.
No.
He couldn’t.
He mustn’t.
Rather he should become Reader Four,
adding his strokes,
distinct and yet in harmony
with those who came before.
He chose a pen with green ink,
and when the ink ran out,
he used new ones with the same shade of green.
After a lifetime of teaching Homer,
in his will,
he left the book to a student
who, in turn, was teaching Homer.
He recommended his successor use purple ink.
Red would be too bold and self-assertive,
implying previous notes were flawed
and that this was the ultimate pedantic correction.
There was no absolute truth,
rather a dialogue.
He willed that it go on for another generation,
knowing that it could not last forever,
because books too are mortal,
as are planets
and galaxies.