How to Read an Authorless Text
A short story
The church’s library was relegated to a nook in the ossuary. Ansel thought the location reflected a view that books were things to be saved, not read. The shelves of books and scrolls were dry and clean, though, which was all he cared about.
He was sitting at a rough, planked table, surrounded by carelessly piled tibias, concentrating on an open book in front of him. It was a copy of a text he had read many times before. Even so, he studied every page, reading softly to himself, stopping only to make notes in a small, leatherbound book of his own. After finishing the text, he replaced it on the shelf, rubbed his hands together for warmth, and then placed another book on the table.
Finally, as the light faded and the cold grew more penetrating, he returned the last book and sat back, spent. The scrolls would have to wait. After resting for a few minutes, he walked up the half-flight of stairs to the stone church.
He was staying as a guest in the pastor’s house, just down the path, and the man had supper waiting for him. They had only met that morning, and the pastor talked of small things while Ansel ate. After he finished, the man poured two glasses of brandy, and asked him directly about his visit. Ansel was eager for bed, but the warmth of the room was pleasant after the cold library, so he remained to talk.
“It will sound strange,” he said. “But I am trying to find an authorless text.”
The pastor smiled. “That shouldn’t be difficult. Don’t many books have anonymous authors?”
“I don’t mean an unknown author. I mean no author at all. A text that has always existed, that was not composed by any human mind.”
The pastor frowned. “A text authored by God? But, isn’t he the ultimate author of everything in any case?”
Ansel shook his head. “I mean a text with no author whatsoever, not even God.”
The pastor’s frown deepened. “But, how would that be possible? It sounds like a heathen idea. And you are from the Synod — how could you even consider this?”
Ansel continued, “The idea did indeed come from the east, but it has sparked interest in a faction in the Synod. It would provide the moral and metaphysical answers we desperately need, without having to posit a God that started it all.”
“And you think this heretical text is in my library?”
“No, but you have some well-preserved manuscripts. By comparing many different versions, copied over hundreds of years, we hope to sift out the errors and reconstruct the true texts. And perhaps find one that is authorless.”
The pastor thought for a moment. “But, how will that prove anything? You could do the same with any book, even ones you know were written by men.”
“We are not yet sure — we will compile the differences among the manuscripts. Then we will see.”
“Well. The Synod contains many fine minds, I’m sure.”
Tired of arguing, the men turned the conversation to more mundane topics, and soon Ansel excused himself and went off to bed.
The following morning, after a scant breakfast, he reentered the ossuary, and started the long task of reading through the scrolls. Most were smudged with age or written in a difficult hand, increasing the strain and tedium of the task. By noon, however, he was done, and tiredly packed up his results.
His cart was standing outside of the church, the driver inside talking with the pastor. Ansel joined them for a brief lunch, and, after thanking the pastor for his hospitality, he and the driver departed. They were heading for another library in a town some distance away.
The sky was grey, and Ansel’s spirits were low as the cart wobbled on the rutted path behind the lumbering ox. The driver was a taciturn old man, and he and Ansel had long ago run out of anything to say to each other. Ansel’s thoughts turned to his conversation with the pastor the night before.
The man was right, of course. He could see no way in which he or anyone else could determine if a text was truly authorless. Constructing more accurate versions of their sacred books was worthwhile in its own right, but even if he created a inerrant text, ruling out some long-ago human as an author, let alone God, seemed impossible.
One either believed, or not, he thought glumly, and he found that he did not. When the first missionaries from the east had arrived with their scriptures and new ideas, he, like so many others in the Synod, had been terribly excited. An authorless text that provided meaning to life would be a wonderful thing. The idea that his own tradition’s texts could be eternal had caught his imagination. But, after two years of traveling and reading, it seemed all too obvious that the texts he read were the creations of men.
After an hour, it started to rain. The track became muddy, and their progress slowed. It was clear that they would not make it to the town by dark. They had passed a number of farms, and soon came upon another. It was nothing more than a field of barley, walled by rocks, some animal sheds, and a stone and turf farmhouse. It was a far cry from an inn, or even the cold guesthouse of a country parish, but it was better than staying out in the dark and wet.
They turned off the track, through a break in the wall, and along a path to the farmhouse. As they approached, the farmer emerged from behind one of the outbuildings. The driver climbed down. “The gentleman and I are caught in the storm. We are looking for a place for the night.”
The farmer was a young man with a mess of blond hair and a roughly trimmed beard. “It’s poor planning to be out so late. But he can have a room in the house, and you can stay in the barn with your puller.” To Ansel he said, “This way, sir.”
Ansel grabbed his bag, clambered from the cart, and followed the farmer into the house. It was a peasant home, with small windows, and few rooms. It was humble, but the glass panes in the windows, along with the wooden floor and iron stove, suggested a certain degree of prosperity.
“This way,” the man said again, beckoning Ansel into the bedroom. It was the man’s own room, Ansel was sure, containing a simple bed and a chest, certainly made by the farmer himself. “You rest, sir.” The man departed, leaving Ansel alone in the silent house.
He rested and warmed himself by the stove in the main room, where a pot of stew was simmering. After a time, the farmer, his wife and the driver entered, talking of animals and bad weather. The farmer lit a lantern, and his wife stoked the fire to bring the pot to a boil. Soon, they all set down to a meal of stew, brown bread, cheese, and mugs of ale.
The farmer and his wife were hospitable, and seemed content to share their food and even give up their bed. They were too polite to ask about Ansel’s business, but happy to talk about crops, animals, and the news of the surrounding area. Ansel inquired about the state of the village.
“We are doing well enough,” the farmer replied. “The weather’s been good for ploughing, and we’ll be planting in a few weeks. Last year’s crop was good. We’ll be desalting the north field this year, and the manor has said we might keep a quarter of the salt.”
“Desalting?”
“Yes, the field is too salty to grow anything. But I tried desalting a small patch last year, and the barley grew there just fine. I told the manor, and they said we might as well try with the rest. We’ll get a new field, and some salt.”
“How do you desalt a field?” Ansel asked, mildly interested.
“We flood it with water diverted from the creek, let it soak in, and then sluice it out. Most of the water goes back in the creek, but we collect what we can and let it dry in the sun, leaving the salt behind.”
“That’s clever — who taught you that?”
“It’s common knowledge, sir. Salt goes into water, and you get it back if you let the water sit.”
Knowing the candle was precious and his hosts early risers, Ansel finished his meal quickly. All went off to bed.
The next morning, after a simple breakfast prepared by the farmer’s wife, Ansel found the driver by the barn. He climbed into the cart, and they departed just as the sun was peaking over the horizon.
It promised to be a beautiful spring day, cold but with the promise of coming warmth. There was a mist over the creek and frost on the grass, the sound of swallows in the air. Ansel could see the villagers in the fields. He wondered about the salty field, and if the young farmer would successfully rehabilitate it.
As he continued to look around him, Ansel could feel his mood start to rise. It dawned on him that he might be going about things all wrong. He suddenly realized that there was an unauthored text, but that he had been looking for it in the wrong place. The scriptures in the libraries were authored by men. His own work showed this. But the world was not. People were part of it, but they did not create it. The peasants who knew when to plough the fields, when to plant, how to work and desalt the soil — they knew these things by reading the world itself.
As he continued to gaze at the fields and woods that surrounded him, he perceived that he too was reading this authorless world. Everyone was reading it, just by being alive. This awareness created a spark of joy within him. The expanding awareness turned and folded, an unauthored text, reading itself.
