Engl II: "The Book of Sand"

Somewhat pedantically, I replied, “In this house are several English Bibles, including the first—John Wiclif’s. I also have Cipriano de Valera’s, Luther’s—which, from a literary viewpoint, is the worst—and a Latin copy of the Vulgate. As you see, it’s not exactly Bibles I stand in need of.”

After studying its frayed spine and covers with a magnifying glass, I rejected the possibility of a contrivance of any sort.

Still speaking in a low voice, the stranger said, “It can’t be, but it is. The number of pages in this book is no more or less than infinite. None is the first page, none the last. I don’t know why they’re numbered in this arbitrary way. Perhaps to suggest that the terms of an infinite series admit any number.”

“No. I’m offering it to you,” he said, and he stipulated a rather high sum for the book.

Dressed in gray and carrying a gray suitcase in his hand, he had an unassuming look about him.

He turned the leaves and studied the title page with all the fervor of a true bibliophile.

His speculations irritated me.

I assured him that he had nothing to reproach himself for, and I asked if he were just passing through this part of the world.

He was a tall man, with nondescript features—or perhaps it was my myopia that made them seem that way.

I felt that the book was a nightmarish object, an obscene thing that affronted and tainted reality itself.

A kind of gloom emanated from him—as it does now from me.

To the luck of owning it was added the fear of having it stolen, and then the misgiving that it might not truly be infinite.

These twin preoccupations intensified my old misanthropy.

Page by page, in vain, I looked for the illustration of the anchor.

I said to hide my dismay.

“I acquired the book in a town out on the plain in exchange for a handful of rupees and a Bible. Its owner did not know how to read. I suspect that he saw the Book of Books as a talisman. He was of the lowest caste; nobody but other untouchables could tread his shadow without contamination. He told me his book was called the Book of Sand, because neither the book nor the sand has any beginning or end.”

He was a tall man, with nondescript features—or perhaps it was my myopia that made them seem that way.

“I acquired the book in a town out on the plain in exchange for a handful of rupees and a Bible. Its owner did not know how to read. I suspect that he saw the Book of Books as a talisman. He was of the lowest caste; nobody but other untouchables could tread his shadow without contamination. He told me his book was called the Book of Sand, because neither the book nor the sand has any beginning or end.”

“You got this book for a handful of rupees and a copy of the Bible. I’ll offer you the amount of my pension check, which I’ve just collected, and my black-letter Wiclif Bible. I inherited it from my ancestors.”

To claim that it is true is nowadays the convention of every made-up story.

These twin preoccupations intensified my old misanthropy.

It amazed me that he did not haggle.

“I acquired the book in a town out on the plain in exchange for a handful of rupees and a Bible. Its owner did not know how to read. I suspect that he saw the Book of Books as a talisman. He was of the lowest caste; nobody but other untouchables could tread his shadow without contamination. He told me his book was called the Book of Sand, because neither the book nor the sand has any beginning or end.”

I felt that the book was a nightmarish object, an obscene thing that affronted and tainted reality itself.

He turned the leaves and studied the title page with all the fervor of a true bibliophile.