"Paul Di Filippo - The Reluctant Book" - читать интересную книгу автора (Di Filippo Paul)

The Reluctant Book
a short story by Paul Di Filippo

There followed hard upon the death of Master Biobiblioplexist Vincent
Holbrook the pressing question of how best to dispose of his extensive
library. None of the unsentimental heirs to the moldering Holbrook
estate
cared to assume the daily demands of such a large collection of books.
The
motley assortment of assignees--amongst them various second cousins,
great-nephews, and assorted ex-brothers-in-law left over from the
multiple
marriages of Holbrook's two serially promiscuous sisters, Marlys and
Taffy--were all a decidedly illiterate lot. No one was inclined to
assume
responsibility for even a limited number of the approximately five
hundred
volumes left forlorn at librarian Holbrook's passing, for the selfish
heirs simply had no use for such arcane objects. (Complicating matters,
the Catalogue had gone missing upon Holbrook's demise, so that an exact
tally of the library's contents was lacking.)
A lanky, happily seedy and reclusive fellow well into his second
century
(although fated by a lurking cerebral aneurysm undiagnosed by his
glitchy
domestic homeobox never to embark upon a third), given to dressing in
fusty non-regenerative clothing prone to showcasing every gravy stain
and
every dribble of the pungent sengchaw constantly lumped into his cheek,
Holbrook had been devoted to his library, sparing no expense on housing
and maintaining his collection. His own living conditions at the
cavernous, crumbling mansion named Rueulroald betrayed commensurate
economies. But Holbrook's bookbarn was assuredly first class, the envy
of
many of his fellow MBs.
Occasional sotto voce grumbles from his uncaring heirs during his
lifetime
about how the old man was wasting his money--actually, for all
practical
purposes, their money--on such a self-indulgent hobby failed to disturb
the equanimity or enthusiasm of the doddering bibliophile. He managed
to
ignore even the ravings of one particularly vindictive niece who, in an
act of psychic displacement transparent to everyone but herself,
speculated loudly that Holbrook actually derived pleasure from the
frustration of his nearest and dearest. Why else would he wantonly
continue to pour their dwindling inheritance into the acquisition of
new
volumes and the multiplication of his existing ones?
The why was simple, had anyone cared to inquire: Holbrook fancied