Showing posts with label metaphor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label metaphor. Show all posts
01 July 2012
The Clockyard - Abney Park
There was a young boy, in a clockyard,
Building himself from the pieces he found
Screwing on what's been left on the ground
Hoping to finish enough, one day, to leave
The years flew by, and some gears fell off -
Fears and rust and tears he doffed
And bravely searched, while parts he scoffed,
But soon he found -
There was a young man, in a clockyard,
Building himself from the pieces he found
Screwing on what's been left on the ground
Hoping to finish enough, one day, to leave
The years flew by, and some gears fell off -
Fears and rust and tears he doffed
And bravely searched, while parts he scoffed,
Until he found -
There was a grown man, in a clockyard -
Building himself from the pieces he found
Screwing on what's been left on the ground
Hoping to finish enough one day to lead
He thought to himself, "If I wait too long
To find the pieces I need, then my chance might be gone
What I need might be outside the gate
But I will never know, if I continue to wait."
And then he had a dream:
An old man cried in a clock yard,
Giving up on the scrap that he found on the ground,
"I can't build myself from this scrap all around!"
The man woke up and said, "I must leave."
17 June 2012
Balance Slays the Demon - Poets of the Fall
Deep in the ocean of darkness, in the mirror of light, balance becomes a stranger... and in your fantasies, he rides a storm on your peace. Beyond the shadows he settled for more. There is a miracle illuminated.
Deep in the ocean of darkness, in the mirror of light, balance becomes a stranger
And in your fantasies, he rides a storm on your peace - wake up and smell the danger
Ever the light casts a shadow, ever the night springs from the light
In the end, it's never just the light you need,
When balance slays the demon, you'll find peace,
In the end, it's never just the dark you seek,
When balance slays the demon, you'll find peace,
Find the peace
Beyond the lake he called home, lies a deeper darker ocean green.
Like an evil twin, feel it scratching within,
Like an insane sovereign ranger,
And his beautiful face with his leathery lace,
So can't you see the play he's staging?
Ever the light casts a shadow, ever the night springs from the light
In the end, it's never just the light you need,
When balance slays the demon, you'll find peace,
In the end, it's never just the dark you seek,
When balance slays the demon, you'll find peace,
Find the peace
yranidrO dellac ,nwot rehtona ni ,niaga neppah lliw tI
In the end, it's never just the light you need,
When balance slays the demon, you'll find peace,
In the end, it's never just the dark you seek,
When balance slays the demon, you'll find peace,
Find the peace
Screaming, new darkness descends on this frail frame, I drown in fathomless black space. Will I never scratch the depths of this domain? I see not, yet nothing could be worse then the shades my mind calls herein, alone, in my own Wake the unravelling of reasons schemed.
19 February 2012
Dandelions - Five Iron Frenzy
In a field of yellow flowers, underneath the sun
Bluest eyes that spark with lightning - boy, with shoes undone
He is young, so full of hope, revelling in tiny dreams
Filling up his arms with flowers, right for giving any queen!
Running to her, beaming bright while cradling his prize
A flickering of yellow light within his mother's eyes -
She holds them to her heart, keeping them where they'll be safe
Clasped within her very marrow, dandelions in a vase!
She sees love where anyone else would see weeds
All hope is found; here is everything he needs!
Fathomless, Your endless mercy; weight I could not lift...
Where do I fit in this puzzle? What good are these gifts?
Not a martyr or a saint, scarcely can I struggle through -
All that I have ever wanted was to give my best to You!
Lord, search my heart! Create in me something clean
Dandelions - You see flowers in these weeds!
Gently lifting hands to heaven, softened by the sweetest hush
A Father sings over His children, loving them so very much
More than words could warrant, deeper than the darkest blue
More than sacrifice could merit - Lord, I give my heart to You!
Lord, search my heart! Create in me something clean
Dandelions - You see flowers in these weeds
12 February 2012
What Good This Deafness? - Trans-Siberian Orchestra
It's a pretty pathetic state of affairs when I can't even be bothered to post a song to think about in a week.
[From the shadows a beautiful spirit, Fate, and her deformed dwarf son, Twist, emerge to inform Beethoven of what he has already deeply suspected, that this is to be his last night on earth. They are accompanied by numerous spirits and ghosts from his past.]
[With each successive crack of lightning the spirits move closer and eventually Beethoven finds their distraction unbearable.]
Beethoven:
What good this deafness, when my whole life I have dread?
What good this deafness, with these voices in my head?
What good this deafness, when this prattle I must hear?
If I were blind, I'm sure they wouldn't disappear!
Twist:
Do you really want to believe what you're saying?
Do you really want to be here alone?
Have I interrupted a moment of praying?
While your life's decaying -
Your sins, are they weighing?
While you've been carving your stone...
All on your own?
Do you really want to sit here in silence?
Could it be that brooding is... part of your art?
Is it an extension of artistic license?
A moving defiance,
Of all of life's tyrants!
While you've been searching your heart...
...Alone? :)
...With us. :D
...In the dark! 8D
[Beethoven implores the spirits to leave him alone, but Twist tells him that as shadows they only exist by the light that Beethoven's life has cast and as that light is fading, it is only natural that they should cling to its last moments of illumination. As the clock strikes midnight their conversation is suddenly interrupted by the appearance of Mephistopheles. His presence causes all the other spirits to shrink silently back to the corners of the room...]
[From the shadows a beautiful spirit, Fate, and her deformed dwarf son, Twist, emerge to inform Beethoven of what he has already deeply suspected, that this is to be his last night on earth. They are accompanied by numerous spirits and ghosts from his past.]
[With each successive crack of lightning the spirits move closer and eventually Beethoven finds their distraction unbearable.]
Beethoven:
What good this deafness, when my whole life I have dread?
What good this deafness, with these voices in my head?
What good this deafness, when this prattle I must hear?
If I were blind, I'm sure they wouldn't disappear!
Twist:
Do you really want to believe what you're saying?
Do you really want to be here alone?
Have I interrupted a moment of praying?
While your life's decaying -
Your sins, are they weighing?
While you've been carving your stone...
All on your own?
Do you really want to sit here in silence?
Could it be that brooding is... part of your art?
Is it an extension of artistic license?
A moving defiance,
Of all of life's tyrants!
While you've been searching your heart...
...Alone? :)
...With us. :D
...In the dark! 8D
[Beethoven implores the spirits to leave him alone, but Twist tells him that as shadows they only exist by the light that Beethoven's life has cast and as that light is fading, it is only natural that they should cling to its last moments of illumination. As the clock strikes midnight their conversation is suddenly interrupted by the appearance of Mephistopheles. His presence causes all the other spirits to shrink silently back to the corners of the room...]
08 January 2012
The Storm - Blackmore's Night
A timeless and forgotten place,
The moon and sun in endless chase;
Each in quiet surrender, while the other reigns the sky...
The midnight hour begins to laugh -
A summer evening's epitaph -
The winds are getting crazy, as the storm begins to rise...
...
Wild were the winds that came,
In the thunder and the rain!
Nothing ever could contain the rising of the storm!
In the wings of ebony,
Darkened waves fill the trees
Wild winds of warning echo through the air!
Follow the storm, now, I've got to get out of here
Follow the storm, as you take to the sky
Follow the storm, now, it's all so crystal-clear
Follow the storm, as the storm begins to rise
It seems to come from everywhere -
Welcome to the Dragon's Lair!
Fingers running through your hair, she asks you out to play!
For all of Nature's sorcery,
The most bewitching entity -
Heaven hath no fury like the rising of the storm!
Follow the storm, now, I've got to get out of here
Follow the storm, as you take to the sky
Follow the storm, now, it's all so crystal-clear
Follow the storm, as the storm begins to rise
01 January 2012
Meet the New Year!
...same as the Old Year!
I want to start taking advantage of the fact that there is more than one day per week. Sunday will be a day for sharing music, and possibly other art, that I find worthy of reflection. This category will be denoted with the tag "Selah".
I want to start taking advantage of the fact that there is more than one day per week. Sunday will be a day for sharing music, and possibly other art, that I find worthy of reflection. This category will be denoted with the tag "Selah".
Poets of the Fall - War
Do you remember standing on a broken field,
White crippled wings beating the sky?
The harbingers of war, with their nature revealed,
And our chances flowing by
If I can let the memory heal,
I will remember you with me on that field...
When I thought that I fought this war alone,
You were there by my side, on the frontline
When I thought that I fought without a cause,
You gave me a reason to try
Turn the page - I need to see something new -
For now, my innocence is torn
We cannot linger on this stunted view,
Like rabid dogs of war
I will let the memory heal
I will remember you with me on that field
When I thought that I fought this war alone,
You were there by my side, on the frontline
And we fought to believe the impossible!
When I thought that I fought this war alone,
We were one with our destinies entwined!
When I thought that I fought without a cause,
You gave me the reason why!
With no-one wearing their real face,
It's a whiteout of emotion,
And I've only got my brittle bones to break the fall
When the love in letters fade,
It's like moving in slow motion
And we're already too late if we arrive at all
And then we're caught up in the arms race -
An involuntary addiction -
And we're shedding every value our mothers taught
So will you please show me your real face,
Draw the line in the horizon?
'Cause I only need your name to call the reasons why I fought...
When I thought that I fought this war alone,
You were there by my side, on the frontline
And we fought to believe the impossible!
When I thought that I fought this war alone,
We were one with our destinies entwined!
When I thought that I fought without a cause,
You gave me the reason why!
13 February 2010
Socrates meets Malacoda
Inspired by Peter Kreeft's Socrates Meets... series, and Dante's Inferno.
-----
[Setting: A nondescript beach sloping down to the ocean on the right and steeply rising into a high row of rocks on the right. Between them, unhurriedly, paces Socrates, head in the clouds and lost in thought, wandering in no particular direction other than simply down the beach. In front of him and on top of an especially flat part of the rock wall crouches Malacoda, watching and smirking fiendishly. Socrates sees him, appears puzzled, and speaks.]
Socrates: Good day, sir. Where are we… and who are you?
Malacoda: That first is complicated. As for the second, you may call me Malacoda.
Socrates: That is your name?
Malacoda: Indeed.
Socrates: But who are you? That does not actually answer my question.
Malacoda: Hmm. I am generally considered a demon, but not in the way that you understand the term. Consider me one of a number of gods of the afterlife, if you would. A devil.
Socrates: Ah. So I am, in fact, dead, then. I had wondered. This place is part of the afterlife, then?
Malacoda: Quite true. In fact it is the entirety of the afterlife, and a bit more besides.
Socrates: I’m sorry? Could you possibly elaborate?
Malacoda: Certainly. This land, from the shore of the Dirac Sea beside you to infinity behind me is the space where things are kept that do not exist. It is the home of the library of unwritten books, it is where we keep Theseus’ ship now that he has replaced every plank, it is where we hide the square root of infinity, and it is where [picks up a candlestick and ignites it with his breath] the flame of a candle goes after it has been blown out. Some call it Tumbolia, some call it Super-Sargasso Space, but properly it is known as Potentia. Naturally, now that you have ceased to exist, you have arrived here.
Socrates: You have said something very interesting to me. It is my understanding that at death, the body and soul are separated and each goes its separate way. Am I correct so far?
Malacoda: Yesss…
Socrates: And the body slowly returns to the material world.
Malacoda: Yes.
Socrates: Now, it is my understanding that the soul, the essential I, moves onto the spiritual world. But you have just said that I cease to exist and therefore comes here.
Malacoda: You have said it, Socrates.
Socrates: I find there is a rather stark difference between these two statements.
Malacoda: Not really. Since this spiritual world of yours does not exist, either, your essential “you” does in fact go there – it is part of Potentia.
Socrates: I think you’re lying.
Malacoda: That’s possible. We devils do so frequently. Wherein lies the falsehood?
Socrates: If nothing here exists, then what of yourself?
Malacoda: Oh, I do not exist either. I was dreamed up by Dante Alighieri. I am a construct of his mind alone, I never have been real, and I never will be. Thus, I have been made responsible for supervising Potentia on Hell’s behalf.
Socrates: Literary characters are here, too?
Malacoda: Didn’t you know? You yourself are a character of Plato’s invention and have no proper existence either.
Socrates: Don’t be absurd. Of course I exist.
Malacoda: Yes, you exist in Potentia.
Socrates: Very funny. You give this place a sort of twisted sense but it so flagrantly violates basic logic it’s impossible to believe you.
Malacoda: I suppose you cannot really think through the entire thing clearly yet. What can I do to prove it to you?
Socrates: You are going to try to prove empirically that our current location is not empirical?
Malacoda: Very sensible for such a place, isn’t it?
Socrates: Not if the place itself is not very sensible.
Creon: That is the point, I think.
Socrates: Who are you?
Malacoda: My empirical evidence; allow me to present the fictitious Creon of Thebes.
Socrates: Where did you come from? How do you know what we are talking about?
Malacoda: Has he not been here all along?
Socrates: No!
Malacoda: Precisely.
Creon: I have to agree with Socrates.
Malacoda: What?
Creon: You’ve been talking solely about terms so far. That is fine as far as logic goes, but as you both have come close to pointing out, logic is not very practical for talking about inherently self-contradictory things. Well, as far as empirical evidence goes, I can tell that I am currently standing on this beach, and therefore both the beach and I exist.
Malacoda: But I can provide any number of objects that do not exist or cannot possibly exist. Would you like to see an anti-knot?
Creon: I could not say. What is it?
Malacoda: If you tie a knot in a rope, the anti-knot is the knot you'd tie to cancel out all the twists of the first without actually untying it - and, since neither of them exists after they cancel each other out, they end up here. Alternatively, look at this rope with three ends, or this seven-sided cube.
Creon: This is irrelevant. I’m holding it right now. As far as I’m concerned, it must exist and you’re just wrong about it being impossible.
Socrates: I don’t suppose I could trouble you with a few questions?
Malacoda: Oh, not at all. Be my guest.
Socrates: All right. Could I confirm something with you first? I just want to be sure that when I am speaking to you I am speaking.
Malacoda: …what?
Socrates: I am making statements, yes?
Malacoda: That seems to be trivially, even tautologically, the case.
Socrates: And these statements, they are meaningful?
Malacoda: I suppose. Although not very.
Socrates: But they do, in fact, possess meaning.
Malacoda: I am responding to you, am I not?
Socrates: Is that a yes or a no? If you do not exist then some would say you cannot respond.
Malacoda: Clever! But no, I may not exist, but my responses do.
Socrates: How is that possible?
Malacoda: Because someone who exists is recording them.
Socrates: …Oh. Well then, this place Potentia. It is where things are kept that do not exist?
Malacoda: Indeed.
Socrates: And only things that do not exist?
Malacoda: …yes…
Socrates: Do some things exist?
Malacoda: Excellent question. I shall not say.
Socrates: Well. Does Potentia exist?
Malacoda: Umm. Suppose I say yes?
Socrates: Then I ask you how a place can exist when none of its features do.
Malacoda: Then I say no.
Creon: So this place is a part of itself?
Malacoda: Yes. Is this somehow impossible? The place you call Earth contains the entirety of the Earth, doesn't it? Besides, even if you think that there is something inherently impossible with a space containing itself, being impossible is part of the nature of this particular space.
Socrates: Can you show me something that is both nonexistent and indescribable?
Malacoda: [produces such an object] Voila.
Socrates: Impressive.
Malacoda: Thank you.
Socrates: But unsuccessful.
Malacoda: What?
Socrates: That thing there can be described as “something both nonexistent and indescribable”. Since I just described it, it is not indescribable. Moreover, I can say that about anything that “only exists in Potentia” – so if it is indescribable, it cannot not exist.
Malacoda: So?
Socrates: If it does not not exist, then it must exist.
Malacoda: Well! I concede that some things exist, then.
Socrates: But by definition, something both nonexistent and indescribable cannot possibly exist. So now we have an object that neither exists, nor does not exist – a logical impossibility.
Creon: These are just word games. If he cannot produce it for you, then obviously it does not exist, and that’s the end of it.
Socrates: I don’t believe these he’s contributing anything to the discussion. Can we be rid of him?
Malacoda: Of course.
Socrates: How do you do that? Did you make him start existing?
Malacoda: Well, what if I did?
Socrates: Then you’re a creative being and certainly no devil, if as you said a devil is a god of death. It’s as I thought. You have been lying about this entire situation. Potentia cannot exist as such, and neither can any of the things – or people – you have attempted to use as proof. Well, this has been a fascinating diversion, but I have an afterlife to investigate, so if you’ll excuse me…
Malacoda: Sssss! Objective unreality defies your wordplay! Tell me. Did you ever meet Euthyphro?
Socrates: I… hmm. I do seem to recall conversing with him, but I could have sworn he was dead…
Malacoda: Exactly! You remember a fiction Plato wrote about you. You’re sufficiently nonexistent for me to keep you stuck here!
Socrates: Do you mean to say I’m a prisoner of a nonexistent being in an impossible place for no good reason?
Malacoda: Precisely!
Socrates: And, to be clear on this point, there is absolutely no way to escape?
Malacoda: None whatsoever!
Socrates: Ah. Well, if a way to escape doesn't exist, then I'll just go find it, won't I?
Malacoda: Wait, what? That's... umm...
Socrates: Goodbye.
-----
[Setting: A nondescript beach sloping down to the ocean on the right and steeply rising into a high row of rocks on the right. Between them, unhurriedly, paces Socrates, head in the clouds and lost in thought, wandering in no particular direction other than simply down the beach. In front of him and on top of an especially flat part of the rock wall crouches Malacoda, watching and smirking fiendishly. Socrates sees him, appears puzzled, and speaks.]
Socrates: Good day, sir. Where are we… and who are you?
Malacoda: That first is complicated. As for the second, you may call me Malacoda.
Socrates: That is your name?
Malacoda: Indeed.
Socrates: But who are you? That does not actually answer my question.
Malacoda: Hmm. I am generally considered a demon, but not in the way that you understand the term. Consider me one of a number of gods of the afterlife, if you would. A devil.
Socrates: Ah. So I am, in fact, dead, then. I had wondered. This place is part of the afterlife, then?
Malacoda: Quite true. In fact it is the entirety of the afterlife, and a bit more besides.
Socrates: I’m sorry? Could you possibly elaborate?
Malacoda: Certainly. This land, from the shore of the Dirac Sea beside you to infinity behind me is the space where things are kept that do not exist. It is the home of the library of unwritten books, it is where we keep Theseus’ ship now that he has replaced every plank, it is where we hide the square root of infinity, and it is where [picks up a candlestick and ignites it with his breath] the flame of a candle goes after it has been blown out. Some call it Tumbolia, some call it Super-Sargasso Space, but properly it is known as Potentia. Naturally, now that you have ceased to exist, you have arrived here.
Socrates: You have said something very interesting to me. It is my understanding that at death, the body and soul are separated and each goes its separate way. Am I correct so far?
Malacoda: Yesss…
Socrates: And the body slowly returns to the material world.
Malacoda: Yes.
Socrates: Now, it is my understanding that the soul, the essential I, moves onto the spiritual world. But you have just said that I cease to exist and therefore comes here.
Malacoda: You have said it, Socrates.
Socrates: I find there is a rather stark difference between these two statements.
Malacoda: Not really. Since this spiritual world of yours does not exist, either, your essential “you” does in fact go there – it is part of Potentia.
Socrates: I think you’re lying.
Malacoda: That’s possible. We devils do so frequently. Wherein lies the falsehood?
Socrates: If nothing here exists, then what of yourself?
Malacoda: Oh, I do not exist either. I was dreamed up by Dante Alighieri. I am a construct of his mind alone, I never have been real, and I never will be. Thus, I have been made responsible for supervising Potentia on Hell’s behalf.
Socrates: Literary characters are here, too?
Malacoda: Didn’t you know? You yourself are a character of Plato’s invention and have no proper existence either.
Socrates: Don’t be absurd. Of course I exist.
Malacoda: Yes, you exist in Potentia.
Socrates: Very funny. You give this place a sort of twisted sense but it so flagrantly violates basic logic it’s impossible to believe you.
Malacoda: I suppose you cannot really think through the entire thing clearly yet. What can I do to prove it to you?
Socrates: You are going to try to prove empirically that our current location is not empirical?
Malacoda: Very sensible for such a place, isn’t it?
Socrates: Not if the place itself is not very sensible.
Creon: That is the point, I think.
Socrates: Who are you?
Malacoda: My empirical evidence; allow me to present the fictitious Creon of Thebes.
Socrates: Where did you come from? How do you know what we are talking about?
Malacoda: Has he not been here all along?
Socrates: No!
Malacoda: Precisely.
Creon: I have to agree with Socrates.
Malacoda: What?
Creon: You’ve been talking solely about terms so far. That is fine as far as logic goes, but as you both have come close to pointing out, logic is not very practical for talking about inherently self-contradictory things. Well, as far as empirical evidence goes, I can tell that I am currently standing on this beach, and therefore both the beach and I exist.
Malacoda: But I can provide any number of objects that do not exist or cannot possibly exist. Would you like to see an anti-knot?
Creon: I could not say. What is it?
Malacoda: If you tie a knot in a rope, the anti-knot is the knot you'd tie to cancel out all the twists of the first without actually untying it - and, since neither of them exists after they cancel each other out, they end up here. Alternatively, look at this rope with three ends, or this seven-sided cube.
Creon: This is irrelevant. I’m holding it right now. As far as I’m concerned, it must exist and you’re just wrong about it being impossible.
Socrates: I don’t suppose I could trouble you with a few questions?
Malacoda: Oh, not at all. Be my guest.
Socrates: All right. Could I confirm something with you first? I just want to be sure that when I am speaking to you I am speaking.
Malacoda: …what?
Socrates: I am making statements, yes?
Malacoda: That seems to be trivially, even tautologically, the case.
Socrates: And these statements, they are meaningful?
Malacoda: I suppose. Although not very.
Socrates: But they do, in fact, possess meaning.
Malacoda: I am responding to you, am I not?
Socrates: Is that a yes or a no? If you do not exist then some would say you cannot respond.
Malacoda: Clever! But no, I may not exist, but my responses do.
Socrates: How is that possible?
Malacoda: Because someone who exists is recording them.
Socrates: …Oh. Well then, this place Potentia. It is where things are kept that do not exist?
Malacoda: Indeed.
Socrates: And only things that do not exist?
Malacoda: …yes…
Socrates: Do some things exist?
Malacoda: Excellent question. I shall not say.
Socrates: Well. Does Potentia exist?
Malacoda: Umm. Suppose I say yes?
Socrates: Then I ask you how a place can exist when none of its features do.
Malacoda: Then I say no.
Creon: So this place is a part of itself?
Malacoda: Yes. Is this somehow impossible? The place you call Earth contains the entirety of the Earth, doesn't it? Besides, even if you think that there is something inherently impossible with a space containing itself, being impossible is part of the nature of this particular space.
Socrates: Can you show me something that is both nonexistent and indescribable?
Malacoda: [produces such an object] Voila.
Socrates: Impressive.
Malacoda: Thank you.
Socrates: But unsuccessful.
Malacoda: What?
Socrates: That thing there can be described as “something both nonexistent and indescribable”. Since I just described it, it is not indescribable. Moreover, I can say that about anything that “only exists in Potentia” – so if it is indescribable, it cannot not exist.
Malacoda: So?
Socrates: If it does not not exist, then it must exist.
Malacoda: Well! I concede that some things exist, then.
Socrates: But by definition, something both nonexistent and indescribable cannot possibly exist. So now we have an object that neither exists, nor does not exist – a logical impossibility.
Creon: These are just word games. If he cannot produce it for you, then obviously it does not exist, and that’s the end of it.
Socrates: I don’t believe these he’s contributing anything to the discussion. Can we be rid of him?
Malacoda: Of course.
Socrates: How do you do that? Did you make him start existing?
Malacoda: Well, what if I did?
Socrates: Then you’re a creative being and certainly no devil, if as you said a devil is a god of death. It’s as I thought. You have been lying about this entire situation. Potentia cannot exist as such, and neither can any of the things – or people – you have attempted to use as proof. Well, this has been a fascinating diversion, but I have an afterlife to investigate, so if you’ll excuse me…
Malacoda: Sssss! Objective unreality defies your wordplay! Tell me. Did you ever meet Euthyphro?
Socrates: I… hmm. I do seem to recall conversing with him, but I could have sworn he was dead…
Malacoda: Exactly! You remember a fiction Plato wrote about you. You’re sufficiently nonexistent for me to keep you stuck here!
Socrates: Do you mean to say I’m a prisoner of a nonexistent being in an impossible place for no good reason?
Malacoda: Precisely!
Socrates: And, to be clear on this point, there is absolutely no way to escape?
Malacoda: None whatsoever!
Socrates: Ah. Well, if a way to escape doesn't exist, then I'll just go find it, won't I?
Malacoda: Wait, what? That's... umm...
Socrates: Goodbye.
"The universe, which others call the Library..."
The Library of Babel is a short story by Jorge Luis Borges describing its own title. The Library is an entire world completely filled by hexagonal rooms of bookshelves, containing all the possible permutations of 25 symbols - 22 letters, plus the period, comma, and space - that could be contained in books that are precisely 410 pages long, 40 lines per page, 80 symbols per line. Every possible book that fits these parameters is somewhere in the Library, exactly once. Somewhere, there is a book containing nothing but four hundred and ten pages of MCVMCVMCV, but also the Encyclopedia Britannica, Shakespeare's First Folio, and a book that describes how to construct a perpetual-motion machine.
And, of course, a book whose title page is from the First Folio (by MCV), but the rest of which is from a faulty version of the Britannica that contains a description of a perpetual-motion machine. Thus, the Library contains all truth - but also all falsehood.
Obviously, somewhere, there is an index - a catalogue, explaining where all the books containing truth can be found, and one in every language, no less. But of course there are also a countless number of flawed indices, many of which have simply misplaced a period or substituted a word, but many of which are seemingly flawless except that where they say you should be able to find your own biography there is actually a copy of Finnegan's Wake. How, then, can you tell the true from the false?
You can start by picking an apparent index and looking it up in itself. If it's not there, you obviously can't trust it, because if it is true it should be listed in the book! Moreover, if it gives you a wrong location, you can't trust it, either. This is the easiest thing to begin with - any index which cannot account for itself is not a reliable index.
When you have an index that satisfies this basic condition, you can check the reliability of the rest of the list to make sure that all the books it contains are where it says they are. Then you must test the reliability of those books to make sure that they actually contain what they say they contain in the title; if any of these books are themselves indices (more than likely, for a library of this scope), this means testing a number of their contents for accuracy as well, ad infinitum if it goes that far.
Difficult, you say? Yes. Impossible? Necessary, if you wish to believe you know anything.
I hate hitting people with frying pans, but... if you haven't realized what this entire entry is a metaphor for yet, well, the majority of the rest of this blog is probably not for you.
As for Godel... he can wait until later.
And, of course, a book whose title page is from the First Folio (by MCV), but the rest of which is from a faulty version of the Britannica that contains a description of a perpetual-motion machine. Thus, the Library contains all truth - but also all falsehood.
Obviously, somewhere, there is an index - a catalogue, explaining where all the books containing truth can be found, and one in every language, no less. But of course there are also a countless number of flawed indices, many of which have simply misplaced a period or substituted a word, but many of which are seemingly flawless except that where they say you should be able to find your own biography there is actually a copy of Finnegan's Wake. How, then, can you tell the true from the false?
You can start by picking an apparent index and looking it up in itself. If it's not there, you obviously can't trust it, because if it is true it should be listed in the book! Moreover, if it gives you a wrong location, you can't trust it, either. This is the easiest thing to begin with - any index which cannot account for itself is not a reliable index.
When you have an index that satisfies this basic condition, you can check the reliability of the rest of the list to make sure that all the books it contains are where it says they are. Then you must test the reliability of those books to make sure that they actually contain what they say they contain in the title; if any of these books are themselves indices (more than likely, for a library of this scope), this means testing a number of their contents for accuracy as well, ad infinitum if it goes that far.
Difficult, you say? Yes. Impossible? Necessary, if you wish to believe you know anything.
I hate hitting people with frying pans, but... if you haven't realized what this entire entry is a metaphor for yet, well, the majority of the rest of this blog is probably not for you.
As for Godel... he can wait until later.
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