THE BOOK
Prizewinner, Sol III Convention, May 1985, Fiction Competition
I am old; oh, so very old. I have known the passing of the centuries and have been held by countless hands, young and old. I have felt many emotions as those who have read me have experienced the feelings my contents engender. That part of every reader has now become a part of me. My story is exciting, amusing, tragic and noble and I thrill to feel, through the hands of my readers, all of life that is contained within me.
I have not been held for many years. Instead, I have stayed on a bookshelf, flanked by other books written by my author. But now, at last, I feel a change around me. I feel a touch - a strangely warm touch. The heat of the hand is abnormal - can he be ill? Through his hands I feel a strangeness I have never experienced before; an alienness I find - disturbing - exciting. I feel - a great strength from this man - a shining intellect that none of my previous handlers have ever approached.
He looks swiftly through my pages. How can he read me so fast? Amazing! I feel his thoughts - strange, wistful thoughts - thoughts on how appropriate I will be - how very appropriate. *This is how best I can tell Jim.* he thinks, as he looks again at my beginning, and then at my end. He grunts softly as he sees I am a First Edition. *I shall 'gild the philosophic pill' for him. Yes. Price is no object. I will purchase this book for Jim's birthday.* He thinks these thoughts as his unusually warm, long, sensitive fingers gently feel my leather bindings, enjoying the tactile sensations I invoke.
He takes me to the shop owner, shows a card and is treated with much deference, and a little fear, by the man. I sense amusement at this reaction, bubbling deep within this unique person. I feel exhilaration emanating from him at my purchase. Gone are his melancholy feelings. He is eager to present me to - Jim.
This is strange - most odd. I do not want to be parted from him. I feel - a complete one-ness with this man. My principal character, Sydney Carton, is as noble as he. He has - such strength, such courage, such love - love of life; love of his friends; love of - a giant flying machine, called 'The Enterprise'. He tries very hard to conceal his emotions but, as he holds me - I know otherwise. This man feels, experiences, exists, on a higher level of consciousness than I have ever known. Of all the hundreds of people who have held me, this man's very being, very essence, is the most - beautiful - I have ever known.
But now, the time has come for me to be given as a gift to the one he calls Jim. This man is quite different - vibrant, dynamic, a born leader of men, an adventurer whom the beautiful one will follow - gladly, willingly, unconditionally - till the end of time. These two men complement each other completely - so totally different, but their differences interlock to make the two separate individuals one whole entity. These two are one, created in time to travel throughout time, together, existing because of each other. This is a truly unique experience!
In the hands of Jim I at last learn the other's name - Spock. He is not of this world. I can still feel a powerful aura emanating from him as he converses with Jim. Jim clutches me to him. He is delighted with the gift, but is as yet unaware of the message I hold for him.
I feel - a strange motion - around me. The throbbing of great energy and power. My Jim reads me and feels the appropriate emotions contained in my pages.
Something is wrong. Something is terribly wrong. He holds me, then throws me down, but, during that brief touch, I felt such pain, anguish and grief emanating from him that I am overwhelmed by it. I can offer him no solace. The one called Spock is dead. He has died so that others might live - just as my Sydney Carton does within my pages. The whole that was Jim and Spock has now become less than one. He is totally lost without his Spock.
And yet, he returns to me, picks me up, feels my leather bindings just as Spock has done, holding me to him as something precious that his dead friend gave to him. He opens me, turns to my last paragraph, reads aloud:
'It is a far, far better thing I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest I go to than I have ever known.'
And, surprisingly, I feel an uplifting of his soul, an amorphous hope that, perhaps, it is not the end for the special one he has left behind after all. As he clutches me once more, I hear him think: *Spock said 'There are always - possibilities'. Did you find a solution to the Kobayashi Maru, Spock? Did you? Did you?*
Perhaps I have been of some solace to Jim, after all. If so, I have fulfilled my author's reason for writing me. I hope so. I hope so.