Post by Deleted on Nov 14, 2012 0:30:40 GMT -5
The first things that Arthur Kirkland had thought to pack for his two-year stay were books. An entire suitcase full, if he were to be precise. They had been a monstrosity to lug around, but he couldn’t let his fate be determined by the lack of diversity in an academy’s library.
Books were Arthur’s life, his everything.
Which is why as soon as he’d unpacked into his dorm room, on a dreary Saturday afternoon, he’d headed straight for the library. Just to scope things out, really. He had no classes to attend that day, after all, and there’d be plenty of time to wander through the rest of the academy later. Arthur planned to spend his time immersed in writing.
The room, as he inspected closely, was spacious. Multiple tables dotted the center and aisles of shelves lined the walls. The library was near empty, all but for a few studying students and an exhausted librarian who didn’t spare the young man so much as a second glance. He cracked his knuckles and strode in with a determined smirk. Now was the time of judgment.
The young man followed rather strict rules when it came to browsing literature. For one, he never dared to read a back cover synopsis - those flashes of illusion gave him more information about the book than he needed to know. Cover art, though lovely at times, did not determine the overall quality of the book. No, Arthur did not place these decisions based on superficial details. What mattered the most was how the book felt in his hands. Natural, inviting. Others, old and worn. He’d always have a vague sense of how many people the story had impacted, how many lives it had changed.
The variety throughout the library was fairly adequate. It contained many of the classics that he’d read time and again, which was sufficient.
Then again, most of the books were new to him: peculiar, modern, and American.
And that was far from appeasing. Though, he mused, it may do him good to broaden his mind, once in a while. The young man picked out a few stories unknown to him, just as a mix with the rest. He worked at a quick pace, collecting this book and that with only a moment of consideration.
What Arthur found most interesting was the section labeled “Foreign”, which seemed to contain a mish-mosh of genres from all over the world. Asher was known to be an academy built on diversity, and this was certainly a courteous touch for those who weren’t speaking English as a first language. Arthur ended up taking many a novel from this section: from the names of the authors, he inferred that a few were Italian and French, one was Bulgarian, and the last, Russian. By the time he’d finished, his stack of selected books spanned the length of his torso. He glanced this way and that, a light smile adorning his face. The only matter of affairs left was in securing a niche.
Arthur always took to finding a comfortable, secluded spot where others seldom bothered to look. There were two ways that he could possibly escape fictional projections: by self-will, or by an outside disturbance. As time had tested, all it took was a light shake to melt back into reality. If someone were to pay attention for more than a few seconds, they’d realize that his glassy eyes and blank expression while reading were unnatural; this normally led to being jostled awake and out of his blissful illusion. This eminently irked Arthur. Being out in the open would do him no good.
In this specific case, he chose to hide in the history aisle: rows upon rows of dust-coated, heavy volumes, all contained far from the entrance. Arthur nestled at the dead end, his back resting against the wall. The space between the two impending shelves was narrow; long enough for his shoulders to fit, with a few inches of room to adjust. Legs tucked, his neck craned as he stared blankly into the book. Once every minute or so, his hand mechanically turned a page. Though it would be strange for some to believe, at that precise moment, he was floating in a canoe with Henry David Thoreau.
The Night Thoreau Spent In Jail. It was the first book Arthur had picked from his pile. Historical fiction wasn’t always (or ever) his first choice, but this was a play, and as far as he could tell, a tale to be treasured. He hadn’t raised any expectations, but as the story rolled on, Arthur found himself to be somewhat enthralled. The timing of the play’s ever-changing scenes was near brilliance, the humor was smooth and intelligent, and the characters were far from disappointing. Arthur felt a small bit of admiration for the protagonist, especially in his stubborn and argumentative nature. As far as an American book went, it was satisfactory.
Yes, things were shaping up well, the way he saw it.
”We are born as innocents. We are polluted by advice. Here is life in front of us, like the surface of this pond, inviting us to sail on it. A voyage, an experiment. Waiting to be performed.”
Arthur couldn’t help but find amusement in how theatrical Thoreau was - gesturing this way and that, his eyes alight with passionate ideals. He spoke feverishly of Transcendentalism, living joyously by every last word he uttered. Miss Ellen Sewell fidgeted opposite him, smiling and interested, but obviously unused to a man of his caliber. Arthur took in everything surrounding him: the shimmering lake at high noon, the far-off chirping of birds, and sighed in content.
Perhaps his stay here wouldn’t be so dreadful, after all.
Books were Arthur’s life, his everything.
Which is why as soon as he’d unpacked into his dorm room, on a dreary Saturday afternoon, he’d headed straight for the library. Just to scope things out, really. He had no classes to attend that day, after all, and there’d be plenty of time to wander through the rest of the academy later. Arthur planned to spend his time immersed in writing.
The room, as he inspected closely, was spacious. Multiple tables dotted the center and aisles of shelves lined the walls. The library was near empty, all but for a few studying students and an exhausted librarian who didn’t spare the young man so much as a second glance. He cracked his knuckles and strode in with a determined smirk. Now was the time of judgment.
The young man followed rather strict rules when it came to browsing literature. For one, he never dared to read a back cover synopsis - those flashes of illusion gave him more information about the book than he needed to know. Cover art, though lovely at times, did not determine the overall quality of the book. No, Arthur did not place these decisions based on superficial details. What mattered the most was how the book felt in his hands. Natural, inviting. Others, old and worn. He’d always have a vague sense of how many people the story had impacted, how many lives it had changed.
The variety throughout the library was fairly adequate. It contained many of the classics that he’d read time and again, which was sufficient.
Then again, most of the books were new to him: peculiar, modern, and American.
And that was far from appeasing. Though, he mused, it may do him good to broaden his mind, once in a while. The young man picked out a few stories unknown to him, just as a mix with the rest. He worked at a quick pace, collecting this book and that with only a moment of consideration.
What Arthur found most interesting was the section labeled “Foreign”, which seemed to contain a mish-mosh of genres from all over the world. Asher was known to be an academy built on diversity, and this was certainly a courteous touch for those who weren’t speaking English as a first language. Arthur ended up taking many a novel from this section: from the names of the authors, he inferred that a few were Italian and French, one was Bulgarian, and the last, Russian. By the time he’d finished, his stack of selected books spanned the length of his torso. He glanced this way and that, a light smile adorning his face. The only matter of affairs left was in securing a niche.
Arthur always took to finding a comfortable, secluded spot where others seldom bothered to look. There were two ways that he could possibly escape fictional projections: by self-will, or by an outside disturbance. As time had tested, all it took was a light shake to melt back into reality. If someone were to pay attention for more than a few seconds, they’d realize that his glassy eyes and blank expression while reading were unnatural; this normally led to being jostled awake and out of his blissful illusion. This eminently irked Arthur. Being out in the open would do him no good.
In this specific case, he chose to hide in the history aisle: rows upon rows of dust-coated, heavy volumes, all contained far from the entrance. Arthur nestled at the dead end, his back resting against the wall. The space between the two impending shelves was narrow; long enough for his shoulders to fit, with a few inches of room to adjust. Legs tucked, his neck craned as he stared blankly into the book. Once every minute or so, his hand mechanically turned a page. Though it would be strange for some to believe, at that precise moment, he was floating in a canoe with Henry David Thoreau.
The Night Thoreau Spent In Jail. It was the first book Arthur had picked from his pile. Historical fiction wasn’t always (or ever) his first choice, but this was a play, and as far as he could tell, a tale to be treasured. He hadn’t raised any expectations, but as the story rolled on, Arthur found himself to be somewhat enthralled. The timing of the play’s ever-changing scenes was near brilliance, the humor was smooth and intelligent, and the characters were far from disappointing. Arthur felt a small bit of admiration for the protagonist, especially in his stubborn and argumentative nature. As far as an American book went, it was satisfactory.
Yes, things were shaping up well, the way he saw it.
”We are born as innocents. We are polluted by advice. Here is life in front of us, like the surface of this pond, inviting us to sail on it. A voyage, an experiment. Waiting to be performed.”
Arthur couldn’t help but find amusement in how theatrical Thoreau was - gesturing this way and that, his eyes alight with passionate ideals. He spoke feverishly of Transcendentalism, living joyously by every last word he uttered. Miss Ellen Sewell fidgeted opposite him, smiling and interested, but obviously unused to a man of his caliber. Arthur took in everything surrounding him: the shimmering lake at high noon, the far-off chirping of birds, and sighed in content.
Perhaps his stay here wouldn’t be so dreadful, after all.