Books," Morgenes said grandly, leaning back on his precarious stool, "-books are magic. That is the simple answer. And books are traps as well." "Magic? Traps?" "Books are a form of magic-" the doctor lifted the volume he had just laid on the stack, "-because they span time and distance more surely than any spell or charm. What did so-and-so think about such-and-such two hundred years agone? Can you fly back through the ages and ask him? No-or at least, probably not. "But, ah! If he wrote down his thoughts, if somewhere there exists a scroll, or a book of his logical discourses . . . he speaks to you! Across centuries! And if you wish to visit far Nascadu, or lost Khandia, you have also but to open a book. . . ." "Yes, yes, I suppose I understand all that." Simon did not try to hide his disappointment. This was not what he had meant by the word 'magic.' "What about traps, then? Why 'traps'?" Morgenes leaned forward, waggling the leather-bound volume under Simon's nose. "A piece of writing is a trap," he said cheerily, "and the best kind. A book, you see, is the only kind of trap that keeps its captive-which is knowledge-alive forever. The more books you have," the doctor waved an all-encompassing hand about the room, "the more traps, then the better chance of capturing some particular, elusive, shining beast-one that might otherwise die unseen.
( Tad Williams )
[ The Dragonbone Chair ]
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