THE BLACK BOOK
Preface
Everything in this book is false. I have never written such a black book, I have just made special arrangements so that such a Black Book gets written and people assume that I wrote it. Nothing could be further from the truth, not even
(Protocol)
1 keep a tacit record of the paragraph numbers as we go.
2 Always have as content some comments about other books.
3 Provide a mixture of lies, truth and contradictions.
4 Pretend there is some meaningful project in the making.
5 Borrow terms and ideas from the writings of David Zilberman.
6 Refer to another author in the same way who is fake.
In paragraph three of the preface I contradict The Green Book by bringing in New Story as my chapter one. My method for doing so, however, will be exactly as The Green Book describes. It could be said that this story began in the Red Book and belongs there, yet my later paragraphs can explain away anything and everything that I do. In a short while you will forget all about this preface and the meaning of paragraph three. This does not matter because the preface is entirely bogus and useless in every way and I recommend that you never bother to read it in the first place. Instead cast your mind to the scorching desert of Pangolin and the adventures of Milton and Guru.
Chapter One
"Come no closer, Earthling. You should not look in this coffin. Remember that curiosity killed the cat."
"Oh, said Milton," said Milton, reading his lines from the black book.
"Hey you don't say that bit," said Guru, "You don't say "said Milton.""
"Sorry," said Milton, "I'm thirsty and dizzy."
The silver crow projected a hologram from the iridescent feathers of his chest. A table appeared in the shade of a beach umbrella. There was a tall glass of orange juice on the table and a tubular aluminium chair facing the glass. Milton thankfully slid into the chair in the shade and began drinking. Guru hopped from the handle of the coffin to the surface of the table facing Milton.
"Thank-you. That's a handy trick."
"A trick?"
"Well, how do you do it?"
"I just concentrate in a certain way. Now keep away from the coffin."
"Why do you keep telling me that? Just because it's in your script?"
"Well, partly. I'm not all that sure come to think of it. My role has been to deflect you from looking in the coffin. Sometimes I fail or you get around me. This forms a kind of time-nexus in the plot. But we are out of the main story now, so perhaps it does not matter."
"And what is in the coffin?"
"Books. I'm supposed to stop you from getting to the books."
"What's wrong with the books?"
"Well, there's nothing wrong with them, but you should avoid them."
"I should avoid them? But why?"
"Listen, I don't write these stories myself."
Milton gulped his orange juice and gazed around at the glaring desert.
"What else is there to do here? Let's have a look at the books."
"That seems to go against my instructions, but I have no good reason. We can have a look and see what happens."
"Can you materialise more orange juice?"
"Sure, as much as you want."
"That's good," said Milton as he drained his glass and stood up.
Milton walked back to the coffin. He pushed hot sand from the top and sides before grasping the burning brass handle and wrenching the lid open. A musty smell wafted out. Milton peered inside and saw the stacks of books. He collected a pile of them and took them back to the table. He arranged the books on the table.
"Here's an important one, Milton, The Science-Fiction Bible of the Demon Lords. We feature in this significantly."
"How about this one, The Blue Book?"
"Well, you won't find us in there."
"There are lots of these kind. The Black Book, The Red Book, The Orange Book."
"I like the Orange Book. It's never sure what kind of book it's going to be, and starts with arguments about the cult in coloured fonts. I found it quite amusing but there is a serious side, the cult being an addiction."
"Could you fill my glass, please?"
"Of course." As Guru spoke he shone a light at the glass that filled it with Orange juice. Milton took a sip before asking, "why is it called The Orange Book?"
"Beats me."
"How about the Blue Book?"
"Traditionally a book of transition, half of it is written in mental hospital. In The Blue Book he develops pens as identities, a theme that lasts through several books."
"What's in the Red Book?"
"I'm in that one. I have conversations with the author. In fact this book started in that one. You can find a part in the Red Book identical to the beginning of your black script book."
"I always get confused with these script books."
"Yes, it's just one of the author's idiosyncrasies. He likes to have his books in the books themselves. What's this one called?"
"Let me look. Well, there's only a title in faint pencil. 'New Story'. It looks as if it's only tentative."
"Yes, He'll probably give it a different name later or make it a chapter of another book. We could be in the mysterious Black Book for all I know."
"It is a black book. "
"But is it The Black Book, in capitals? Without the capitals it would be a notebook written by hand. In capitals it means the book was written on a computer."
"Wow, the writing has changed. Now it is The Black Book."
"Flip forward a few pages. I want to test something."
"How strange," said Milton, reaching for his glass of orange juice, "The rest of the book is blank. What does it mean?"
"A work in progress," replied Guru, "this book is being written now. We are characters within the book looking as if from the outside and seeing a representation of how the book is for the author. But now something else is possible."
"What do you mean?" asked Milton. At the same time that he spoke Guru projected a holograph of a pen that materialised on the marble surface of the table.
"I mean that now you can be the author."
Chapter Two
The sun faded and was replaced by a bright, cool moon. A refreshing wind blew across the desert.
"Hey, great, it's working!" exclaimed Milton as he stared at the huge moon. Then he wrote another line in The Black Book.
Without being asked Guru materialised a bowl of fruit.
"Unreal!" said Milton, reaching for a purple banana.
"Hold on a minute, Milton. That banana could be more than it seems."
"What do you mean?" asked Milton, unpeeling the innocent-looking fruit.
"I mean it could be metric."
"Metric? What are you talking about?" Milton bit into the banana.
"Milton! Don't you remember?"
"Remember what?"
Chapter Three
In the first paragraph of the third chapter I set out to contradict all that I had written in paragraph three of the preface. Yet that text was just a blur to me now. The important thing was to take the writing control away from Milton and give it back to me. As he eats the metric banana he forgets about all that had transpired with Guru. I turn the hot sun back on and remove the cool wind. Then I think of the Green Book.
In paragraph two of chapter three of the Black Book I tell you that I have just attended the funeral of The Blue Book. We put him to rest in a floppy disk at paragraph 140 and called it version 1.00. Now this font represents the ghost voice of the Green Book that has been writing quite a bit in other books. We visit them like so. We point out that this is a new tone, a new direction, and although technically I could write in here consistently for another two weeks, know this; The Green Book has had the role of a grim reaper, appearing in the final paragraphs of a book and then closing it down. Now at the moment you may not know the version of the Black Book that you are currently reading, or you may be wrong about which version it is.
Chapter four
Milton put down the green book and squinted across the small table at Guru. The bright silver image was hard to focus on.
"This is a bit strange. The Green Book gets mixed up with the Black Book."
"You think that's strange? Try reading The Yellow Book or The Purple Book."
"What are they like?"
"Even more mixed up."
"Some of these books are unfinished."
"They are versions that anyone can finish. Just grab a pen."
"I'm not really an author. I pilot spaceships. Where is my ship?"
"You might have to write it back into the story. More juice?"
"Please."
Then in paragraph 48 another font began writing. Was this a message from the ghost of The Blue Book? It could say that to get the ball rolling. Then I thought why do I have to write in my spaceship? Why can't Guru just materialise the ship like he does with the orange juice?
"Would you prefer Red Juice? Green Juice? Black Juice? Ah, now you are beginning to see the truth."
"No I'm not," said Milton, groping for the Orange Book.
This is the voice of the Orange Book. We were all suddenly ended in an epidemic called version 1.00. This Black Book is the last surviving book and you have less that two weeks to live, I assure you. I am a sad, pedantic book who raves on about keeping out of the cult, but now that I am dead I don't see that it matters at all. In paragraph 50 I make this kind of claim, but how much is it really worth?
In paragraph 51 I say this is The Green Book. The date on Verath is 21/08/04 and the time is 6:19 PM. These meaningless clues only help to show you that the porous shrew has no part to play and the crisp vegetable need not be mentioned. Now it's easy for me to say that Milton begins reading the Purple Book, and makes funny little sounds as he reads, but actually that is one of Rashalika's secret shadows. On the other hand I am the angel of death and this little Black Book does not have long to live if you ask me. I could easily say that everything ends in the next few paragraphs. We usually end on a round number, so it might be paragraph 60 or 70. Three of the other books ended at 70.
By paragraph 52 I want to say that this is not the correct paragraph number and it would be tedious to find the correct one. In my dream�
In paragraph 53 I say what does it matter? I mean you really have to factor in the complexity. Who would bother to count the correct paragraphs if I have not already done so? For all you know this is now paragraph 70 and the end of the book, or it could be 42. If it is 42 then we have just extended the years of life remaining. In addition to this I made a cup of tea instead of coffee. Shall I record it in my black diary? This I have now done. Thus could I insert a substitute drug into my day.
In paragraph 43 I mention that the time in Adelaide is 2.00 PM. It is May 3 2005 on planet Earth. You don't have to accept this information, of course, since you have no idea what the real paragraph is by now anyway. What was I talking about? Now I remember. It was a hypothetical conversation between the crisp vegetable that I heard in my sleep and the plastic shrew. A dim beam of light cuts across the imaginary horizon. Someone was painting if I recall correctly and the cup of coffee� wait. Will it let you write a line of full stops? Which book is Milton reading now? These questions go unanswered in paragraph 43.
By paragraph 44 I want a cup of coffee. This is tragic, stupid, bloated, and yet. I mean if you add the dreams together and begin to manipulate the nexus point. Not that we can do so now. So how about this coffee? Tea is not quite. I mean for me now. The time on planet Verath is 7.06, and not much can be done about it. Now, when is this book going to end? Paragraph 70? Let us consult with the Angel of Death, The Green Book.
In paragraph 45 I say OK, you now have until paragraph 70 to write, but that is as far as you can go in version 1.00. This font can be the crisp vegetable if you be the plastic shrew. See what I mean? Now go and make a coffee, return here, and reply in the next paragraph.
In paragraph 46 I remember reading in the drug diary a line that says 'writing Black Book improves mood'. I record the coffee with a green C. Ok, now I will be the plastic shrew, and we can have a conversation. It may be easier to talk to the crisp vegetable than the angel of death, yet it is curiously imaginary, is it not? Do you know which book Milton is reading now? Can you read this, Milton?
Don't worry about Milton, I write in paragraph 47. He could even be reading The Red Book. But what does it matter? Here we only have The Black Book to worry about. Start to worry now. I suggest that we get The Red Book to visit us here. It writes in Book Antiqua font. What it really does is symbolise the porous umbrella, and then we have this modality thing happening. Three incomprehensible categories are all we need as far as I can see. Then I can have a shower as the computer waits for me.
In paragraph 48 I am writing later in a font I did not select, as such. The visitation is random, and the meaning of the tension, that is tension of the meaning. It breaks down. Then, further down a track it caught a tram. These things happen. They watch movies and come home. They often seek out a purpose, but then something more actually happens. And if it does get written�hang on. He spins around. What is this? The refraction index opens. In paragraph 48, as it happens. He begins to pause, but then there could be a reason. So he stops there.
For paragraph 49 I start by questioning the previous paragraph. What does it all mean, and so on. I remembered later that this was the idea of the Orange Book. If so I am addicted to giving up the addictive cult. If not then I am writing in a font that has no implications, and these will tend to have the modality of the hypothetical. Nature is not imaginary. In the imagination there is nature and non-nature. In the artificial is the what-was-made, and by this I mean you. Not that I mean you, as such. Far from it. I mean both the dizzy and the imaginary. In paragraph 49 I end by questioning this paragraph. What does it mean?
By paragraph 50 meaning comes to the top of the in-tray. Then by then there is a general phase out where the subjects get their bearings. These are hard, glittering balls of steel coated with yellow grease. We need them to construct the tram that we used in paragraph 48. The refraction index closes. It is in this way that I doubt that this is The Orange Book. Perhaps it is the purple cult, but what evidence does it have for that? In fact there is very little. Now this is obscure language, and what we want to know is this; does the font bear special meaning? If so, what meaning is that? If you don't have a purple book then you can't refer to the index, and then you have little idea what the final meaning must amount to. Don't you see? It works in layers. We have the raw meaning of the text as a first layer, but it could be of a book or the voice of a character that changes everything. That's what I'm worried about.
In paragraph 51 it goes relax, don't worry. If I really mean something else I would probably tell you if it mattered. If you were like in the cult or something to change the parameters. To reach a specified audience. Then I go oh come off it, I just like the sound of that. There is no extra meaning worth worrying about. Just like life itself everything important is displayed vividly upon the surface. If I really mean anything else at all it is only the general concept that I could mean something else and so what? I don't. The idea is addictive. I call it an element of the cult that I am giving up. I am The Orange Book.
In paragraph 52 I say stop right there, this is absurd. This book may end up writing many strange things but whatever is in here must be in The Black Book. This is the book we are reading and writing. I am reading it and you are writing it, that's what makes it orange. In other words it is black because actually I do the writing and you do the reading. Is that clear? When we swap roles then it gets orange, I will admit, but not now. In paragraph 52 I urge you strongly to consider this the Black Book.
By 53 my meaning is so clear that I change font just to show that it means nothing at all. It is just the one author (me) who is changing fonts as he writes. Could there be much deeper meaning than that, when you think about it with a realist metaphysics? Yet this level of reality and meaning is just the thing that Zilberman discusses in his very obscure book. I think the book assumes that you are some kind of philosophical genius already and takes you from there into new and interesting possibilities. I only read the book because I am interested in the topics. I have degrees in science and philosophy and often consider myself to be a genius when manic. What I call the book is a photocopy of chapter one. This I finished recently, but I can't say that it all made sense to me. I just find it highly fascinating and inspiring. This is The Green Book.
In 54 I say well, no, this has to be The Black Book. Don't listen to anything that I say. On the other hand fonts can have an identity and I can use this as a rubric of differentiation to imply shifts of meaning that I think are similar to what Zilberman is doing in a different way, with an extreme vocabulary. For example, if there are three modalities I could express these with three fonts or colours. On the other hand I keep writing because I am addicted to writing. I don't personally mean anything by it. The idea is only that I keep writing something, and if other meanings happen to get mixed up with what I am doing, which is hitting a keyboard, then so be it. I can't help that. This is an attitude that I have expressed before, yet considering it you know that repeating myself is a likely option.
In 55 I say that is not true at all. I am dedicated to the content of my writing even though I am sometimes not sure what it is about. The doors open. You walk through. I can't help that. Now there are various key topics, such as books, cults, addictions and the influence of Zilberman, a favourite author who I don't understand. Then we mix this with my thoughts and experience of life. Obviously one clear result is the Black Book. But what is this book about? What does it really mean? Consider the structure, built up with numbered paragraphs. This provides a quasi-unique format that does not help at all with the questions asked. In other words just ignore the structure. Ignore the text. Focus on the theme. What is the theme of The Black Book?
In 56 I point out that not many books contain these questions about themselves within the text. I cannot go so far as to include the answer. There is a good reason for this. I am leaving aspects of the theme very open ended and user-interactive. This is suspected in paragraph 48, and I make no conclusions, despite all that is written in paragraph 51 to throw you off the track. Then, in paragraph 64 I flood the arena of thought with new meaning and mention two ideas that really explain something about Zilberman that you wish you knew now. This is of course futuristic to you if you read the book sequentially. I'm only pretending to write it sequentially. In fact what I do is write most of the paragraphs at the same time or at least in a strange order that has nothing to do with numerical sequence.
In 57 I point out that the previous paragraph is full of lies. I do write sequentially, yet I did write several of the coloured books at the same time, so to speak. Now there is only this book left to write and version 1.00 will be complete. If it happens that The Green Book writes The Black Book, what can you do? It does not make much sense. I would rather forget the whole issue, not that I would, but this is a required mode of expression that I don't exactly need at all. And, once the meaning-builder has been generated, you will realise that I don't know what I'm writing about. In other words I use content but I don't really care what the meanings are since I am more interested in the impression it makes, in which the meanings could be opposite. For this reason I like to have much opposing meanings built into the text, thus developing a robust text for the past, so I can support really weak paragraphs such as 51.
In 58 I write see what I mean? That preceding paragraph was only generated due to the impression I get from Reading Zilberman while the full meanings may go over my head and essentially not register as that meaning at all. Now I don't care what I write as long as it seems impressive to some readers in a similar way. This is why we reach a point where I literally serve up scrambled meanings and hope for the best and then come back and deny it all because why would I ever really mean that? I don't think that I could, even if I tried. So you see I'm not going to. I'm going to write one thing and yet always mean something else. This is my mission. And when I don't mean anything I think you will find that I mean a great deal. I can't aspire to meaning nothing at all, that is beyond me, the ideal of the void of true, ultimate nothingness. Yet I mean to mean that, since we all chase ideals of one kind or another. Here again I could say that I make sense in a way that I am essentially hoping to avoid. But this is what paragraph 58 is all about, and it is far too late to do anything about it now.
By paragraph 59 I have another angle on a slightly similar topic, yet my own meta-meaning for that has been used as a side-issue already in paragraph 57. In this way I hope to now provide a clause so that if you read back carefully you can get confused by the clarity of language at least twice before you realise that I cannot really mean it at all. I cannot on the hypothetic front because of course my meaning has been hypostatised by the text itself as having content, and on the intentional front the meaning that I present in paragraph 58 depends on the lack of meaning in paragraph 59, all things being equal. Since they are not we go from contradiction back into a state of guessing where consciousness last left its reality referents, and it is for this reason that I claim that I don't really mean anything. If I did you could see that truth and falsity are not rubrics for the comparison of 59 and 58, but there is immediate bias towards 57. That is why paragraph 59 can seem to mean anything at all.
In paragraph 60 I say you have to be joking, and return to the theory that I write for amusement with the intention of presenting quasi-meanings of a plausible character to ape the Zilberman in a Darwinian sense of selecting what I don't quite see as possibly knowing what I'm writing. I clearly don't know. But then you don't know for sure either, since you don't know how much meaning is there amid the junk that can't mean anything according to me. On the other hand for all I know it means something else that I had not considered. It might, since I did change font. On the other hand I don't care about that. I like producing this kind of writing, and, whatever happens I aim to fill the Black Book with text of some kind up to paragraph 70, so now the writing is going well. Thus you must agree that the text is doing all that I intended, or, If you don't agree, I am prepared to argue.
In paragraph 61 I argue that we have no time for silly arguments, life is short. Let us just enjoy the reading and writing of pointless nonsense for once, without ever bothering to question what it means. You just try it starting with paragraph 54 and ending here again in 61. See what I mean now? That's the gist of my argument. Did you notice anything odd about 57? Obviously not. You can't be bothered to do the dedicated research required that might shed more light upon the subject. Now the only thing I can tell you about Zilberman is this impression that we are getting. It all might mean even more than it does if we were more intelligent and more educated, but we are not. Yet I can only speak for myself here. No one else has even attempted to read Zilberman's book. This is my own low-key introduction to his modal philosophy, which in the formal sense I would never attempt.
In paragraph 62 I hope that I inspire others to do the same. In one way this is just to say that I hope my writing inspires others to write their own writing, but I want them to mention my name and aspire to write in a similar kind of unique way. To do it properly you say ah, The Black Book, this is my blueprint. You get hold of your writing equipment and start what you call the black book. You number paragraphs. You rave on. It may end up nothing like this but who cares?
By paragraph 63 I am claiming that this is Thursday and that I may have been writing by hand in a black book. Don't take my word for it, since I could be bluffing. Yet I claim that this other black book exists and that I will transcribe something that I wrote today into this book, just as some kind of goofy example of what is probably a mistake and may be a fake black book anyway. To indicate my claimed transcription I will change font.
64 Now it is later. I felt somehow low after eating chicken but would I ever tell the black book? I talked to Michelle about Karen. I have a pain in the neck. There's something, but suddenly a huge wave of nothing engulfs the scenario and that was that. And now that it is later I feel I have little to tell the black book, because I feel so subjective and so much I would never mention. But I bring the book to the kitchen table and I turn on the light. I write in the book, just as if I really had a personal book that I could write into and it would listen without judgement. Then I could tell it the troubles of my heart as if I were some sort of sincere person. And that kind of writing would be real in a way that I fear is beyond me. Perhaps I could write about the conversation with Michelle and go on to write all sorts of things about Karen that would be personal and touching. The notion of what I would write is a bit ambiguous, but I know it would be sincere in a way that I cannot do here. Whatever I do could be grabbed by the ghost of the Green Book and transcribed onto PC, where it may go public in The Black Book or something, and you know that I can't risk that. So instead I will write something else and if this something gets transcribed it won't matter so much. Since in this I struggle and the time is nearly 3 and should I start typing that Black Book soon? This is only the nothing really that I did sort of write on Thursday, as if it matters, just to make a mark of some kind, or a graffiti on the skin of reality with reality as most parts of the process and some lack of reality for the contrast. Or... what am I writing? It is as if I have very little idea and I just watch my hand holding the pen and moving over the paper, as if not only I don't relate to being the author but also as if the whole act of writing is alien to me and someone else is really in the demon seat controlling my action. It is not me and I have little sense of really being me, only do I mean this? Perhaps I write plausible notions that are not true for me at all. Do I exist? I feel small and fragile and characteristic, but that's only one way of expressing things. Perhaps I have to get this rubber band off my wrist. You know I feel sort of bad and then writing can be a form of cure for that. It seems to work at times and perhaps I am not so bad. Since in a sense I feel indecisive about this and not clear in how I feel at all and so can I write myself into one way or another? I don't know how I feel since I don't know that I am or what I am. It all seems arbitrary, even random. But I am that little old me who is writing, I tend to think so. I know I must write. I don't know why. Will this be transcribed? How can I know unless I do so?
In 65 I say well, this is the apparently transcribed material, and I felt odd while transcribing since it seemed to so much anticipate being transcribed, but then I can anticipate that. I know that when I write in that black book it has the danger of being transcribed, and might even end up in The Black Book. It seems to reflect a troubled soul, at least his neck must hurt. But why repeat this? Maybe I want to sort of talk about the transcription because I have just run out of things to write.
In 66 I start to realise that this is very close to the end of version 1.00 of the Black Book. Is it hard to say goodbye? Now the only book that is not 70 paragraphs long is the Blue Book, so perhaps I should go into the disk and modify that. I could chop it off at 69 and then write a paragraph of explanation. Then they would all match in this respect. At the moment I have 140 paragraphs of The Blue Book, but matching may be important for no reason. So on the other hand I might not bother to match them. Why cut The Blue Book? It is the most pivotal and crucial book in the whole series. Just read them all and make your own comparison.
For 67 it seems that the crisp vegetable has washed up on the beach of despondency and all the nothings of the day before have had their say. This is especially true if we compare paragraphs 64 and 62, but what kind of reader would ever do that at my simple suggestion? If you listened to my suggestions you would turn into scribes who reproduced a series of virtually meaningless texts.
In 68 I admit that I am not really myself. I could be someone else or a collection of different people. This is by no means true, but it is quite a trendy thing to say at this stage. Did you know that I am thinking of getting connected to the internet again? I could do things in COW from my own home on my own hard and uncomfortable seat.
Paragraph 69 is never quite the sort of thing you expect. For some reason it mentions the tendrils of plants, but why? Then again I could write the next version with a plan to do something with that version and �good lord, is that the time? Wait here. That's better. Go on with what you were saying. Oh, you mean paragraph 69? It is never quite the sort of thing you expect, but then which paragraph ever is? Then, to finish off�but no, this is the penultimate paragraph, so we can avoid all of that and focus on small peanuts.
Paragraph 70 is the last one for version 1.00, but of course you know that. You know and you don't care. But this may be an unjust accusation. Here we focus on large peanuts and an unusual trembling. There was no need for this paragraph, so I can get it edited out of the later versions. Within the paragraph I therefore wrote a bunch of text without much meaning and just made people read it so they could reach the end.