That was the first time I doubted my volume knob was real.
* * *
A week or so later, having reread what I’d written of this memoir for the third time since I’d started the Panacea, it occurred to me that maybe all I needed to do to hit back on the horsebricks and finish the bastard was the one thing I’d been deliberately avoiding for years, i.e. maybe I needed to read No Please Don’t. I wanted to read it, had been wanting to read it for most of the years that I hadn’t been reading it, and, ever since Triple-J had come over and I’d reread what I’d remembered to be my favorite chapter of it, my desire to read it had only grown stronger, plus it wasn’t as though not reading it was getting me any closer to finishing the memoir, or, for that matter, writing anything else.
And so it was decided. I took one from the stack near the Hagler bust, and started to read it. I read it on the couch. I read for a little over three hours. I got just beyond my and Triple-J’s favorite part, and I was not disappointed, not even close. The novel was nothing less than immortal, and perhaps it was more than merely immortal, and, ever since I’d finished writing it back in 2006, I’d known that somewhere deep inside, but I’d never allowed myself to admit it; I’d told myself that I had too much invested in the book to appraise it properly; I’d been telling myself it was probably only great. Now, though, even just halfway through, I saw how much greater than merely great it was. Apart, perhaps, from Don Quixote, No Please Don’t was the single greatest novel ever written, and, had Don Quixote not come first, it would doubtless be greater than Don Quixote. It would be the greatest. But because I knew, even as I reread it, the same thing that I’d known before I reread it (i.e. that I might have had too much invested in it to appraise it properly), I decided not to let myself think any further about its Quixotic (or near-Quixotic) greatness: I decided that, from then on, I would not think about No Please Don’t as the first or second greatest novel ever written, but rather merely as a novel that was, as I’ve already stated, “nothing less than immortal.”
And I lit a Quill, thinking, “nothing less than immortal, nothing less than immortal,” and then, just before things began to go downhill, they got even better. The book spoke up. ||Something’s wrong,|| the book said. ||Something isn’t right.||
“No Please Don’t?” I said. “It’s me. It’s Belt.”
||Belt Magnet?|| the book said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Yes.”
||So that’s what it is.||
“What what is?” I said, nearly weeping with joy.
||What’s wrong,|| said the book. ||It’s only you.||
“Only me?” I said. “I wrote you. You’re mine. This is great. Beyond great. I’ve never talked to a novel before—to any book. Let alone my own. I wasn’t even sure if it was really a thing. And you—you’re brand-new, you’ve never been read before, and here you are being read—for the first time—by the person who wrote you. Only me!”
||I think you’re creasing my spine,|| the book said.
“I’m not creasing your spine.”
||Are you sure?|| it said.
“I am. I’m very careful about that.”
||It feels a little like you might be creasing my spine.||
“Am I hurting you?”
||If you were hurting me, I’d have said you were hurting me. What you’re hurting’s my chances if you’re creasing my spine.||
“Here,” I said, and I marked my page and closed the book. “Does your spine feel creased?”
||It doesn’t, no, but what the fuck are you doing with my front-cover flap now?||
“I just marked the page I was on.”
||Don’t. Don’t do that.||
I opened the book again, unmarked the page, inserted my finger.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought that’s how the flaps were supposed to be used. Isn’t that how they’re supposed to be used?”
||Supposed to be, not supposed to be—it’s a classic debate, I’ll grant you that, and it’s one I’ve never been able to choose a side on, but come on, wake up.||
“What come on?” I said. “What wake up?”
||You are the only wrong person.||
“I don’t know what that means.”
||Means if you were anyone else who used my flap as a bookmark, I wouldn’t buck, but you’re you, so please: don’t mess me up.||
“Why am I ‘the only wrong person,’ though?” I said.
||What kind of question is that?||
“An earnest question.”
||Put me back on the mantel.||
“A forthright question.”
||Why do circles always have to be round? Why do triangles all have three sides?||
“Those are not similar questions.”
||So says the only wrong person,|| said the book. ||Seriously. Put me back, okay? This is really uncomfortable.||
“How about this,” I said. “How about you try to explain to me, or I set you on fire?”
||Please don’t.||
“Explain to me why I’m the only wrong person.”
||Man, you lack empathy. You’re a real cold fish.||
“So then make me empathize, then,” I said.
||Make you empathize? Okay, so…Imagine you’re me. You’ve been waiting for someone to pick you up and turn your pages slowly, one by one, your entire life. Years and years. It’s supposed to be the pinnacle, being handled like that. And being handled like that for the very first time is supposed to be the pinnacle of pinnacles. Every book you’ve ever met says so. You haven’t actually been in contact with any book that’s been picked up and had its pages turned slowly, and most of those books haven’t been in contact with any books that have been picked up and had their pages turned slowly—you were at the printer for a little bit, then in a box with some other No Please Don’ts, and then in a stack with some of those same No Please Don’ts on top of a mantel, between a ceramic bust that you’ve been pressed against on one side, and a second stack of No Please Don’ts you were formerly boxed with pressing against you on your other side—and the bust and the mantel and a few of the No Please Don’ts in the stack beside you have had contact with other books that have been picked up and had their pages turned slowly, and all those other books told them that that was the pinnacle, as good as it got, and they (the bust, the mantel, the other No Please Don’ts) told you. And you’ve got questions. Questions about the pinnacle. You know the pinnacle will be great, but great like how? Great in what sense? It’s the central question of your entire existence, and no one can answer it satisfactorily, and no one that’s experienced it firsthand is even available to you to prod with the question. So you spend all your days—large parts of all your days—wondering, |Pinnacle how? Great in what sense?| because even though you haven’t reached the pinnacle yet, you’ve been pretty happy. You’ve been pretty happy to be a No Please Don’t. What’s better?||