As was natural, this inordinate hope was followed by an excessive depression.
The certitude that some shelf in some hexagon held precious books and that these precious books were
inaccessible, seemed almost intolerable. A blasphemous sect suggested that
the searches should cease and that all men should juggle letters and symbols until they constructed,
by an improbable gift of chance, these canonical books. The
authorities were obliged to issue severe orders. The sect disappeared, but in my childhood I have seen
old men who, for long periods of time, would hide in the latrines
with some metal disks in a forbidden dice cup and feebly mimic the divine disorder. Others,inversely,
believed that it was fundamental to eliminate useless works.
They invaded the hexagons, showed credentials which were not always false,
leafed through a volume with displeasure and condemned
whole shelves: their hygienic, ascetic furor caused the senseless perdition
of millions of books. Their name is execrated, but
those who deplore the "treasures" destroyed by this frenzy neglect
two notable facts. One: the Library is so enormous
that any reduction of human origin is infinitesimal. The other:
every copy is unique, irreplaceable, but
(since the Library is total) there are always several
hundred thousand imperfect facsimiles:
works which differ only in a letter or a comma.
Counter to general
opinion, I venture to suppose
that the consequences
of the Purifiers' depredations