The Library of Babel

The universe (which others call the Library) is composed of an indefinite and perhaps infinite number of hexagonal galleries, with vast air shafts between, surrounded by very low railings. From any of the hexagons one can see, interminably, the upper and lower floors. The distribution of the galleries is invariable. Twenty shelves, five long shelves per side, cover all the sides except two; their height, which is the distance from floor to ceiling, scarcely exceeds that of a normal bookcase. One of the free sides leads to a narrow hallway which opens onto another gallery, identical to the first and to all the rest. To the left and right of the hallway there are two very small closets. In the first, one may sleep standing up; in the other, satisfy one's fecal necessities. Also through here passes a spiral stairway, which sinks abysmally and soars upwards to remote distances. In the hallway there is a mirror which faithfully duplicates all appearances. Men usually infer from this mirror that the Library is not infinite (if it were, why this illusory duplication?); I prefer to dream that its polished surfaces represent and promise the infinite ...

I have just written the word "infinite". I have not interpolated this adjective out of rhetorical habit; I say that it is not illogical to think that the world is infinite. Those who judge it to be limited postulate that in remote places the corridors and stairways and hexagons can conceivably come to an end—which is absurd. Those who imagine it to be without limit forget that the possible number of books does have such a limit. I venture to suggest this solution to the ancient problem: The Library is unlimited and cyclical. If an eternal traveler were to cross it in any direction, after centuries he would see that the same volumes were repeated in the same disorder (which, thus repeated, would be an order: the Order). My solitude is gladdened by this elegant hope.

Let me be pardoned for the following example: A book which occupies thirty-two pages in every hexagon (for example A First Encyclopedia of Tlön) would occupy 999 pages in one of our books. A book which occupies one page in a hexagon (for example Urn Burial by Browne) would occupy 312 pages in one of our books. This fact (the impotence of all books), though sensed by many writers, has not been given sufficient attention.

The Library is so enormous that any reduction in human origin seems trivial. The plates that fill the hexagons correspond to others which indicate through images or symbols what each shelf contains: animals, history, literature; on some shelves I have seen books with broken spines and tattered covers; on others I have seen books that seem untouched and eternal.

I know that somewhere there is a book that contains all the possible combinations of letters and spaces; a book that contains everything: the minutely detailed history of every human being; every variation of every language; every proof and every refutation of every philosophy; every verse and every rhyme of every poem; every image and every symbol of every religion; every law and every code of every nation; every dream and every nightmare of every sleeper; every secret and every mystery of every soul.

I know also that this book is inaccessible; that no one can read it or even glimpse it without losing his reason or his life. I know that it is guarded by a sect of librarians who worship it as a god; who kill for it and die for it; who dedicate their lives to deciphering its pages and cataloguing its contents.

I know all this, but I do not despair. I have a plan: a plan that involves a labyrinth, a mirror, a dagger, and a word. A plan that will allow me to enter the Library and find the book that I seek.

I do not know how long it will take me; I do not know if I will succeed or fail. But I know that I must try.

For this is my destiny: to be the reader of Babel.