Stone walls, etched with carvings, stood tall, thousands of books lining the shelves. Some collected
dust, others worn and well thumbed. The library asked for quiet, but silence never came, not with
the constant rustle of turning pages, and the murmurs of activity. Among the many stacks were
small nooks, tables piled high with spread-open books. A chair creaked; a muffled cough followed.
A man sat at one such table, his hair dishevelled from running his fingers through it. Hunched over a
heavy tome, a messy stack of parchment paper lay beside it. His bloodshot eyes scanned the page
before him with intensity; every so often, he would scratch a note onto his parchment.
Brow furrowed, he underlined a line in the book, once, twice. Leaning back in his chair, he fixed his
gaze upon the intricate patterns of the ceiling. Words lingered in his mind, “[…] the origins of the
human understanding of the world around us”. Even as he briefly shut his eyes, his thoughts
remained fixed on the text. He blinked, then leaned forward, brushing his fingers over the
underlined words.
“The origins of the human understanding of the world around us – curiosity – can
scarcely be considered to be an unfamiliar concept to humankind; indeed, it has
grown, to vast heights, to a point where, even the finest of our scientists are
unable to provide a plausible explanation.”
He sighed, shoulders slumping – this term had been stress-filled, with looming essay deadlines. His
parchment was a mess of short quotes and questions, his current sheet covered in scrawls like
“ULTIMATE QUESTIONS: nature of reality??” and “PHILOSOPHY versus NATURAL SCIENCE: the truths
about our significance”. The chaos on the page, disturbingly, mirrored his mind.
A sudden fizzle broke his focus – wax from his candle dripped onto unused papers. He yanked them
away, knocking his diary to the floor. Glancing at the clock, he started at the time. Good heavens, he
thought. Look at the hour!
Stuffing his satchel with books and papers, he shut the heavy door of the library and stepped into
the crisp night. Pulling his lapels closer to his neck, his mind lingered on the words he had just read.
The balance of natural science and philosophy had fascinated him for a while, yet the answer was as
elusive as ever. A page from his satchel fluttered to the ground, beneath the amber glow of a
streetlamp.
Philosophy and natural science – was it possible that the two were not wholly distinct? The man
picked up the sheet, viewing it differently. Perhaps the disarray on his paper reflected the necessary
connection between the two fields. Maybe that was the message behind the words of the books.
When he reached his door, and stepped inside, he smiled. Yes, he thought, I could be right. “One can
interpret texts as he wishes”, his book said. That was the power of words – no right, no wrong, just
the assurance that your questions might be answered, in one way or another.