The Every

by Dave Eggers

They seemed utterly at peace, no longer ambitious, free from work and the responsibility to create.

“That’s why he did that stupid thalamus implant,” Jenny Butler said. “He didn’t want any boundaries between any two people.”

She looked up, collecting herself, and finally sighed. “But I think there could be a limit,” she said. “To the interpersonal connections. To our…porosity. Maybe we do need boundaries. Secrets. Even physiological secrets. I mean, the man is dead because he couldn’t keep anything to himself.”

“Isn’t it? Formulas are the essence of comfort. Not just for the creators, but for the viewer. Especially for the viewer. When viewers get what they expect to get, when they expect to get it, that’s comfort.” “It’s really the essence of art!” Delaney said. “See, you get it. It’s just another set of guidelines, within which the writer has complete freedom. Like, the alphabet has twenty-six letters. That’s one set of constraints that no one seems to have a problem with. We only have so many words—another constraint. Sentences can only be so long—yet another necessary constraint.” “Constraints are the key to liberation,” Delaney said.

The room was silent with what Delaney assumed was the shock of a principle that would never again be challenged.

Delaney had been alone at the time, not a soul for miles, and was sure she was the only human who had witnessed the sight. It happened, a moment so beautiful it burst the heart, and only she had any record of it.