Arm of the Sphinx (The Books of Babel, #2)

by Josiah Bancroft

“The rules of engagement,” Captain Tom Mudd explained to the irate captain who’d been duped by this ruse, “were invented by men who would benefit most from them.”

“Man overboard!” Voleta called from the balustrade. They turned in time to see a flailing figure in a white sheet plummet from the Cairo Hound. They were too distant to hear a cry if one was uttered, but the silence of the spectacle only made it grimmer. No one doubted who it was. Iren broke the moment of quiet reflection. “He was a bad captain.” “But a worse bird,” Voleta said.

Trust is a muscle that works best in reflex.

My mother says that happiness is a symptom of ignorance.” He shrugged, removing the ivory wig. “I am very happy.” “Do you know anyone who is unhappy?” “Oh, my mother. She is miserable.” Arjuna beamed.

History is a love letter to tyrants written in the blood of the overrun, the forgotten, the expunged!”

We are, each of us, a multitude. I am not the man I was this morning, nor the man of yesterday. I am a throng of myself queued through time. We are, gentle reader, each a crowd within a crowd.

Civilization first came into being when two of our ancestors knocked together at the mouth of a cave, and one brute or the other uttered the immortal phrase: “No, no, I insist, after you.”

The man or woman who is rarely lost rarely discovers anything new.

Routine is rather like the egg whites in a batter: It imparts little flavor, but it holds everything together.

“What do you want me to tell her? I have to tell her something.” When Edith later recounted the adventure, she would revise this portion of the story to spare the feelings she imagined Voleta would have. She would report Adam’s parting words to his sister as being, “I hope with all my heart that we see each other again in this life. I love you. Be good.” What Adam actually said was, “Tell the little owl not to forget my birthday.”

Iren and Voleta had agreed the moment they set eyes on the felt-topped monstrosity, with its fussy braided pockets and big claw feet, that billiards was furniture masquerading as sport.

The gaps in a library are like footprints in the sand: They show us where others have gone before; they assure us we are not alone.

Books are seldom more than an author elaborating upon their obsession with the grammar of self-doubt. How superior are books to authors! Nothing believes in itself so much as a book; nothing is less bothered by history or propriety. “Begin in my middle,” the book says. “Rifle straight to my end.” What difference does it make? The book comes out of white, empty flyleaves and goes into the same oblivion. And the book is never afraid.

The essential lesson of the zoetrope is this: Movement, indeed all progress, even the passage of time, is an illusion. Life is the repetition of stillness.

“Tom, I am going to ask you to entertain an alternative view of the world. First, you’ll find it funny; then it will make you angry; then you’ll be frightened. It’s all perfectly natural. It is the feeling of discovery, and it grows more unsettling the older we get. I want you to persevere.”

When humanity ceases to aspire, it begins to decline. Do you know why the status quo is so tyrannical and nauseating? Because it does not exist! There is no stasis in the world, and certainly not where humans are involved. The status quo is just a pleasing synonym for decay.

Do not allow small people to make large impressions. Do not fritter your beauty upon mirrors. Do not make wishes, for wishes only curse the life you have. Never forget, you stand at the end of a long line of short lives.

“Do you still like him? Even now? Even knowing about the weakness he hid from you?” Iren’s expression narrowed, her thin eyes all but disappearing. “We all have weaknesses. Not everyone has strengths.”