Twilight's Library
The fundamental unit of the universe is the hexagon. Within the hexagon, there are six walls, a ceiling and a floor. Four walls have open doorways, one wall has a very fine plush-cushioned couch where a weary traveler might repose and read, and one wall invariably has a sign affixed to a metal post reading, 'Please do not disturb fellow patrons.' Behind the sign, one may find a quill, ink, and paper, presumably for the taking of notes.
On each wall, to either side of the doorway, couch, or sign, whichever it may be, there are two bookshelves. Each bookshelf reaches very nearly – but not quite – to the ceiling, and contains eight shelves. On these eight shelves, each shelf will always have forty books. The books are not labeled, and they do not have titles. Each book is invariable in format. There are nine hundred pages in each book, fifty lines on every page, and eighty-five characters on each line.
Every hexagon is adjacent to eight more hexagons, but connects to only six. There are the four doors, and in the center of the room, a circular stairway leading both up and down. From the stairway hangs spherical embodiments of light, which most ponies succinctly call 'lamps'. Their light is dim and generally inadequate.
The idealists among the ponies I speak with assure me that the hexagonal structure implies a need to conserve space, and that therefore, the universe – which many call 'the Library' – must be finite. This, however, is a minority opinion, and most find it inconceivable that there should be an end. What, after all, would the final hexagon look like? It is inconceivable that the structure should vary.
The characters in the books, of which there are sixty, counting uppercase and lowercase letters, along with the chiefest of punctuations, are always printed in the finest black ink, always perfect, always symmetrical to a degree inimitable by my crude hooves.
They make no sense at all.
The characters may come in any order, indeed, most believe that they must inevitably come in every order. There is one sect, some forty-seven thousand floors downward, which believes that the letters in the books are a cryptographic code, or perhaps some dead, unknown language, and they spend their lives in a – most likely vain – attempt to translate them.
Yet, I have seen in my travels a volume that consisted entirely of 'V)p', repeated perversely throughout all nine hundred pages. And what, I may ask, language could possibly imbibe meaning into nine hundred pages of 'V)p'? None, obviously. Therefore, there is no meaning in the books. This is indisputable.
But some days... some days I look around me, at the dark, polished wood of the walls, at the slightly dusty, yet always perfectly smooth floor that clacks under my hooves. How could this minutely detailed perfection not have a purpose?
The library is perfect. It goes on forever, or nearly so, never varying, never altering... why, then, are there ponies inside it? What inscrutable higher power could have constructed such flawlessness, and then marred it with the presence of ponies, ponies who rearrange books, scuff floors, toss entire shelves into other rooms?
Some say that in the beginning, there was one pony in every hexagon, and that pony's duty was to the maintenance, knowledge, and protection of that hexagon... but I was not privy to that beginning nor, I think, were those who theorize it.
On my back, in saddlebags carefully made with book bindings and hair from my own tail, I carry one precious book. I like to call it the Book of Destiny, and I have written that on its binding. It is a constant reminder of my purpose here, and perhaps the one thing that keeps me sane over the centuries. When I removed this book from the shelves, I made sure to break the shelf it sat on, and I scratched its words into the floor beneath it, so that I would be sure of it if I ever returned to that point.
The book was mostly blank, entirely blank, save for one page. On page three hundred and twenty-two, one line of text hid at the very top: 'Fulfill your destiny.'
In the blank pages of this book, I chronicle my journey through the library, and I record what I can of my memories. I trust – though I have no way to be certain – that things I write inside it will stay where I put them. I leave the one page blank, though, save for its providential, impossibly improbable message. Sometimes I worry that my insistence upon leaving that page blank – especially as the blank space in the rest begins to grow thin – borders on the type of insanity some sects of the Library call religion. It does seem wrong to me, though, to mar the page that gives my life purpose.
I remember very clearly where I found the book, but I do not remember exactly where I first woke up in the Library, though I reason it must be relatively near where I found the Book of Destiny.
For some time – centuries I believe, though time is very difficult to measure – I have been traveling upward through the library, always choosing the upward stair to the next hexagon above. It was perhaps not the most efficient direction, and I spent many decades of my early travels lamenting this fact for the strain on my legs is considerable. Over time, however, I have come to appreciate the naïve optimism of my younger self, that bright desire in my heart to not just reach the end, but to reach the top. Somehow, I think it gives my quest an air of righteous validity, despite its vanity.
So, for centuries, I have endlessly climbed stairs. Every time, I stop and I check the third shelf to the left of the sign, and thus far, every time I have not found another Book of Destiny. I have invariably gone straight up, and so shall I continue.
That is not strictly true. I once was forced to take a detour fifty hexagons north – a direction defined as being through the doorway to the right of the couch – in order to avoid a barbarous group of ponies with the most violent of intentions toward me. I – of course – scrupulously traveled fifty hexagons to the south afterward to ensure a direct line of ascent.
Most ponies here are peaceful, perhaps to a fault. Some denizens of the Library, however, direct their violence at the Library itself. They crash bookshelves, pour ink down the stairways, and meticulously tear every page out of thousands of books at a time.
Now, these ponies, while rightfully abhorred, are perhaps not as destructive as the vitriol against them would suggest. For while it is true that the volumes they have destroyed are likely unique and utterly irreplaceable, it is a self-evident truth of the Library that for every book, there must be millions precisely identical to it, save for a single comma or letter out of place. And so, I think the destruction wreaked by ponies upon the Library is thus insignificant, especially given how miniscule it is in comparison to the Library's vast scale.
Now, to the best of my estimation, I have climbed up through twelve million, four hundred and eighty-seven thousand, five hundred and eight levels of the library thus far, though still that leaves me but one pitiful hair's breadth into my journey.
I theorize that the library is indeed endless, but cyclical. I think that if one were to cross its entirety, one would either find oneself back in exactly the same place as one started, or would find exactly the same book repeated.
Because while there are an astonishing amount of books in the Library, they cannot be infinite. With nine hundred pages, fifty lines per page, and eighty-five characters per line, that gives each book three million and eight hundred twenty-five thousand characters total.
I spent ten years, the ink supplies of seventeen hexagons, and the book covers of eight hexagons in the calculation of the size of the library. I believe I am the first Librarian ever to have done so.
There are approximately three point four zero nine times ten to the six million eight hundred and one thousand four hundred and twenty-eighth power possible books, counting all possible permutations. The arithmetic is elementary, though the numbers are vast.
In each hexagon, there are twelve bookshelves, eight shelves each, and forty books on a shelf, which means there are three thousand eight hundred and forty books in any given hexagon. Thus, it can be reasoned that there are eight point eight seven nine times ten to the six million eight hundred and one thousand four hundred and twenty-fourth power hexagons total. I can only desperately hope that when the supply of unique books is exhausted, the repertoire is repeated with the same combinations of books in each hexagon. If not, my quest is even more foolish than I suppose currently.
By dividing by eight, I can estimate the number of hexagons across the known region of the Library is: one point one zero nine times ten to the six million eight hundred and one thousand four hundred and twenty-second power. That is, of course, assuming that the Library is equal in all dimensions, which is not necessarily true.
That is how far I must travel.
The number itself is lovely, beautiful, quite aside from its awe-inspiring meaning. Spanning nearly seven million digits it is as vast and inscrutable as the Library itself. Yet, the number has meaning. Does that mean the Library also has meaning?
It is entirely possible my quest is futile. After all, I often only scale a few hundred staircases per day lately, a far cry from when I used to tramp up a thousand at a time without resting. Compared to the unimaginable vastness of the Library, it will take me practically forever to climb to the top, if there is one.
I seem to have practically forever, though. I do not age, nor do I become more weary than mental fatigue alone can account for. But will I go mad before I reach the end?
I must confess, I do find myself more and more consumed with the dread that I must inevitably be driven to insanity by my impossible quest.
But what if I were to complete it? That would make my own existence here meaningful.
Or perhaps I would just one day find a wall. What would I do then, when I found a wall where a doorway or staircase should be? Would I turn back? Would I attempt to break through? Maybe I would then follow the wall in another direction, and then again when I found another wall. Perhaps eventually, I could find a hexagon with three missing openings – a corner.
The very idea of a wall where a door should be is absurd. What would such a wall look like? It's inconceivable. Nopony I have ever talked to has ever reported any reliable or verifiable rumor of a wall sighting, but then again, the library is vast, and most ponies do not travel far beyond their home hexagons.
I have never met a pony who has traveled longer than I have.
I have spoken with one sect who believe that the library is only an illusion, and that all the books are full of gibberish because nopony's mind can produce the words they want to see. They believe that there is, in fact, only one hexagon: when a pony leaves it from one side, she enters it from the other.
This is of course, nonsense. When I damage one hexagon and move to another, the damage is left behind, yet it can be returned to, if I remember the way. When I throw a book from one hexagon to another, it does not hit the floor behind me.
Personally, I am quite certain that I am dead.
This must be the afterlife, even though it doesn't resemble the afterlife anypony promised me. The other Librarians scoff at me and call me a mystic. They point to themselves and argue that they are indisputably alive right now.
They don't seem to remember anything from before, though.
I have been searching for centuries. Time is not easy to measure here, but I usually call the space in between each sleep a 'day', and I dutifully mark it down in my journal alongside my record of how many hexagons I passed through that day.
It is curious that while all my other bodily needs are absent, I still feel the need for sleep.
I have a recurring nightmare that the Library rearranges itself while I sleep. Though I fear this is another sign of encroaching madness, I have taken to placing books just outside all six exits, and then checking them in the morning to ensure none of the adjacent hexagons have moved.
So far, none of them have.
My own memories seem to be slipping away, which is why I also record them in the Book of Destiny. Every day, I wake up and I recite my memories. My favorite part is the list of my friends. Fluttershy, Rarity, Applejack, Pinkie Pie, Rainbow... I know there is another part to Rainbow's name... it's something that's always on the tip of my tongue, but never materializes. It is my greatest regret, I think, that I did not write down these memories sooner, that I didn't remember more of them. I think, somehow, that they deserved to be remembered.
Is it in vain, though, writing down my journal and recording my memories? After all, there must be – somewhere – an already-completed copy of my journal, and a more-complete version of my memories, already neatly printed in nine hundred pages and dutifully filed in a neat, straight row next to two books full of gibberish.
I know of one place where ponies have found a book that contains a full three lines of supposedly meaningful words: 'Those managers make him cry. The (corn) you were before is omni-present, much like candy. Sing the sky sat down once more. The body of mind rains heavily. Too long a stick tenderly sees to her child? Wondrous awe would scare any linguist away. To rejoice!'
They worship this book, and venerate it daily. On the back covers of innumerable other books, they have written great dissertations about its meaning. When I passed through their hexagon, they argued with me for hours about the validity of their message, and they insisted that I could offer great insights into the Library's one divine message.
I did not tell them about my Book of Destiny.
I am more inclined to agree with their neighboring sect. In these hexagons, it is believed that any attempt to interpret the meaning of the books is no more valid than trying to predict the future by interpreting the grain of the wood, or of trying to see your soul in ink-blotted pages.
But I still think my Book of Destiny was meant to travel with me. Does that make me mad? I hope that doesn't mean I'm mad already.
In many places, I hear the superstition of a colt – for some reason it is always a colt, though the descriptions of him vary widely – who discovered a single book which clearly and concisely explained every mystery of the Library and our existence in it.
I like to think that these hold some grain of truth. For if the library is infinite, it must contain such a book. And if ponies are infinitely spread throughout it, one of them must eventually find that book.
Yet, though many have heard of this colt, and many search for him, nopony I have ever heard of has ever found him.
I walk to another bookshelf and pick up the proper book. It is not a book of destiny. It is not a book explaining every mystery of the library, nor even a book telling me where I might find him. It is another book of gibberish. The first line begins with 'jje?moU,bp' and it doesn't seem to get much better after that.
I replace the book on the shelf. It is no longer in perfect alignment with the other books on the shelf. I have irrevocably harmed the perfection of the Library... again.
Of course, any book must be in the library... every book must be in the library. Somewhere there is a complete and accurate catalog of the various catalogs of the library... in many other places there are billions of false catalogs, some inaccurate in just one reference, some inaccurate in all.
Not everything is in the Library, after all, in the whole place, there is no such thing as a teacup. I should write that in my book, lest I forget what a teacup was, and how it was used. Though there must be, of course, books about teacups already... and also books whose structures correspond to that of a teacup. Somewhere in the library, there must be a book filled with text-based pictures of teacups on every page.
Because every book is in the Library. Every conceivable book and a billion trillion other books one cannot conceive of.
Sometimes I wonder if all writing, all speaking, all thinking is futile. Because, somewhere in the library, my words and even thoughts are already neatly printed and bound... and somewhere else in the library, there is a perfect and elegant refutation of them, waiting to be read.
When I first realized the utter completeness of the Library, I remembered, I was ecstatic. It was my dream, after all, to have in my possession a Library containing every book ever. Perhaps this is what the Library is, after all... a dream. It is true that the last thing I remember is falling asleep in my hospital bed, Princess Celestia hovering over me with her tired eyes...
I had been happy to think that in my Library, there was no problem that didn't already have a perfect, elegant solution printed in its books, no mystery that could not be explained by its near-infinite pages.
That fell, of course, when I realized just how impossible it would be to ever find those books. The odds of ever coming across any of them could be most easily calculated as zero. To know for certain that they existed, yet also know for certain I would never find them... that thrust me into a depression that lasted for years, until I found the Book of Destiny.
There is no way to cheat. Though my basic levitation still works, advanced magic like gravity spells and teleportation do not seem to work in the Library.
Three times in my stay in the Library, I have found ponies belonging to the sect of the inquisitors. They travel from hexagon to hexagon, always looking weary, always telling stories of a collapsing staircase that almost killed them, or the one time they lost three teammates to a treacherous bookpile that broke no less than four ankles. They would come into a hexagon, lazily leaf through a few volumes, and then move on.
It was obvious they didn't expect to find anything... but still, they looked. They all claim to have come from far in the east. Perhaps that is where the one colt with his magic book came from, and he has sent them out to seek out the second volume? But the inquisitors are always taciturn about their point of origin. They claim to have a vast storehouse of meaningful books there.
I, for one, find their claims dubious. They always say that I must join them in their search if I am ever to see their treasure trove.
At any rate, I cannot turn aside from my own quest. One day, far, far into the future, I will find another book of Destiny, identical in every character. Then, my theory of the infinite and cyclical library will be proven.
I will be the pony who imposed order upon the Library: who discovered the order. The only order that can ever be, of the massive library repeating itself endlessly.
The Pony Who Brought Order would be special. Maybe I could be Princess of the Librarians. Maybe I could be an alicorn again.
It would be nice to fly again. It would make these confounded staircases far easier. I confess, I had become quite accustomed to wings. At least, that's what my carefully recorded memories in the Book of Destiny say.
Or perhaps proving the order of the universe would cause me to be reincarnated back into the world I left, or move on to the next stage of my existence, the next level of the afterlife. Maybe I would keep rising up through layers of afterlives, just as I now rise up through layers of the Library.
Finding the order is my one consoling hope, the one that keeps me from rebelling against this existence, the one that keeps me from losing my mind. Yet, the climb ahead is long... maybe I will lose my mind. I can only hope, then, that some other pony would find the Book of Destiny, that some other pony would take up my quest. If not myself, at least somepony deserves to discover the truth of this place.
The End
