The Midnight Library

She knew she should be experiencing pity and despair for her feline friend—and she was—but she had to acknowledge something else. As she stared at Voltaire’s still and peaceful expression—that total absence of pain—there was an inescapable feeling brewing in the darkness. Envy.

She didn’t correct his knowledge of diamonds. She didn’t tell him that while coal and diamonds are both carbon, coal is too impure to be able, under whatever pressure, to become a diamond. According to science, you start off as coal and you end up as coal. Maybe that was the real life-lesson.

There was an old musician’s cliché, about how there were no wrong notes on a piano. But her life was a cacophony of nonsense. A piece that could have gone in wonderful directions, but now went nowhere at all.

The books were everywhere, on shelves so thin they might as well have been invisible. The books were all green. Greens of multifarious shades. Some of these volumes were a murky swamp green, some a bright and light chartreuse, some a bold emerald and others the verdant shade of summer lawns.

“Doing one thing differently is often the same as doing everything differently. Actions can’t be reversed within a lifetime, however much we try… But you are no longer within a lifetime. You have popped outside. This is your opportunity, Nora, to see how things could be.”

A person was like a city. You couldn’t let a few less desirable parts put you off the whole. There may be bits you don’t like, a few dodgy side streets and suburbs, but the good stuff makes it worthwhile.

“But I still don’t get why you let me go into that life if you knew Volts was going to be dead anyway? You could have told me. You could have just told me I wasn’t a bad cat owner. Why didn’t you?”

“Because, Nora, sometimes the only way to learn is to live.”

She saw some anti-depressants—fluoxetine—beside the basin, and picked up the box. She read Prescription for N. Seed at the top of the label. She looked down at her arm and saw the scars again. It was weird, to have your own body offer clues to a mystery.

“I was shy. It was one of the reasons why I preferred the library to the playing field. It seems a small thing, but it really helped, having that space.”

“Never underestimate the big importance of small things,” Mrs. Elm said. “You must always remember that.”

“Because life is frightening, and it is frightening for a reason, and the reason is that it doesn’t matter which branch of a life we get to live, we are always the same rotten tree. I wanted to be many things in my life. All kinds of things. But if your life is rotten, it will be rotten no matter what you do.”

The lonely mind in the busy city yearns for connection because it thinks human-to-human connection is the point of everything. But amid pure nature (or the ‘tonic of wildness’ as Thoreau called it) solitude took on a different character. It became in itself a kind of connection. A connection between herself and the world. And between her and herself.

There was death. Violent, oblivious death, in bear form, staring at her with its black eyes. And she knew then, more than she’d known anything, that she wasn’t ready to die. This knowledge grew bigger than fear itself as she stood there, face to face with a polar bear, itself hungry and desperate to exist, and banged the ladle against the saucepan.

When you stay too long in a place, you forget just how big an expanse the world is. You get no sense of the length of those longitudes and latitudes. Just as, she supposed, it is hard to have a sense of the vastness inside any one person. But once you sense that vastness, once something reveals it, hope emerges, whether you want it to or not, and it clings to you as stubbornly as lichen clings to rock.

Maybe even the most seemingly perfectly intense or worthwhile lives ultimately felt the same. Acres of disappointment and monotony and hurts and rivalries but with flashes of wonder and beauty. Maybe that was the only meaning that mattered. To be the world, witnessing itself.

“But you will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life,” he said, wisely.

“I mean, it would have made things a lot easier if we understood there was no way of living that can immunize you against sadness. And that sadness is intrinsically part of the fabric of happiness. You can’t have one without the other. Of course, they come in different degrees and quantities. But there is no life where you can be in a state of sheer happiness forever. And imagining there is just breeds more unhappiness in the life you’re in.”

“The game is never over until it is over. It isn’t over if there is a single pawn still on the board. If one side is down to a pawn and a king, and the other side has every player, there is still a game. And even if you were a pawn—maybe we all are—then you should remember that a pawn is the most magical piece of all. It might look small and ordinary but it isn’t. Because a pawn is never just a pawn. A pawn is a queen-in-waiting. All you need to do is find a way to keep moving forward.”

“There are more possible ways to play a game of chess than the amount of atoms in the observable universe. So it gets very messy. And there is no right way to play; there are many ways. In chess, as in life, possibility is the basis of everything.”

It was as though she had reached some state of acceptance about life—that if there was a bad experience, there wouldn’t only be bad experiences. She realized that she hadn’t tried to end her life because she was miserable, but because she had managed to convince herself that there was no way out of her misery.

“I just don’t understand life,” sulked Nora.

“You don’t have to understand life. You just have to live it.”

Nora shook her head. This was a bit too much for a Philosophy graduate to take.

She sensed that, for all the perfection here, there was something wrong amid the rightness. And the thing that was wrong couldn’t be fixed because the flaw was the rightness itself. Everything was right, and yet she hadn’t earned this. She had joined the movie halfway. She had taken the book from the library, but truthfully, she didn’t own it. She was watching her life as if from behind a window. She was, she began to feel, a fraud.

But the sun was out now, as she neared the station, and it seemed that she had been looking at the place wrong all these years. As she passed the statue of the prison reformer John Howard in St. Paul’s Square, with the trees all around her and the river just behind, refracting light, she marveled at it as if she were seeing it for the first time. It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.

What sometimes feels like a trap is actually just a trick of the mind. She didn’t need a vineyard or a Californian sunset to be happy. She didn’t even need a large house and the perfect family. She just needed potential. And she was nothing if not potential. She wondered why she had never seen it before.

It is quite a revelation to discover that the place you wanted to escape to is the exact same place you escaped from. That the prison wasn’t the place, but the perspective. And the most peculiar discovery Nora made was that, of all the extremely divergent variations of herself she had experienced, the most radical sense of change happened within the exact same life. The one she began and ended with.

“You’re going to win this,” Nora observed.

Mrs. Elm’s eyes sparkled with sudden life. “Well, that’s the beauty, isn’t it? You just never know how it ends.”

And Nora smiled as she stared at all the pieces she still had left in play, thinking about her next move.