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VIRTUAL LIBRARY
E-mail isn't perfect. Although Internet providers probably do their best
to protect us from receiving unwanted messages, there seems to be no
remedy. Whenever I open up the in-box on my screen, I almost always find
at least one from an unknown sender. Usually there are several; the record
was thirteen junk mail messages, sent over just a few hours, in between
two sessions at the computer.
When that happened I really got irritated and changed my e-address,
despite considerable inconvenience. I gave my new address only to a small
number of people, but to no avail. The pesky e-mails soon began to arrive
once again. I complained to my provider, who admitted in a roundabout way
that they could do nothing to help. They advised me just to delete
everything that didn't interest me, particularly since dangerous computer
viruses often spread through junk mail.
The recommendation was unnecessary as I had already been deleting my junk
mail, even though I was unaware of the viruses. At first, I'd read these
messages in bewilderment, but after I realized what was going on, I
deleted every e-message of unknown origin without delay. I didn't even
give them a cursory reading, in spite of the fact that the senders took
all kinds of pains to attract my attention. Bombastic, flickering headings
with fancy, ostentatious illustrations advertised a variety of exceptional
offers not to be missed at any cost.
One proposal, for example, would make me rich overnight if I invested
money through a glamorous-sounding agency from some Pacific Rim country I
had never heard of. Or, after a two-week correspondence course, I could
become a preacher in any Christian church I wanted, authorized to carry
out baptismal, wedding, and funeral rites. I also had the opportunity,
regardless of my age, to turn back the clock twenty-five years using some
new macrobiotic remedy. I was offered the unique opportunity, for the
modest commission of forty-nine percent, to finally get hold of the money
that had been awarded to me by the court, if I had any such claims. I
could also satisfy my assumed passion for gambling at any hour of the day
or night, playing in some virtual casino guaranteed to be honest. Finally,
to top it all off, I was offered at a mere pittance, under the counter,
two and a half million verified, active e-addresses to which I could send
whatever I wanted as many times as I wanted.
Perhaps the e-mail that started it all would have ended up in the recycle
bin, along with the others, if it had not been so brief that I
inadvertently read it. Against a black background, devoid of decoration,
the first line announced: VIRTUAL LIBRARY in large, yellow letters, while
under it the slogan "We have everything!"—written in considerably smaller
blue letters—did not exactly assume the aggressive tone typical of this
type of message.
Of all the exaggeration I had come across on the Internet, this one took
the cake. Really, "everything!" Such a claim would be absurd even for web
sites from the largest world libraries. Whoever had come up with this
scheme certainly had no notion of how many books have been published in
the last five thousand years. No one has ever managed to put such a
library together in one place, even without all those works that have
disappeared into oblivion.
And then there was that word "virtual." Used in its truest sense,
"virtual" should mean a library composed of electronic books. The Internet
has several sites containing such e-editions and I visit them from time to
time. But they offer slim pickings. Only several hundred titles are
available, just a drop in the ocean compared to "everything" in the
literal sense. Who would even dare to hope that this vast multitude could
ever be transferred into computer form? And who would ever find it worth
the effort?
Although I was convinced this must be a hoax, my curiosity stopped me from
proceeding as usual. If it had involved anything other than books, I would
have ignored the message without a second thought. But for a writer this
was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Instead of deleting the
message, I positioned the cursor on the text. The arrow turned into a hand
with a raised index finger and I found myself at the Virtual Library site.
The change was barely noticeable. The background stayed black, with two
small additions appearing under the name of the site and the slogan. The
first was the standard search field: a narrow white rectangular space in
which to type the search text. This, however, could not be the title of a
work or some other data, since the word "Author" appeared at the
beginning. I shook my head. More sophisticated capabilities were to be
expected from a library that prided itself on being the "ultimate." At the
very bottom of the screen was a short e-address.
I typed in my own name. This was not out of vanity, although it might have
appeared so. I chose myself because, obviously, I am most familiar with my
own work. If the Virtual Library truly contained what it claimed in its
slogan, then my three books should be no exception. I am certainly not a
well-known or popular writer, but I still should be included in a library
containing all authors. In such a place there should be no discrimination
of any type.
There were two possible outcomes. If the search did not produce the
expected result, which was quite likely, then the whole thing was probably
a practical joke. Someone had decided to have some fun at the expense of
writers, or perhaps publishers, critics, librarians, bookshop owners, and
the book world in general. Who knew what kind of trick might be played
instead of a page listing my works. But I had no right to complain; no one
had forced me to visit the site. A joke would serve me right for not
minding my own business.
If, however, my books appeared in electronic form, then the situation was
considerably worse. I had not ceded my rights to anyone for such
publication, which would mean they were pirated editions. That would
really be a problem. The Internet is inundated with this type of abuse,
and as far as I have heard, protection from it is just as difficult as
protection from unwanted e-messages.
If my work did exist in the Virtual Library, the search would have to last
some time. Regardless of increases in computer speed, the gigantic corpus
involved could certainly not be searched momentarily. But that is just
what happened. As soon as I clicked the mouse to begin the search, a new
page appeared on the screen. This time it had a gray background, with
black and white writing. A smaller picture also appeared in color,
disturbing the uniformity.
At first, I thought that the speed with which it had been found was a sure
sign of something fishy. But when I found myself squinting at my own face
on the screen, a shudder ran down my spine. That was me, no doubt about
it, although I had no idea when and where the picture had been taken. I
appeared to be somewhat younger, but it was hard to tell how much younger.
Under the picture, on the left side of the screen, I found a brief
biography. All the information was correct, except for the end. Unless
something had happened without my noticing it, I was still very much
alive. The facts about my death, though, were strangely undefined. The
word "died" was followed by nine different years, separated by commas.
Unlike the black letters before them, these numbers were white. The
closest year was a decade and a half in the future, while the most distant
was almost half a century away. Whoever had edited the entry obviously had
a morbid sense of humor.
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