Fiction
Sinner . . .
The door opened with a cracking noise. He slammed the door behind him. The library is dark and ancient, so dark that sometimes it seems something is hiding behind those shelves. The library room is filled with gravity and silence. So intense is the silence that one can hear if one carefully listens to it. Nowadays he does not get time to come here. The bookshelves are covered with dust and spider webs. It seems no one has come into this library room for centuries. Indeed, no one is permitted to, because he does not allow anyone else to come here. The writer stood in front of a bookshelf. All are interesting books, a bizarre collection. Some insistent books are leaning forward and pleading to him to read them, "Read me! Read me!" …. ancient books written by the age-old authors. They don't want to be unread, none of them. He moved away and went near another bookshelf. The writer kept standing in front of this one for moments; these books have been bought and collected from different places, from all over the world. So many memories are related with these books. Once collecting books was his passion. There was a time when he could travel all over the world only for a book… Some books here are gifts from friends and well wishers. And from colleagues too. Besides contemporary and classic novels the writer has a tremendous collection of rare manuscripts. History, art, literature, politics, medicine, philosophy…books of all disciplines can be found here. The writer only likes his own books. When his own writings are printed in black and white he feels a strange amazement. Despite the fact that he is getting older with time, this feeling does not change. It is like an obsession, like an addiction it fills his mind. He likes to read his own writings again and again. He does not get pleasure and satisfaction when he reads others' writings. He indulges himself in self-obsession and infatuation with his own works. When he reads his published novels for the first time, he thinks about himself. "I'm reading now what I've written…" Then he reads the book for the second time. This time he thinks about his readers. If the readers had not read his books then who would but himself? He feels an indescribable gratitude towards the readers; his eyes brim with tears. He feels an eagerness to know what the millions of readers think about his novel the moment they read it. To live those million moments he reads the book once again. He feels good thinking of himself as one of his readers. "They've also read what I am reading now…" He feels it is all amazing……..he feels proud. A kind of arrogance takes over. He does not like anyone else's writings but his own. Again, guilt takes shape in his mind. He feels a strange restlessness and suffers from a conflict of emotions. Drops of sweat gathered on his forehead. ……….books......books……....books……… So many books and still no one to read them. He does not read others' books. So many famous writers have written so many legendary books. What immense efforts they made to enrich the world's literature! They left their legendary works behind them; their works have made them immortal. But like a selfish little insect he does not read those great books by the great authors, maybe because he does not want to read them. There was a time when he was fond of reading. There was a time when this writer felt lucky if he could only touch the books of those great authors. Now he has changed. Now he thinks of himself as one of them. He has the burden of his own books; he cannot read books written by others. Why can't he read? Is he illiterate? Are those books invisible to him? Why? Or he is blind with audacity and pride? It is as if all the doors and windows of his mind have been closed for centuries. He has been deprived of the light and air of knowledge for years. His self obsession, his self satisfaction, has now turned into aggressive and destructive pride. Pride, one of the deadliest sins! "Oh! What a sinner I am!" He suddenly thought to himself. Then suddenly he felt suffocation. "It's so stifling here I can't breathe, and why is the room so dark? It isn't supposed to be like this." He felt an urge to read. But to read he needed sufficient light and the library was so dark! He stood up and opened all the doors and windows of the room, one by one. The sunlight entered and flooded away all the darkness in a moment without even wavering... He had iron oxide on his fingers from the old door knobs and window latches but he was not bothered. The writer finally found his peace of mind. He chose a book and cleared the dust off it, then sat in his armchair in the soft and bright sunlight of the winter morning with the book opened on his lap. And no… the book is definitely not written by a "sinner".
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