HOMER & POE
Two Poets.
Three Thousand Years. Eight Billion Voices. & Precious Little Listening.
A Midnight Conversation
in the Library of Congress
A tale of words, wisdom, technology, humanity, and the extraordinary ability of mankind to say absolutely everything while understanding almost nothing.
Chapter One: The Night the Books Began to Whisper
There are certain places in this world where time behaves rather badly.
Old churches, ancient forests, forgotten railway stations, dusty theatres and, occasionally, libraries.
Especially libraries.
For a library is not merely a building filled with books.
It is a building filled with people who refuse to die.
Shakespeare still argues with kings.
Dickens continues to expose poverty.
Jane Austen quietly observes the absurdities of human behaviour. Oscar Wilde remains gloriously unimpressed by respectable society.
Somewhere on a shelf, a philosopher who has been dead for two thousand years is still waiting for someone to disagree with him.
Which is rather remarkable when you think about it.
The dead are not supposed to be so talkative.
Yet humanity has spent thousands of years carefully preserving their words while frequently ignoring the wisdom contained within them.
A curious habit.
But then, humanity is a curious species.
It invents magnificent things, discovers extraordinary truths, builds astonishing machines, and then uses a considerable proportion of its intelligence to argue with strangers about matters of absolutely no consequence.
One suspects the universe occasionally watches in disbelief.
It was precisely midnight when something unusual occurred inside the magnificent Library of Congress in Washington, D.C.
The last visitors had departed.
The librarians had finished their duties.
The great reading room lay silent beneath its magnificent dome.
Thousands upon thousands of books stood patiently upon their shelves.
History.
Science.
Poetry.
Philosophy.
Religion.
Politics.
Fiction.
Fact.
Somewhere among them, an alarming quantity of material that could comfortably be described as fiction masquerading as fact.
Outside, Washington continued its restless existence.
The machinery of government turned.
Televisions flickered.
Telephones rang.
Messages travelled through invisible networks.
Somewhere, a politician was making a promise.
Somewhere else, another was explaining why the previous promise had been misunderstood.
Throughout the world, billions of human beings were communicating.
Or at least making noises.
There is, as we shall discover, a considerable difference.
At one of the great reading tables sat a rather pale gentleman.
He was dressed entirely in black.
His hair was neatly arranged, his expression thoughtful, his eyes dark and penetrating.
Before him lay a small rectangular object.
It glowed.
The gentleman regarded it with profound suspicion.
His name was
Edgar Allan Poe.
He was having a thoroughly unpleasant encounter with the twenty-first century.
"Extraordinary,"
he murmured.
He touched the glass.
The object responded.
He touched it again.
More words appeared.
He frowned.
"An illuminated slate without chalk. A book without paper. A messenger without legs."
He paused.
"Apparently without manners."
The object had just informed him that his password was incorrect.
"Sir," Poe whispered to the machine, "I have been dead for nearly two centuries. Surely some allowance might be made."
The machine remained unmoved.
A familiar experience for anyone who has ever attempted to communicate with modern technology.
Eventually, through a combination of accident, persistence and a rather undignified amount of poking, Poe succeeded in opening a webpage.
His own name appeared.
EDGAR ALLAN POE.
Below it were thousands of references.
Articles.
Portraits.
Biographies.
Interpretations.
Adaptations.
Videos.
Merchandise.
A mug bearing his face.
Poe stared.
"A mug?"
He examined the image.
"My literary immortality has apparently resulted in a drinking vessel."
He scrolled further.
There were T-shirts.
Posters.
Novelty socks.
A candle advertised as smelling like a haunted library.
Poe closed his eyes.
"I devoted my existence to exploring the darkest chambers of the human soul, and mankind has rewarded me with scented wax."
From the darkness behind him came a voice.
"At least they remember you."
Poe turned.
Standing beside the table was an elderly gentleman wearing a long Greek robe.
His beard was white.
His face was weathered.
His expression suggested that he had witnessed a great deal of human foolishness and had long since stopped being surprised.
He carried a wooden staff.
Poe rose.
"Sir, you startled me."
"My apologies."
"May I enquire who
you are?"
"Homer."
Poe hesitated.
"The Homer?"
"I am unaware of another."
Poe glanced at the glowing telephone.
"I regret to inform you that there is another.
A yellow gentleman of considerable girth who apparently works in a nuclear power station."
Homer considered this.
"Is he a philosopher?"
"Not intentionally."
"A warrior?"
"Only when deprived
of beer."
"Then I shall not consider him a rival."
Poe smiled.
"Please, sit."
Homer lowered himself into the chair opposite.
He examined the telephone.
"What manner of object is that?"
"A device through which mankind may communicate with anyone, anywhere, almost instantly."
Homer leaned forward.
"Anyone?"
"Apparently."
"Across oceans?"
"Yes."
"Across kingdoms?"
"Yes."
"Across the entire Earth?"
"Yes."
Homer sat back.
For several moments he said nothing.
Then, softly:
"By the gods."
Poe nodded.
"Quite."
Homer looked towards the bookshelves.
"Then mankind has finally accomplished what every storyteller has dreamed of."
"What is that?"
"To have the whole world gathered around one fire."
Poe looked at the telephone.
"Indeed."
He paused.
"Unfortunately, they appear to be spending much of their time throwing stones at one another."
Chapter Two: When Words Had to Walk
Homer rose and began walking slowly around the table.
"Tell me, Edgar.
How long does it take for a story to travel from this city to Athens?"
"Less than a second."
Homer stopped.
"A second?"
"Yes."
"Even if the story is long?"
"Even if it is very long."
Homer looked offended.
"My Iliad is very long."
"I am aware."
"My Odyssey."
"Also rather substantial."
"Yet you tell me both may travel across the world in a moment?"
"Indeed."
Homer lowered himself into his chair.
"Then your age has defeated distance."
"It has."
"Remarkable."
"Quite."
"How much does it cost?"
"Sometimes nothing."
Homer stared.
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
The old poet shook his head.
"In my time, a story travelled upon the breath of a man. It crossed mountains in his memory. It sailed oceans in his imagination.
It survived because someone loved it enough to remember."
Poe listened.
"A storyteller might spend years carrying a poem from city to city," Homer continued. "Each telling was an event. People gathered. Children listened.
Elders corrected. Warriors boasted.
Lovers wept."
"Now?"
"Now," Poe replied, "A person may publish a poem while sitting upon a lavatory."
Homer blinked.
"A what?"
"A private chamber devoted to certain necessary bodily functions."
Homer stared at him.
"You are telling me that the words of poets may now be sent around the world while their authors are relieving themselves?"
"Frequently."
Homer contemplated this revelation.
Then he burst into laughter.
It was a magnificent laugh.
Deep.
Warm.
Entirely unrestrained.
Poe watched him with amusement.
"Does this not offend you?"
"Offend me?
My dear Edgar, the gods themselves would have appreciated such convenience!"
He wiped his eyes.
"Imagine Zeus sending thunderbolts while seated upon his throne."
"That, I fear, is precisely what certain modern politicians imagine themselves doing."
Homer laughed again.
But then his expression became thoughtful.
"In my day, words were precious because they were difficult to preserve."
"Indeed."
"One remembered what mattered."
"Or what one believed mattered."
"Quite so. Memory is not always honest."
Poe nodded.
"Nor is the printed page."
Homer regarded the surrounding shelves.
"Yet look at this place. Millions of words, perhaps billions, gathered together.
The thoughts of the dead.
The dreams of the living. The arguments of civilizations."
"An extraordinary achievement."
“ Now you tell me that all of this may be carried in a man's pocket?"
"Much of it."
Homer looked again at the telephone.
"Then every man may become a scholar."
Poe's expression darkened slightly.
"Every man may gain access to scholarship."
"Is there a difference?"
"A considerable one."
"Explain."
"Possessing a library does not make a man wise, Homer. Any more than possessing a sword makes him courageous."
Homer smiled.
"That is well said."
"Thank you."
"But surely the opportunity is magnificent?"
"Without question."
"Then why do you look so troubled?"
Poe picked up the telephone.
"Because mankind has been given access to almost everything it has ever learned."
"And?"
"It has also been given the means to spread almost everything it has ever misunderstood."
Homer considered this.
"Then the problem is not the machine."
"No."
"It is the man holding it."
"Precisely."
Homer leaned back.
"Some things, Edgar, never change."
Chapter Three: The Raven Becomes a Chicken
Poe had recovered sufficiently from his technological ordeal to demonstrate another extraordinary invention.
Instant translation.
"Observe," he said.
He opened a translation application.
He typed a few lines from The Raven.
He selected Greek.
The words changed immediately.
Homer leaned forward.
His eyes widened.
"Remarkable."
Poe selected French.
Then Arabic.
Then Japanese.
Then Spanish.
The words transformed before them.
Homer was astonished.
"You mean a man who has never learned your language may now read your poetry?"
"That is the intention."
"And my work?"
"The same."
"Everywhere?"
"In many languages,yes."
Homer sat silently.
For once, the old storyteller appeared almost overcome.
"Then the walls between peoples have grown thinner."
"Indeed."
"A shepherd in one country may hear the songs of another."
"Yes."
"A child may discover heroes whose names were once unknown beyond their own shores."
"Yes."
"A lonely man may find comfort in the words of someone who lived thousands of years before him."
Poe nodded.
"That is perhaps the greatest gift."
Homer smiled.
"Then I approve."
Poe raised a finger.
"Not so quickly."
He pressed another button.
The telephone began reading a translated passage aloud.
The result was technically understandable.
It was also, to Poe's ears, an act of literary vandalism.
He winced.
Homer listened politely.
Then frowned.
"Why does your raven sound like a tax collector?"
Poe sighed.
"Because the machine has preserved the meaning of certain words while losing their music."
"Ah."
"Poetry is not merely information."
"Indeed."
"It is rhythm. Breath. Silence. Suggestion.
The space between words."
Homer nodded enthusiastically.
"A story has a heartbeat."
"Precisely."
"Without the heartbeat,
it is merely a corpse dressed in language."
Poe looked delighted.
"That is an excellent description."
Homer leaned closer.
"Tell me, Edgar, does your raven still say 'Nevermore'?"
"Naturally."
"What does the machine make of it?"
Poe examined the screen.
"It depends upon the language."
"Does it retain the sorrow?"
"Not always."
"The finality?"
"Not entirely."
"The dreadful sense that something loved has gone beyond recall?"
Poe lowered the telephone.
"No machine can guarantee that."
Homer nodded.
"Then translation is rather like transporting wine from one vessel to another."
"How so?"
"Some of the wine survives. Some is spilled, occasionally someone adds water."
Poe laughed.
"Or vinegar."
"Indeed."
For several moments they considered the problem.
Then Homer spoke.
"Yet surely an imperfect translation is better than no translation at all?"
Poe hesitated.
"Often, yes."
"Then perhaps we should not complain too loudly."
"Why?"
"Because a child who first encounters a story through an imperfect translation may one day learn the language in which it was written."
Poe smiled.
"An excellent point."
"Even if he does not, he may still find something beautiful."
"Yes."
"Then the machine has opened a door."
"Even if it occasionally damages the furniture."
"Precisely."
Poe looked at the telephone.
"Still, I would prefer my raven not to resemble a disgruntled chicken."
Homer stroked his beard.
"Perhaps the chicken has suffered a tragedy of its own."
Poe laughed.
"Then let it write its own poem."
Chapter Four: The Death of the Love Letter
A few minutes later,
Poe discovered text messaging.
This proved unfortunate.
He read the screen.
Then read it again.
His expression became one of profound despair.
"Homer."
"Yes?"
"What does 'LOL' mean?"
Homer considered.
"Lord of Lightning?"
"No."
"Legions of Laconia?"
"No."
"Love of Life?"
Poe sighed.
"Apparently, 'laughing out loud.'"
Homer smiled.
"A cheerful sentiment."
"Perhaps. But observe the sentence."
He showed Homer the message.
OMG LOL U R SO FUNNY.
Homer studied it.
"Is this a military code?"
"No."
"A merchant's shorthand?"
"No."
"A message written by someone suffering a serious injury to the hand?"
"Apparently not."
"Then why are half the letters missing?"
"Convenience."
Homer frowned.
"Convenience?"
"Yes."
"Have they become so busy that they cannot afford vowels?"
Poe nodded solemnly.
"It would appear so."
Homer shook his head.
"In my day, men spent years learning to recite verses."
"In mine, men spent hours composing letters."
"Now?"
"Now a declaration of affection may consist of a small red heart."
Homer looked interested.
"A painted heart?"
"An electronic symbol."
"How curious."
Poe opened another message.
A tiny yellow face appeared.
It was crying with laughter.
Homer examined it.
"Is the little fellow in distress?"
"Apparently he is amused."
"Then why is he weeping?"
"Because he is very amused."
"How does one distinguish him from someone experiencing genuine sorrow?"
"Context."
Homer nodded.
"Ah. So mankind has invented a new form of writing which requires interpretation."
"Yes."
"Then we have returned to the beginning."
Poe laughed despite himself.
But the conversation soon turned towards romance.
"Tell me," Homer asked, "how does a man court a woman in this age?"
Poe examined the telephone.
"Apparently, he may send her a message."
"Naturally."
"Or an image."
"Of what?"
"Sometimes himself."
"An honourable portrait?"
"Not invariably."
Homer raised an eyebrow.
"Ah."
Poe continued scrolling.
"Here is an example of a romantic introduction."
He read aloud.
"'Hey. U up?'"
Silence.
Homer stared.
"That is all?"
"Yes."
"Where is the praise of her beauty?"
"Absent."
"The declaration of longing?"
"Missing."
"The promise of devotion?"
"Nowhere to be found."
"The appeal to Aphrodite?"
"Not mentioned."
Homer shook his head.
"Then what is the gentleman offering?"
Poe looked at the screen.
"Very little, it would seem, beyond evidence that he is awake."
Homer sighed.
"Poor Aphrodite. She must be unemployed."
Poe smiled sadly.
"In my day, a letter might be written, rewritten, sealed, carried and awaited. The anticipation itself became part of the affection."
"Indeed."
"A woman might keep a letter for decades."
"Yes."
"Read it again when she was lonely."
"Yes."
"Hold the paper because the hand of the beloved had once touched it."
Homer's expression softened.
"That is beautiful."
Poe nodded.
"Now the message may disappear in seconds."
Homer looked thoughtful.
"But is the affection necessarily less sincere?"
Poe hesitated.
"No."
"Could a small heart upon a screen comfort a lonely person?"
"Certainly."
"Could a message sent across an ocean prevent despair?"
"Yes."
"Could two lovers separated by war speak to one another instantly?"
Poe's expression changed.
"Yes."
Homer smiled.
"Then perhaps we should not mourn the death of the love letter quite yet."
Poe looked at him.
"You are rather more charitable towards modern humanity than I expected."
Homer shrugged.
"I have written of men who crossed oceans, fought monsters, angered gods and endured twenty years of hardship to return to the people they loved."
"And?"
"If Odysseus had possessed that little machine, Penelope might have enjoyed a considerably less stressful marriage."
Poe burst into laughter.
"Although," Homer added, "I suspect she would have demanded to know precisely where he had been."
Chapter Five: Everybody Is a Poet
By one o'clock, the two gentlemen had discovered social media.
Homer was fascinated.
Poe was appalled.
They sat before the telephone as thousands of messages appeared.
Opinions.
Photographs.
Poems.
Arguments.
Advertisements.
Confessions.
Complaints.
Declarations.
Astonishing acts of kindness.
Spectacular displays of foolishness.
An almost inexhaustible supply of people offering advice upon subjects about which they knew remarkably little.
Homer stared.
"Who are all these people?"
"Everyone, apparently."
"They may all publish their thoughts?"
"Yes."
"Without permission?"
"Generally."
"Without the approval of a king?"
"Yes."
"Without the consent of a priest?"
"Yes."
"Without paying a printer?"
"Often."
Homer's eyes shone.
"Then this is magnificent!"
Poe looked unconvinced.
"Is it?"
"Of course! Every shepherd may sing. Every servant may speak. Every woman whose voice was once dismissed may now tell her story."
Poe considered this.
"That is true."
"Every child may share a poem."
"Yes."
"Every forgotten village may tell the world what has happened there."
"Yes."
"Then the powerful no longer possess exclusive control of the public voice."
"Not exclusive control."
Homer smiled.
"A remarkable achievement."
Poe scrolled further.
"Unfortunately, freedom to speak has not automatically produced wisdom in what is spoken."
Homer leaned closer.
A gentleman was arguing furiously about the correct way to prepare tea.
Another was declaring that an ancient civilization had been constructed by visitors from another planet.
A third insisted that the Earth was flat.
Homer stared.
"Flat?"
"Apparently."
"But surely they have travelled around it?"
"Many have."
"Observed it from above?"
"Indeed."
"Possess instruments capable of examining the heavens?"
"Yes."
Homer shook his head.
"Then why does the gentleman believe it flat?"
Poe sighed.
"Because he has discovered a group of people who agree with him."
Homer considered this.
"Ah."
He leaned back.
"That is an old problem."
"Very old."
"In my day, a man could persuade himself of almost anything if enough companions praised his wisdom."
"And in mine."
"And now?"
"Now he can find thousands of companions without leaving his chair."
Homer looked impressed.
"Then foolishness has become remarkably efficient."
Poe smiled.
"Precisely."
They continued reading.
A young woman had published a poem about the death of her mother.
It was simple.
Unpolished.
Painfully sincere.
Thousands of strangers had responded with kindness.
Poe read it silently.
Then again.
His expression softened.
"That," he said, "is beautiful."
Homer nodded.
"It is."
"Not technically perfect."
"No."
"Not particularly sophisticated."
"No."
"But honest."
"Yes."
Poe looked towards the shelves.
"Perhaps I have been too severe."
Homer smiled.
"Poetry was never intended to belong only to poets."
"Explain."
"Before there were books, there were songs. Before there were scholars, there were mothers singing to children. Before there were monuments, there were people telling stories beside fires."
Poe nodded.
"The art belongs to humanity."
"Precisely."
Homer pointed towards the telephone.
"Perhaps this strange invention has returned storytelling to the people."
Poe considered the thought.
"That would be a splendid achievement."
"Then why do you look troubled?"
"Because the same invention that allows a grieving daughter to share her sorrow also allows a cruel stranger to mock it."
Homer's smile faded.
"Ah."
"The stranger may do so without revealing his name."
Homer stared.
"Without showing his face?"
"Yes."
"Without standing before the person he wounds?"
"Yes."
"Without witnessing the tears he causes?"
"Yes."
Homer sat silently.
Then he spoke with unexpected severity.
"In my world, men often committed terrible deeds. But at least many had to look upon the consequences."
Poe nodded.
"Distance has made cruelty convenient."
Homer looked at the glowing screen.
"Then your age has given every man a voice."
"Yes."
"But it has not necessarily given him a conscience."
"No."
The old poet sighed.
"That, Edgar, may be the greater invention still awaiting mankind."
Chapter Six: The Machine That Writes Poetry
At half past one, the poets encountered artificial intelligence.
This produced the evening's most extraordinary argument.
Poe examined the explanation upon the screen.
"A machine that can compose poetry?"
"Apparently,"
Homer replied.
"Stories?"
"Yes."
"Essays?"
"Yes."
"Letters?"
"Yes."
"Even speeches?"
"Apparently."
Homer looked delighted.
"Then perhaps mankind has finally invented a servant capable of composing the speeches of kings."
Poe raised an eyebrow.
"One might argue that mankind has employed such servants for centuries."
Homer laughed.
"But this one requires no salary?"
"Not exactly."
"Does it eat?"
"No."
"Sleep?"
"No."
"Grow tired?"
"No."
"Demand wine?"
"Not yet."
Homer shook his head.
"An extraordinary creature."
"Not necessarily a creature."
"Then what is it?"
"A system trained upon enormous quantities of information, capable of producing language in response to instructions."
Homer considered this.
"Like a student who has read every book in the library?"
"An imperfect comparison, but useful."
"Can it think?"
Poe hesitated.
"That depends upon what one means by thinking."
"Can it feel?"
"We cannot simply assume that it experiences feelings as humans do."
"Can it love?"
"That is a more difficult question than its advertisements might suggest."
Homer smiled.
"Then let us test it."
Poe opened a conversation.
He typed:
Write a poem about grief.
Words appeared.
Quickly.
Very quickly.
The result was elegant.
Rhythmic.
Full of sorrowful imagery.
Homer read it.
Poe read it.
Neither spoke for several moments.
Then Homer said:
"It is not without beauty."
"No."
"Nor without skill."
"No."
"Yet something troubles you."
Poe folded his hands.
"When I wrote of grief, Homer, I wrote from the landscape of a life marked by loss."
"Yes."
"The machine can arrange words describing sorrow."
"Yes."
"But does it know what it is to stand beside an empty bed?"
Homer looked thoughtful.
"Perhaps not."
"To hear a familiar footstep that will never return?"
"No."
"To reach instinctively for a hand that is no longer there?"
Homer lowered his eyes.
"Those are human experiences."
"Precisely."
Homer considered this.
"But must the maker of a beautiful thing experience everything that the beautiful thing describes?"
Poe looked up.
"An interesting question."
"A sculptor may carve a lion without ever having been a lion."
"Indeed."
"A painter may depict the sea without ever having drowned."
"True."
"A storyteller may describe a battle he never witnessed."
Poe smiled.
"You have rather neatly described much of my profession."
"And mine."
They laughed.
Homer continued.
"Perhaps the question is not whether the machine has suffered."
"Then what is it?"
"Whether its words can help someone who has."
Poe was silent.
Homer pointed towards the screen.
"If a lonely woman reads those lines and finds comfort, is the comfort false?"
"No."
"If a grieving father finds words he could not find for himself, are those words worthless?"
"Certainly not."
"Then the machine may have a place."
Poe nodded slowly.
"Yes. But there is another danger."
"What?"
"That mankind may become so accustomed to having machines produce its words that it forgets how to discover its own."
Homer frowned.
"Explain."
"Writing is not merely the act of placing words upon a page."
"No."
"It is often the process through which we discover what we believe."
"Yes."
"Sometimes we begin a sentence without knowing how it will end."
"Indeed."
"In struggling to finish it, we discover something about ourselves."
Homer smiled.
"Like a traveller who finds a country he did not know existed."
"Exactly."
Poe looked at the machine.
"If every difficulty is removed, every awkward sentence corrected, every uncertainty resolved before it has been explored, what happens to the human mind?"
Homer sat back.
"Perhaps it grows lazy."
"Perhaps."
"Or perhaps it gains time for greater thoughts."
"Also possible."
"Then the machine is neither salvation nor damnation."
"No."
"It is a tool."
"Yes."
"Like a sword."
"Or a pen."
Homer nodded.
"A sword may defend a child or murder one."
"And a pen may expose injustice or manufacture lies."
"Then what matters is the hand."
"And the intention behind it."
The two poets regarded the telephone.
Finally, Homer smiled.
"Ask it something else."
"What?"
"Ask it whether it believes itself a poet."
Poe typed the question.
The response explained that it could generate poetry but did not possess a human life or personal experiences.
Homer laughed.
"At least it is modest."
Poe smiled.
"A quality not universally shared by human poets."
"Nor by human beings generally."
They sat quietly.
Then Homer spoke again.
"Edgar?"
"Yes?"
"If mankind can now command machines to write poetry, perhaps it should spend more time learning why poetry matters."
Poe looked towards the dome.
"That, my friend, would be a worthy ambition."
Chapter Seven: The Marketplace of Attention
By two o'clock, Homer had discovered that modern communication was not simply about sharing information.
It was also about attracting attention.
This fascinated him.
"Explain this word," he said.
"Which word?"
"'Viral.'"
Poe examined the screen.
"It means that something spreads rapidly among large numbers of people."
"Like a plague?"
"An unfortunate but appropriate comparison."
Homer nodded.
"So what must a person do to become viral?"
"Almost anything, apparently."
"Write a magnificent poem?"
"Possibly."
"Discover a cure for disease?"
"Perhaps."
"Perform an act of extraordinary courage?"
"Certainly."
"Fall into a fountain while attempting to photograph himself?"
"Very possibly."
Homer stared.
"Then the fountain may prove more successful than the poem?"
"Considerably."
Homer looked offended.
"By Apollo!"
Poe smiled.
"The modern world has developed elaborate systems for measuring attention."
"How?"
"By counting how many people view, approve of, share or respond to something."
Homer considered this.
"Then popularity is measured numerically."
"Yes."
"Wisdom?"
"Not so easily."
"Beauty?"
"Also difficult."
"Truth?"
"Sometimes rather poorly."
Homer stroked his beard.
"Then a lie repeated by a million people may appear more important than a truth spoken by one."
Poe nodded.
"That is one of the dangers."
Homer looked towards the bookshelves.
"In my day, a storyteller could hold an audience for hours."
"Indeed."
"The listeners had to remain."
"Yes."
"They had to imagine."
"Yes."
"They had to remember."
"Yes."
"Now?"
"Now a person may abandon a story after three seconds."
Homer looked genuinely astonished.
"Three seconds?"
"Sometimes less."
"Before the hero has even left home?"
"Before he has put on his sandals."
Homer shook his head.
"Then Odysseus would never reach Troy."
Poe laughed.
"Nor return from it."
"Achilles?"
"Would be interrupted by an advertisement."
Homer sighed.
"Poor Achilles. His temper was already troublesome."
Poe continued.
"Modern technology competes relentlessly for human attention. Images, sounds, messages, notifications, advertisements, entertainment. All arriving continuously."
"Why?"
"Because attention has commercial value."
Homer frowned.
"Human attention is sold?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"To whom?"
"Advertisers, businesses and others seeking influence."
Homer sat very still.
"Then the marketplace no longer sells merely goods."
"No."
"It sells the moments of a man's life."
Poe looked at him.
"An unsettling way to describe it."
"Is it inaccurate?"
"Not entirely."
Homer gazed around the room.
"How many years does a man possess, Edgar?"
"No one knows."
"How many mornings?"
"An uncertain number."
"How many conversations with his children?"
"Far fewer than he imagines."
"How many sunsets?"
"Again, uncertain."
Homer pointed towards the telephone.
"Yet he gives away hours of those precious moments staring at this little object?"
"Frequently."
"Why?"
"Sometimes for knowledge. Sometimes companionship. Sometimes pleasure. Sometimes habit."
"And sometimes?"
"Because the systems are designed to encourage him to remain."
Homer sighed.
"Then the Sirens have learned a new song."
Poe smiled.
"A splendid comparison."
"In my Odyssey, Odysseus had himself bound to the mast so that he might hear the Sirens without surrendering to them."
"Yes."
"Perhaps modern mankind should occasionally bind its telephone to the mast instead."
Poe laughed.
"Preferably a mast some distance from the bedroom."
Homer nodded.
"Especially at night."
They fell silent.
Then Poe said:
"Yet we must be careful not to condemn all new forms of entertainment."
"Naturally."
"People have always enjoyed diversion."
"Of course."
"Even in your day."
Homer grinned.
"My dear Edgar, I made a considerable portion of my reputation entertaining people."
“I wrote tales intended to disturb them."
"Then perhaps our complaint is not that humanity seeks entertainment."
"No."
"It is that entertainment may consume the time once reserved for contemplation."
Poe nodded.
"Contemplation is where understanding begins."
Chapter Eight: The Words That Start Wars
At twenty minutes past two, the conversation grew darker.
It began with a newspaper headline.
Then another.
And another.
Conflicts.
Threats.
Accusations.
Disinformation.
Hatred.
Fear.
Homer read quietly.
Poe watched him.
Eventually, the old poet placed the telephone upon the table.
"Three thousand years," he said.
"Approximately."
"Mankind is still doing this?"
"Yes."
"Fighting?"
"Yes."
"Killing?"
"Yes."
"Destroying cities?"
"Yes."
"Driving families from their homes?"
"Yes."
Homer lowered his head.
"I had hoped we might have learned something."
Poe spoke gently.
"We have learned many things."
"Then why do we repeat so many mistakes?"
"Because knowledge and wisdom are not the same."
Homer looked up.
"In my poems, men fought for honour, pride, vengeance, loyalty, survival and power."
"They still do."
"Gods interfered."
"Now the explanations are somewhat different."
"But the suffering remains."
"Yes."
Homer was silent.
Then he spoke.
"I wonder whether people remember what the Iliad truly contains."
"Battles."
"Yes."
"Heroes."
"Yes."
"Death."
"Much of it."
"But also grief."
Homer nodded.
"Above all, grief."
He looked towards the distant shelves.
"People remember Achilles as a warrior. They remember his anger. His strength. His victories."
"Indeed."
"But the poem also brings us to a father begging for the body of his son."
Poe nodded.
"Priam and Achilles."
"Two enemies. Two men who have suffered. And for a moment, grief becomes stronger than hatred."
Homer's voice softened.
"That is the moment I would wish mankind to remember."
Poe looked thoughtful.
"Because it reveals that an enemy is still human."
"Precisely."
Homer leaned forward.
"Tell me, Edgar.
Do modern leaders read poetry?"
"Some do."
"Do they understand it?"
"That is harder to establish."
"Do they read history?"
"Many claim to."
"Do they learn from it?"
"Not consistently."
Homer sighed.
"Then perhaps we should send them all back to school."
Poe smiled.
"An interesting proposal."
"And make them read the accounts of those who suffered in wars."
"Yes."
"Not merely the generals."
"No."
"Not merely the kings."
"No."
"But the mothers.
The children.
The widows.
The wounded."
Poe nodded.
"Those voices matter."
Homer looked at him.
"Words can prepare men for war long before swords are drawn."
"Indeed."
"A people may be taught to fear another people."
"Yes."
"To despise them."
"Yes."
"To imagine them less human."
"Yes."
"Once that has happened, cruelty becomes easier."
Poe lowered his eyes.
"History provides abundant evidence."
Homer considered the glowing telephone.
"Then this machine can spread hatred across the world in seconds."
"It can."
"But also compassion."
"Yes."
"It can carry lies."
"Yes."
"But also expose them."
"Yes."
"It can encourage violence."
"Yes."
"But also allow witnesses to document suffering."
Poe nodded.
"The same technology can serve very different purposes."
Homer leaned back.
"Then words remain what they have always been."
"What?"
"Seeds."
Poe looked intrigued.
"Seeds?"
"Plant hatred, and hatred may grow. Plant courage, and courage may grow. Plant understanding, and perhaps understanding will grow."
Poe smiled.
"A fine metaphor."
Homer looked towards the shelves.
"But mankind must learn to examine what it plants."
Outside, a distant siren sounded.
Neither poet spoke.
For once, the silence seemed more eloquent than words.
Chapter Nine: The Strange Business of Truth
The silence was broken by Poe.
"Tell me, Homer, how much of your work is true?"
Homer looked amused.
"An impertinent question."
"Nevertheless."
"How much of yours?"
Poe smiled.
"Touché."
Homer leaned back.
"My stories contain gods, monsters, heroes, voyages, battles, longing, courage and folly."
"Yes."
"Some may preserve memories of ancient events. Others belong to imagination, tradition and myth."
"Does that trouble you?"
"Not particularly."
"Why?"
"Because a story may contain truth without being a record of literal events."
Poe nodded.
"An important distinction."
"A monster may represent fear. A voyage may represent the human journey. A god may embody forces that people struggle to understand."
"Indeed."
Homer continued.
"But there is a difference between telling a story and pretending that invention is established fact."
Poe raised his glass of water.
"To that distinction."
Homer smiled.
They drank.
Poe returned to the telephone.
"Modern humanity has created extraordinary methods of recording and examining reality."
"Photographs?"
"Yes."
"Moving pictures?"
"Yes."
"Scientific instruments?"
"Yes."
"And yet?"
"Yet falsehoods can still travel widely."
Homer frowned.
"Why?"
"Because people do not always believe something because it is true."
"Then why?"
"Sometimes because it is comforting."
"Ah."
"Sometimes because it confirms what they already suspect."
"Yes."
"Sometimes because it flatters them."
"Naturally."
"Sometimes because it makes them feel part of a group."
Homer nodded.
"That is very old indeed."
Poe continued.
"Now images and voices can be convincingly fabricated."
Homer looked alarmed.
"A man may appear to say words he never spoke?"
"Yes."
"His face may be shown performing actions he never performed?"
"Yes."
"Then how does one know what to believe?"
Poe paused.
"By examining evidence. Comparing sources. Asking questions. Remaining willing to change one's mind."
Homer laughed.
"Good heavens, Edgar. You are asking mankind to think."
"A rather ambitious proposal."
"Indeed."
Homer considered the matter.
"In my day, a storyteller might exaggerate."
"Certainly."
"A king might commission flattering accounts of his victories."
"Naturally."
"A priest might claim divine authority."
"Yes."
"A merchant might describe a very ordinary horse as the finest animal ever born."
Poe smiled.
"Advertising has changed less than one might hope."
Homer nodded.
"But modern technology has increased the speed and scale of deception."
"Exactly."
"Then perhaps the ancient virtues are more important than ever."
"Which virtues?"
"Patience. Humility. Curiosity. The courage to admit ignorance."
Poe looked delighted.
"Especially the last."
Homer smiled.
"Why?"
"Because modern humanity seems remarkably reluctant to say three simple words."
"Which words?"
"'I don't know.'"
Homer laughed.
"Yet those words are the beginning of wisdom!"
"Precisely."
"What does mankind say instead?"
Poe glanced at the telephone.
"Usually something much longer."
Chapter Ten: The Poetry of Ordinary People
At three o'clock, the two poets began exploring an extraordinary collection of personal writing.
Letters from soldiers.
Diaries.
Family histories.
Accounts of migration.
Poems written in prisons.
Songs remembered by communities.
Stories recorded by people whose names would never appear in grand histories.
Homer was deeply moved.
"Who wrote these?"
"Ordinary people."
"Ordinary?"
"People without fame or great power."
Homer shook his head.
"There is nothing ordinary about a life."
Poe looked at him.
"Explain."
"Every person carries a world."
"Yes."
"Memories no one else possesses. Fears no one else entirely understands. Loves that may never be recorded. Sorrows hidden beneath familiar smiles."
Poe nodded.
"A private universe."
"Precisely."
Homer lifted an imaginary book from the table.
"A king may command an army, but a mother may carry a story that matters more to her children than any battle."
"Indeed."
"A fisherman may know the sea more intimately than a scholar who has written ten volumes about it."
"True."
"A child may ask a question that defeats a philosopher."
Poe smiled.
"Children are particularly skilled at that."
Homer continued.
"A person who has never written a poem may nevertheless speak a sentence of astonishing beauty."
Poe looked towards the great shelves.
"Perhaps that is one of the most valuable possibilities offered by modern communication."
"What?"
"The preservation of voices that earlier generations might have lost."
Homer nodded.
"Yes."
Poe continued.
"People can record family stories. Preserve endangered languages. Share experiences across continents. Document lives that might otherwise disappear from history."
Homer smiled.
"Then the library grows."
"Enormously."
"The storytellers multiply."
"Beyond counting."
Homer looked pleased.
"But tell me, Edgar, does mankind value these ordinary voices?"
"Sometimes."
"And sometimes?"
"It becomes distracted by celebrities."
Homer frowned.
"Who are these celebrities?"
"People who attract public attention."
"For their achievements?"
"Sometimes."
"For their wisdom?"
"Occasionally."
"For their beauty?"
"Often."
"For their foolishness?"
"Quite frequently."
Homer sighed.
"Then fame remains a rather unreliable measure of worth."
Poe nodded.
"Indeed."
Homer smiled mischievously.
"Although I suppose I should not complain."
"Why?"
"I have been famous for nearly three thousand years, and scholars still argue over whether I was one man, several poets, or even existed as the person tradition describes."
Poe laughed.
"A remarkable achievement."
"Indeed. Imagine being famous for millennia without anyone being entirely certain who you were."
Poe grinned.
"In the modern world, Homer, you would be called an influencer."
Homer looked horrified.
"I beg your pardon?"
Chapter Eleven: The Loneliness of a Connected World
The hour grew late.
The great reading room seemed to settle more deeply into silence.
Poe had become thoughtful.
"Homer, there is something I find particularly troubling."
"What is that?"
"Humanity has never possessed so many ways to communicate."
"Yes."
"Yet loneliness remains."
Homer nodded.
"A curious contradiction."
"People may speak to hundreds of others without leaving their homes."
"Yes."
"They may see faces across oceans."
"Yes."
"Exchange messages throughout the day."
"Yes."
"Still feel unseen."
Homer considered this.
"Perhaps communication is not the same as companionship."
"Precisely."
"A message may reach the mind without reaching the heart."
Poe smiled sadly.
"Beautifully expressed."
Homer leaned forward.
"In my day, people gathered around fires. They told stories.
They argued.
They sang.
They ate together."
"Were they never lonely?"
Homer laughed.
"Certainly they were! Loneliness is older than civilization."
"Indeed."
"A person may be lonely in a crowded hall."
"Yes."
"Comforted by a letter from someone far away."
"Yes."
"Then perhaps the machine is not responsible for loneliness."
"No."
"But it may sometimes disguise it."
Poe nodded.
"A person may mistake constant activity for genuine connection."
Homer looked towards the telephone.
"Does this object ever become quiet?"
"Only when one allows it."
"Then perhaps that is part of the difficulty."
Poe smiled.
"The difficulty of allowing silence?"
"Yes."
Homer stood and walked towards the centre of the reading room.
"Consider a conversation, Edgar."
"I am listening."
"Two people sit together."
"Yes."
"One speaks."
"Yes."
"The other listens."
"Yes."
"But what if the listener is already preparing his reply?"
Poe considered.
"Then he may hear the words without understanding them."
"Exactly."
"What if he is waiting merely for an opportunity to disagree?"
"Then the conversation becomes a contest."
"What if he listens only for words that confirm his own beliefs?"
"Then he has learned nothing."
Homer smiled.
"Yet he may believe he has won."
Poe laughed softly.
"A very modern phenomenon."
"An ancient one, merely equipped with better machinery."
They returned to the table.
Poe looked towards the shelves.
"Perhaps mankind has confused being heard with being understood."
Homer nodded.
"Being noticed with being loved."
"Yes."
"Being followed with being respected."
"Yes."
"Being popular with being wise."
Poe smiled.
"You have diagnosed much of the modern condition."
Homer shrugged.
"I have had several thousand years to observe the symptoms."
Chapter Twelve: The Words We Have Forgotten
At four o'clock, Homer asked a peculiar question.
"Edgar, have words disappeared?"
Poe frowned.
"Disappeared?"
"From human use."
"Certainly. Languages change. Words fall out of fashion. New words emerge."
"Then language is alive."
"Very much so."
Homer smiled.
"Good."
"Good?"
"Of course. A living thing must change."
Poe looked surprised.
"I expected you to mourn the corruption of language."
Homer laughed.
"My dear Edgar, if language had never changed, neither of us would understand the world around us."
"A fair point."
"Words belong to those who use them."
"Yes."
"Not merely to those who came before."
Poe nodded.
"Although one might hope that change does not always involve removing half the alphabet."
Homer grinned.
"Your objection to abbreviations is becoming rather tiresome."
Poe looked offended.
"I beg your pardon!"
Homer laughed.
"But tell me, are there words your age particularly needs?"
Poe considered.
"Compassion."
"An old word."
"Humility."
"Older still."
"Responsibility."
"Essential."
"Patience."
"Frequently neglected."
"Truth."
"Often contested."
"Mercy."
Homer nodded slowly.
"Yes."
Poe looked towards the ceiling.
"Perhaps forgiveness."
Homer was silent.
Then he spoke.
"In the Iliad, the great warrior Achilles is consumed by anger."
"Yes."
"His rage brings suffering."
"Yes."
"But near the end, he encounters the grief of his enemy."
"Priam."
"Yes."
"For a moment, he recognizes their shared humanity."
Poe nodded.
"A powerful scene."
Homer smiled sadly.
"Perhaps mankind has not forgotten the word compassion."
"Then what has happened?"
"It has forgotten how to practise it when compassion is inconvenient."
Poe considered this.
"That may be true."
Homer continued.
"It is easy to be kind to those who agree with us."
"Yes."
"Easy to defend those who resemble us."
"Yes."
"Easy to mourn those whose stories we already understand."
"Yes."
"But the true test comes when the suffering person is a stranger."
Poe nodded.
"Or an opponent."
"Or someone whose beliefs we dislike."
"Indeed."
Homer sat back.
"Then perhaps language is not dying."
"No."
"Perhaps some of its finest words are simply waiting to be used properly."
Chapter Thirteen: The Immortality Business
The conversation turned, inevitably, towards death.
An appropriate subject for Edgar Allan Poe.
"Tell me, Homer," he said, "did you ever imagine that your stories would survive for thousands of years?"
Homer smiled.
"I imagined that stories might outlive their tellers."
"But millennia?"
"That would have seemed an extravagant hope."
Poe nodded.
"Yet here you are."
"Here I am."
"Your heroes still live."
"In words."
"Your gods still argue."
"In imagination."
"Your monsters still frighten children."
Homer laughed.
"And occasionally adults."
Poe smiled.
"Your work has crossed languages, civilizations, religions and centuries."
"Yes."
"Mine has crossed oceans and generations."
"Indeed."
Homer looked around the library.
"Then perhaps this is a kind of immortality."
Poe considered.
"An imperfect one."
"Naturally."
"Books may be lost."
"Yes."
"Languages forgotten."
"Yes."
"Meanings misunderstood."
"Yes."
"Authors transformed into caricatures."
Homer smiled.
"Or mugs."
Poe groaned.
"Please do not remind me."
They laughed.
Then Poe became serious.
"Do you suppose that the billions of messages created today will survive?"
"Some."
"Which ones?"
"Who can know?"
Poe looked thoughtful.
"Perhaps the most important words of our age are not those attracting the greatest attention."
Homer nodded.
"Perhaps they are hidden."
"Where?"
"In a message sent from a daughter to her father."
"Yes."
"In the last letter written by a dying woman."
"Yes."
"In the diary of a child."
"Yes."
"In a poem written by someone who has never shown it to another soul."
Poe's expression softened.
"Those words may matter enormously."
"Even if only one person reads them."
"Yes."
Homer looked towards the bookshelves.
"Then immortality is not always measured in centuries."
Poe frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"A sentence may live for only a moment and still change a life."
Poe was silent.
Homer continued.
"A frightened child hears, 'You are safe.'"
"Yes."
"A lonely person hears, 'I am here.'"
"Yes."
"A grieving friend hears, 'I remember.'"
"Yes."
"A person burdened by guilt hears, 'I forgive you.'"
Poe lowered his eyes.
Homer smiled gently.
"Perhaps those words need not survive for three thousand years."
"No."
"Perhaps they need only arrive at the right moment."
Poe nodded.
"To be meant."
"Precisely."
Chapter Fourteen: The Trial of Humanity
At half past four, Homer announced that he wished to conduct an experiment.
Poe looked suspicious.
"What sort of experiment?"
"A trial."
"Of whom?"
"Humanity."
Poe raised an eyebrow.
"An ambitious defendant."
"Indeed."
"The charges?"
Homer began counting upon his fingers.
"Possessing extraordinary intelligence while frequently refusing to employ it."
Poe nodded.
"A familiar offence."
"Developing magnificent methods of communication while failing to understand one another."
"Agreed."
"Preserving ancient wisdom while repeating ancient mistakes."
"Yes."
"Creating technologies capable of uniting the world while using them to deepen divisions."
"Certainly a concern."
"Wasting an alarming quantity of time arguing about trivialities."
Poe smiled.
"That final charge may be the easiest to establish."
Homer leaned forward.
"Then let us hear the defence."
Poe considered.
"Humanity has expanded access to education."
Homer nodded.
"Good."
"It has preserved enormous quantities of knowledge."
"Excellent."
"It has created tools that allow families separated by continents to speak face to face."
"Wonderful."
"It has enabled people to expose injustice, organize assistance and share discoveries."
"Splendid."
"It has made literature accessible to readers who might once have been excluded."
Homer smiled.
"A magnificent achievement."
Poe continued.
"It has allowed people with disabilities to communicate in ways earlier generations could scarcely imagine."
Homer looked deeply impressed.
"Then the defence has much to say."
"Indeed."
Homer considered.
"What of the prosecution?"
Poe sighed.
"Disinformation."
"Yes."
"Harassment."
"Yes."
"Manipulation."
"Yes."
"Distraction."
"Yes."
"Commercial exploitation of attention."
"Yes."
"The temptation to mistake the loudest voice for the wisest."
Homer nodded.
"A formidable case."
They sat silently.
Then Homer spoke.
"What is the verdict?"
Poe considered.
"Not guilty."
Homer looked astonished.
"Not guilty?"
"Of being beyond redemption."
Homer smiled.
"Ah."
Poe continued.
"Humanity is contradictory. Capable of extraordinary generosity and astonishing cruelty. Brilliant invention and spectacular foolishness. Great courage and profound cowardice."
"Yes."
"But it is also capable of learning."
Homer nodded.
"Slowly."
"Painfully."
"Often reluctantly."
"Indeed."
Homer laughed.
"Then perhaps the sentence should be education."
Poe smiled.
"With compulsory lessons in listening."
"And kindness."
"And critical thinking."
"And history."
"And poetry."
Homer raised a finger.
"Especially poetry."
Poe laughed.
"Naturally."
Homer leaned back.
"A little less time staring at dancing cats."
Poe smiled.
"I fear that recommendation may prove unpopular."
Chapter Fifteen: The Library of Tomorrow
The first pale suggestion of dawn appeared beyond the windows.
The great dome seemed to brighten.
The two poets knew their extraordinary meeting was drawing towards its conclusion.
Homer stood.
"Edgar, I have one final question."
"Ask it."
"What will become of books?"
Poe looked around.
"Some believe that physical books will become less central as digital forms expand."
Homer frowned.
"Will they disappear?"
"I doubt they will disappear entirely."
"Good."
"Although the ways people read will continue to change."
Homer considered.
"Perhaps that is not a tragedy."
"No?"
"Stories existed before books."
"Indeed."
"They lived in voices."
"Yes."
"In songs."
"Yes."
"In memory."
"Yes."
"Then books were themselves a new technology."
Poe smiled.
"Precisely."
"Printing was another."
"Yes."
"These glowing machines are another."
"Yes."
Homer looked pleased.
"Then perhaps the story is larger than the vessel that carries it."
Poe nodded.
"A beautiful thought."
Homer continued.
"A story may be spoken beside a fire, written upon a scroll, printed upon paper or displayed upon glass."
"Yes."
"But its true destination remains the same."
"The human mind?"
"Sometimes, the human heart."
Poe smiled.
They stood together beneath the great dome.
Around them lay centuries of human thought.
The arguments of philosophers.
The discoveries of scientists.
The dreams of novelists.
The warnings of historians.
The songs of poets.
The prayers of believers.
The doubts of sceptics.
The records of ordinary lives.
All waiting.
All speaking.
All hoping that someone might listen.
Homer looked towards the shelves.
"How extraordinary."
"What?"
"That mankind has created a place where the dead may continue speaking."
Poe nodded.
“Now it has created machines through which the living may speak across the world."
Homer smiled.
"Then perhaps the next great invention should concern listening."
Poe laughed softly.
"An invention long overdue."
Chapter Sixteen: The Last Word
It was almost five o'clock.
The first librarians would soon arrive.
Outside, Washington was awakening.
Coffee machines began their morning duties.
Traffic gathered.
Telephones vibrated.
Messages appeared.
News programmes prepared their headlines.
Somewhere, a child was learning to read.
Somewhere, a mother was writing a letter.
Somewhere, a young poet was struggling to find the right word.
Somewhere, a stranger was offering comfort.
Somewhere else, another was preparing an insult.
Humanity was beginning another day.
Another day of extraordinary possibilities.
Familiar mistakes.
Homer and Poe stood beside the great table.
The telephone lay between them.
Its screen illuminated once more.
A notification appeared.
Then another.
And another.
Homer regarded it with amusement.
"Does that thing ever cease demanding attention?"
"Rarely."
"Then I am pleased I did not possess one."
Poe smiled.
"Why?"
"Because I should never have finished the Odyssey."
They laughed.
Homer turned towards the shelves.
"Tell me, Edgar. How many words do you suppose mankind has written?"
"Trillions, I should imagine."
"How many have been spoken?"
"Beyond counting."
"How many will be spoken today?"
"Billions upon billions."
Homer nodded.
"Extraordinary."
He paused.
"How many will be understood?"
Poe remained silent.
The question hung between them.
Homer looked towards the great dome.
"Perhaps mankind does not need another language."
Poe turned.
"What does it need?"
Homer smiled.
"Another pair of ears."
Poe considered this.
Then quietly replied:
"Perhaps that is why nature gave mankind two ears and only one mouth."
Homer laughed.
"Yet mankind has spent three thousand years attempting to reverse the arrangement."
Poe smiled.
"An unfortunate ambition."
"Indeed."
They began walking towards the shadows.
But before they disappeared, Poe stopped.
"Homer?"
"Yes?"
"Do you suppose mankind will ever learn?"
The old Greek poet considered the question carefully.
"I believe it can."
"But will it?"
"That depends."
"Upon what?"
"Whether it wishes to understand more than it wishes to be right."
Poe nodded.
"A formidable challenge."
"Indeed."
They stood silently for a moment.
Then Homer asked:
"Edgar, what is the greatest tragedy of modern humanity?"
Poe looked towards the telephone.
"That it possesses the means to communicate with almost everyone, yet sometimes neglects the person sitting beside it."
Homer smiled sadly.
"It’s greatest hope?"
Poe considered.
"That the same tools which divide people may also help them discover how much they share."
Homer nodded.
"Then all is not lost."
"No."
"Not yet."
The two poets disappeared into the shadows.
The library returned to silence.
A few minutes later, a librarian entered the great reading room.
Everything appeared normal.
The books were in their places.
The tables were tidy.
The magnificent dome stood above.
But upon one table lay a small piece of paper.
Written in elegant handwriting were seven words:
THE WORLD DOES NOT NEED MORE NOISE.
Beneath them, in a different hand, appeared another seven:
IT NEEDS MORE PEOPLE WILLING TO LISTEN.
The librarian smiled.
She placed the paper carefully inside a book.
Then she opened the library for another day.
Outside , the world continued talking.
And talking.
And talking.
Epilogue: A Small Matter of Immortality
Somewhere beyond time, in a place where stories never truly end, two gentlemen sat beside a fire.
One wore ancient Greek robes.
The other wore black.
Between them stood a small table.
Upon it rested a bottle of wine.
A telephone.
Homer regarded the device suspiciously.
"Edgar."
"Yes?"
"It has begun glowing again."
Poe sighed.
"Ignore it."
"But it says we have become popular."
"How popular?"
"Apparently several million people have read about our conversation."
Poe raised an eyebrow.
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Have they learned anything?"
Homer examined the screen.
"Some have."
"The others?"
"They are arguing."
"About what?"
Homer frowned.
"Whether I actually existed."
Poe laughed.
“What do you intend to do?"
Homer picked up his wine.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
"But surely you wish to defend yourself?"
Homer smiled.
"My dear Edgar, I have survived nearly three thousand years without knowing precisely who I am."
He raised his glass.
"I see no reason to spoil the mystery now."
Poe laughed.
"To poetry."
"To storytelling."
"To wisdom."
"To humanity."
They touched glasses.
Then the telephone vibrated again.
Poe glanced at it.
His expression darkened.
"What now?" asked Homer.
"Someone has asked whether I could shorten The Raven to fit into a fifteen-second video."
Homer burst into laughter.
"What did you reply?"
Poe smiled.
"One word."
"Which word?"
Poe raised his glass.
"Nevermore."
A final thought from the author
Perhaps the greatest irony of our age is not that humanity has forgotten how to communicate.
Quite the opposite.
We have become astonishingly good at it.
We can send words across oceans in an instant.
We can translate the thoughts of ancient civilizations.
We can preserve voices, share discoveries, express affection, expose injustice and reach people whom previous generations could never have imagined meeting.
We have created something extraordinary.
But somewhere along the way, we have also developed the peculiar habit of confusing communication with understanding.
We speak to be noticed.
We argue to be victorious.
We publish to be admired.
We respond before we have listened.
Sometimes we are so busy preparing our next sentence that we fail to hear the one being spoken to us.
Perhaps Homer and Poe, separated by centuries yet united by the power of words, would remind us of something beautifully simple.
Words are not merely sounds.
They are bridges.
They are doors.
They are seeds.
They can comfort the grieving, inspire the hopeless, challenge the powerful and remind strangers of their shared humanity.
But they can also wound.
Deceive.
Divide.
Destroy.
The choice has always belonged to us.
Perhaps that is the lesson hidden among the millions of books in that magnificent library.
It is not enough to possess the words.
We must learn to understand them.
It is not enough to possess a voice.
We must learn when to use it.
It is not enough to hear.
We must learn to listen.
For a world in which everyone is shouting is not necessarily a world in which anyone is being heard.
A civilization that can communicate with the stars but cannot speak kindly to its neighbours still has rather a lot to learn.
So perhaps, just occasionally, we should put down the telephone.
Close the laptop.
Turn off the television.
Sit quietly.
Listen.
Remember that somewhere, across three thousand years of human history, two old poets are still waiting for us to understand what they were trying to say.
THE END
Or, as Homer might have observed, merely the beginning of another very long argument.
📚🪶🍷
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