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A critiquing, perhaps?
Our class was assigned to write a response story to Jorge Luis Borges' famous short story, The Book of Sand. However, I was not satisfied with the due date, and I asked if mine could be postponed. She agreed, and I got to work. She gave me an A+, which was the best grade in the class. I don't think it's worth that, though. Below are both Borges' original story and my sequel. I would like your thoughts on both. Please and thank you in advance. 
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T H E B O O K o f S A N D
w r i t t e n b y
J O R G E L U I S B O R G E S
The line is made up of an infinite number of points;
the plane of an infinite number of lines;
the volume of an infinite number of planes;
the hypervolume of an infinite number of volumes.
. . . No, unquestionably this is not--more geometrico--the best way of beginning my story. To claim that is it true is nowadays the convention of every made-up story. Mine, however, is true.
I live alone in a fourth-floor apartment on Belgrano Street, in Buenos Aires. Late one evening, a few months back, I heard a knock at my door. I opened it and a stranger stood there.
He was a tall man, with nondescript features--or perhaps it was my myopia that made them seem that way. Dressed in gray and carrying a gray suitcase in his hand, he had an unassuming look about him. I saw at once that he was a foreigner. At first, he struck me as old; only later did I realize that I had been misled by his thin blond hair, which was, in a Scandinavian sort of way, almost white. During the course of our conversation, which was not to last an hour, I found out that he came from the Orkneys.
I invited him in, pointing to a chair. He paused awhile before speaking. A kind of gloom emanated from him--as it does now from me.
"I sell Bibles," he said.
Somewhat pedantically, I replied, "In this house are several English bibles, including the first--John Wiclif's. I also have Cipriano de Valera's, Luther's--which, from a literary viewpoint, is the worst--and a Latin copy of the Vulgate. As you see, it's not exactly Bibles I stand in need of."
After a few moments of silence, he said, "I don't only sell Bibles. I can show you a holy book I came across on the outskirts of Bikaner. It may interest you."
He opened the suitcase and laid the book on a table. It was an octavo volume, bound in cloth. There was no doubt that it had passed through many hands. Examining it, I was surprised by its unusual weight. On the spine were the words "Holy Writ" and, below them, "Bombay."
"Nineteenth century, probably," I remarked.
"I don't know," he said. "I've never found out."
I opened the book at random. The script was strange to me. The pages, which were worn and typographically poor, were laid out in a double column, as in a Bible. The text was closely printed, and it was ordered in versicles. In the upper corners of the pages were Arabic numbers. I noticed that one left-hand page bore the number (let us say) 40,514 and the facing right-hand page 999.
I turned the leaf; it was numbered with eight digits. It also bore a small illustration, like the kind used in dictionaries--an anchor drawn with pen and ink, as if by a schoolboy's clumsy hand.
It was at this point that the stranger said, "Look at the illustration closely. You'll never see it again."
I noted my place and closed the book. At once, I reopened it. Page by page, in vain, I looked for the illustration of the anchor. "It seems to be a version of Scriptures in some Indian language, is it not?" I said to hide my dismay.
"No," he replied. Then, as if confiding a secret, he lowered his voice. "I acquired the book in a town out on the plain in exchange for a handful of rupees and a Bible. Its owner did not know how to read. I suspect that he saw the Book of Books as a talisman. He was of the lowest caste; nobody but other untouchables could tread his shadow without contamination. He told me his book was called the Book of Sand, because neither the book nor the sand has any beginning or end."
The stranger asked me to find the first page.
I laid my left hand on the cover and, trying to put my thumb on the flyleaf, I opened the book.
It was useless. Every time I tried, a number of pages came between the cover and my thumb. It was as if they kept growing from the book.
"Now find the last page."
Again I failed. In a voice that was not mine, I barely managed to stammer, "This can't be."
Still speaking in a low voice, the stranger said, "It can't be, but it is. The number of pages in this book is no more or less than infinite. None is the first page, none the last. I don't know why they're numbered in this arbitrary way. Perhaps to suggest that the terms of an infinite series admit any number."
Then, as if he were thinking aloud, he said, "If space is infinite, we may be at any point in space. If time is infinite, we may be at any point in time."
His speculations irritated me. "You are religious, no doubt?" I asked him.
"Yes, I'm a Presbyterian. My conscience is clear. I am reasonably sure of not having cheated the native when I gave him the Word of God in exchange for his devilish book."
I assured him that he had nothing to reproach himself for, and I asked if he were just passing through this part of the world.
He replied that he planned to return to his country in a few days. It was then that I learned that he was a Scot from the Orkney Islands. I told him I had a great personal affection for Scotland, through my love of Stevenson and Hume.
"You mean Stevenson and Robbie Burns," he corrected.
While we spoke, I kept exploring the infinite book. With feigned indifference, I asked, "Do you intend to offer this curiosity to the British Museum?"
"No. I'm offering it to you," he said, and he stipulated a rather high sum for the book.
I answered, in all truthfulness, that such a sum was out of my reach, and I began thinking. After a minute or two, I came up with a scheme.
"I propose a swap, " I said. "You got this book for a handful of rupees and a copy of the Bible. I'll offer you the amount of my pension check, which I've just collected, and my black-letter Wiclif Bible. I inherited it from my ancestors."
"A black-letter Wiclif!" he murmured.
I went to my bedroom and brought him the money and the book. He turned the leaves and studied the title page with all the fervor of a true bibliophile.
"It's a deal," he said.
It amazed me that he did not haggle. Only later was I to realize that he had entered my house with his mind made up to sell the book. Without counting the money, he put it away.
We talked about India, about Orkney, and about the Norwegian jarls who once ruled it. It was night when the man left. I have not seen him again, nor do I know his name.
I thought of keeping the Book of Sand in the space left on the shelf by the Wiclif, but in the end I decided to hide it behind the volumes of a broken set of The Thousand and One Nights. I went to bed and did not sleep. At three or four in the morning, I turned on the light.
I got down the impossible book and leafed through its pages. On one of them I saw engraved a mask. The upper corner of the page carried a number, which I no longer recall, elevated to the ninth power.
I showed no one my treasure. To the luck of owning it was added the fear of having it stolen, and then the misgiving that it might not truly be infinite. These twin preoccupations intensified my old misanthropy. I had only a few friends left; I now stopped seeing even them. A prisoner of the book, I almost never went out anymore.
After studying its frayed spine and covers with a magnifying glass, I rejected the possibility of a contrivance of any sort. The small illustrations, I verified, came two thousand pages apart. I set about listing them alphabetically in a notebook, which I was not long in filling up. Never once was an illustration repeated.
At night, in the meager intervals my insomnia granted, I dreamed of the book.
Summer came and went, and I realized that the book was monstrous. What good did it do me to think that I, who looked upon the volume with my eyes, who held it in my hands, was any less monstrous? I felt that the book was a nightmarish object, an obscene thing that affronted and tainted reality itself.
I thought of fire, but I feared that the burning of an infinite book might likewise prove infinite and suffocate the planet with smoke.
Somewhere I recalled reading that the best place to hide a leaf is in a forest.
Before retirement, I worked on Mexico Street, at the Argentine National Library, which contains nine hundred thousand volumes. I knew that to the right of the entrance a curved staircase leads down into the basement, where books and maps and periodicals are kept. One day I went there and, slipping past a member of the staff and trying not to notice at what height or distance from the door, I lost the Book of Sand on one of the basement's musty shelves.
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T H E B O O K o f S A N D II
w r i t t e n b y
M A X W E L L L U K E M I L L E R
My story begins on a brisk day in New York City, where I was off to a business meeting. As I was walking down Wall Street, my eyes were attracted to a peculiar sign, tattered and sun dried. It read in big bold lettering, "ASIAN TRADES! ONE DAY ONLY! AUTHENTIC!" While I was sure not all of it would be "authentic," I had time to kill, and it wouldn't hurt to find something for my fiancee.
I found my way to a rather large tent stretching along the sidewalk of Main Street. The heat inside was almost unbearable. Everywhere I looked, there were talismans, necklaces, garments, practically every single thing that filled the Middle Eastern stereotype. But one object didn't seem to belong, standing out from all the other trinkets and knick-knacks: a book. A single, cloth-bound and torn book sat on a table by itself. I moved over to it, looked at it, and picked it up. To my amazement, the book weighed more than I expected. Seemingly the size of a modern paperback novel, this book had the weight of an authentic Catholic bible.
A tan-skinned man stalked behind me and watched me examining the book. Before I had the chance to open it, he darted and slid the book out of my grasp. "Ah, you must have an eye for ancient artifacts, hm?" he interjected in a surprisingly perfect English accent. I knew this wasn't authentic. "Yes, this is a one-of-a-kind treasure, and it can be yours... For a reasonable price, of course."
A professional haggler, I assumed. His posture was too straight, and his demeanor was that of confidence. I looked at him, doubting his appraisal of the book, but reluctantly pulled out my wallet. "How does fifteen dollars sound?" I asked him.
He looked at me and said, "Sold!" I thought this was an invaluable artifact. "I hope you enjoy the Book of Sand!" He clutched the money and walked away, tossing the book into my arms.
Book of Sand, huh? Sounded a bit ominous, and again, fitting the stereotype, and I hadn't even looked inside of it yet. For all I knew, there could have been ten pages missing. But I had already "purchased" it, so what was the use? It'd look good in my fiancee's antique shelf nonetheless. I stepped out of the tent, and then a thought crossed my mind; why didn't the haggler... Haggle?
As I made my long drive home, I still hadn't yet peeked inside of the book's contents. The thought of it drove me to stopping on the side of the road and turning off the engine. I turned the interior lights on and unwrapped the book from my jacket sitting in the passenger's seat. Feeling the cloth on my hands again piqued my interests a bit more. I slid the spine of the book into my left hand and slowly opened the cover with my right. As I looked at the first page, I couldn't make any sense of it. The text was in a foreign language that I had never seen before. There was a small picture that resembled a lion halfway down the first column of the double-columned page. What made me even more disturbed by it was the page number, reading a staggering 98,216,509,651. I couldn't make heads or tails of it, and it was wracking my brain. I turned the page to find straight columns and the page number 638,546,216,874,216,854,654,321,005. Shocked, I closed the book.
It was late when I finally pulled into my home's driveway. I was glad to be home, but I wasn't sure of the reality I had witnessed on that country road. Still, it all seemed too dreamy to be true. I carried in my coat, book tucked inside, and my suitcase.
The warm air rushing by as I opened the door was my welcome home. Stepping inside, I began to kick off my shoes. "Theo," I said. "You here?"
As soon as the words escaped my mouth, a stunning figure entered from the kitchen doorway. Her piercing green eyes and flowing brown hair was enough to make my soul melt. She was wearing an apron around her waist and a bit of flour on her face. "I'm a bit busy," she whined. "Would you mind helping me?"
"Sure," I answered. I knew that when she was cooking and needed help, it only meant one thing. I reached into my coat and felt the book. I stopped in my place and pondered. "Actually, I kinda have to use the bathroom. Mind?"
She sighed and scoffed, "Fine. Wash your hands, though."
Running to the second floor, I almost fell up the stairs. After finding the bathroom, I locked the door and sat. Slowly, I pulled the book out of the jacket. Scared, yet excited at the book’s contents, I flipped it open yet again. This time, the page number was 354,845,162,168,794,321,649,840,000,652. I wondered what would happen if the numbers stretched off of the page, so I flipped through the tan pages until I found out. 3.638451230184941321 x 10³² was the page number. Excited, I spent the rest of the evening sitting and fingering through the book.
7 AM. I guess it could have been worse. If I hadn’t heard my alarm go off, I could have been in there all day. Reluctantly, I threw the book on the bed and got ready. As I left my bedroom, I stared at the book in angst and eagerness. If only I could look at it some more. But it was probably best to leave it here. If I took it with me, I probably wouldn't get any work done.
I went downstairs to find my breakfast already made, as always. I moved to the kitchen counter, where Theo was cleaning a pan. I kissed her and told her, "Good morning."
"Where were you last night?" she asked quickly.
I stared. "What do you mean?"
"Wasn't somebody supposed to help me in the kitchen last night?"
I had totally forgotten. "Sorry, must have been my lunch." She sighed and went back to scrubbing. "I'll make it up to you tonight. Promise."
She turned to me, looked into my eyes, and smiled. "Alright then. But it's a promise."
I sat and ate my breakfast of eggs and bacon with a side of toast. Washing it down with a tall glass of orange juice, I kissed her again, grabbed my thermos, and went outside. As I started the car, I somehow mechanically turned to the passenger's seat, expecting the book. The vacant seat was almost too much to bear. The enigmatic book not being in my grasp just made me long for it more. Still, I somehow started the car and pulled out of the driveway.
It was the longest day of work I've ever had. I was practically counting down the minutes, just waiting to get home to it. I couldn't function without it, scratching my mind, digging its elongated nails into my already burning scalp. I'm sure if you asked any of my employees, they would have told you they've never seen me fly that fast through the office at quitting time. The drive home was almost unbearable, also, because I knew that it would just be a few minutes, just a few, small, minute minutes.
Bursting through the front door, I found Theo sitting on the couch with a box of tissues. She didn't have a job, so she stays here and cares for the house. "What's wrong?" I asked, slowly massaging her shoulders.
She jumped up immediately, turning to me and showing the evidence of her running tears. "You don't love me, do you?"
This time I jumped back. "What?! What in the world would give you that idea?!"
"Why didn't you come and help me last night, like you always do?"
"I forgot! Could we just drop it?" My tone was agitated and angry, but I didn't know where it came from.
She slowly pulled something from the couch cushions. There it was, in her hands: the book. Seeing it filled me with a familiar feeling of excitement, my soul yearning for it. Almost whispering, she sputtered through her watered face, "I read this."
My gut plummeted to the floor. I didn't want her to find out about it, and here she is, with it in her hands. Though it was originally hers as a gift, I just wouldn't part with it. My now-weak spirit's arms were clamoring for it, but its reach was small. After a few seconds of silence, Theo finally spoke, "Honey, what in the world is this? It's changed you. You're angry, and you've wasted all your time on it."
The words came out automatically, and I had no control over my body's functions, like watching someone else play my role. "No it hasn't!" the childish tone rang through the room.
"Are you serious?!" Theo angrily released. I turned the wrong valve, I guess, and all the steam was directed at me. "You were up all night reading this in the bathroom! Not just until time to go to bed, not an hour after you needed to rest; all night! If that doesn't tell me something about this relationship, then I don't know what it means!"
"Then what does it mean, Theo?!!"
"It means that you would rather spend your time with a book, a DEMONIC one of all things, rather than your own fiancee!" She slowly moved towards the old fireplace that had been lit. She held the book by the ginger flames, flying up and down, as if waiting for the book to be engulfed.
"Wait, what are you doing?" By this time, I was sure the person that was talking wasn't me at all.
With a look of disbelief on her face, she dropped the book into the heart of the fire. I almost jumped over the couch for it, but it was too late. Theo collapsed to her knees and cried hysterically.
"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!!" the monster inside of me declared. "YOU'RE SUCH AN IDIOT!! WHY?! WHY?!?!"
I heard a small clank coming from behind me, followed by a ping. I turned around to find Theo's engagement ring slightly spinning on the hardwood floor. She slowly stood up, grabbed her coat, and walked out. I couldn't say anything. No words would come out, just a gaping sound. My body wouldn't move, either, frozen from the events that had taken place. Hearing the engine turning on her car told me one cold truth: it was over.
After a minute, I finally gained control of myself again, and I slowly moved upstairs to my bed. Sticking my face in the pillow, I passed out.
I awoke to something pushing on my shoulders frantically. It was something heavy, and it seemed to be urgent. I slowly turned over to find a heavy-clothed figure with a giant mask over its head, daringly contrasting the enormous orange and red flames behind him. I sat up, and a relentless tide of coughs and wheezes. The figure pulled me up off of the bed and put my arms around its neck, helping me get through the sea of fire that engulfed the room. Everything blacked out about halfway down the stairs.
When I woke up, this time on my own, I was outside in the dew of night, propped me. Everything seemed surprisingly bright, though. I fully came to, and my vision was filled with anguish, as I could see my home of ten years being put out by several red fire engines. First instant, I thought of Theo's safety, but then remembered that she had left before the fire started. Thank God I knew she was alright. As I laid there in awe, a figure approached me.
"Awake, finally?" a tall coat-covered man said. He had a badge clipped on his pocket. "I'm Detective Smith. You're lucky you got out when you did. If you had been in there, the roof would have collapsed on you." For a split second, I thought that maybe, after what had occurred, that wouldn't have been a bad thing. "Do you know the origin of the fire?"
I scratched my head. "Well, I'm not sure."
"This seems like creosote had built up in your chimney, and it finally ignited. You should have taken the time to clean it." That didn't seem like a logical answer, because I have it professionally cleaned every year. "Anyway, the fireman that saved you could only find one thing along his way that may have meant something to you." Smith pulled something from the inside of his jacket. It was square in shape. Immediately, I thought it was the devilish book, and I was willing to throw it back into the flames. Instead, it was a picture frame. The picture was of Theo and me at the fair, sharing a cotton candy. I smiled. But that was also when I noticed the giant crack in the glass, splitting us apart. My smile turned grim, and I hung my head low. Slowly, the detective handed it to me. I clasped on to it, as if it were the only thing in my life, because it actually was.
"Anyway," Smith said after a time of silence, "the medical team would like to get a better look at you in the hospital. We're sending you there now." As soon as the words escaped his mouth, two nurses came to my side and wheeled me into the back of an ambulance. "Get better soon."
The nurse took the picture out of my grasp, and I tried to reach for it and claim it back from her, but she wouldn't allow it. As the nurses latched me in, I realized what really started the fire. It must have been the Book of Sand. I tried to scream it to the detective before I left, but the doors to the ambulance slammed shut. Then I saw something that shocked me. As I was taken from my driveway, I could have sworn the detective pulled a book with a scorched cover from his jacket.
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1337GheyCowboys! Because without the "1337" and "Cowboys!", we'd be the Wyld Stallynz. 
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04-07-2007, 10:42 PM
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