Epistemic Domination

In a small town, there is said to be a single book locked inside the central hall. Only the appointed Readers may open it. They claim the book explains the lives of everyone else in the town—their misfortunes, their desires, their failures. The Readers hold hearings where they read passages aloud, telling the people what the book says about them. But when the people ask to see the pages, the Readers close the book and say, You wouldn’t understand. It is for your good that we hold it for you.

One day, a child notices that the Readers never actually turn the pages. They only recite from memory, repeating the same sentences again and again. The child tells the others, who at first whisper in fear but then gather at the hall. Quietly, they ask for the book. When the Readers refuse, someone pushes open the doors, and together they lift the book from its pedestal. To their surprise, the pages are blank.

At first, silence. Then one of them takes a piece of charcoal and writes their story into the margin. Another adds a drawing. Another copies a proverb they heard long ago. Soon the book is heavy with voices. No one owns it anymore, but everyone carries it. When disputes arise, they gather around the pages, not to impose order but to add new layers. The book never fills up; its pages seems infinite.

The former Readers, meanwhile, find themselves wandering without their script. Some leave, but others join the circle, learning to write for the first time.

Epistemic Domination (in the style of Calvino)

In the city of Asterra, there was a book said to contain the truth of all things. The book rested on a lectern of polished stone, guarded by the Custodians. Each day, they read aloud from it, their voices echoing through the square: Here is what you are. Here is what you lack. Here is what you must do to be understood.

The people listened, though few words ever changed from one season to the next. They were told: The book is too dense for you; its letters too fine for your eyes; its meanings too heavy for your minds.

But one afternoon, a mason repairing the square noticed the Custodians never turned a page. When asked why, they said, The book is deep; one page contains enough for a lifetime. The mason nodded but whispered to his neighbors what he had seen. The rumor spread as rumors do, like dust carried by wind.

At night, the people gathered. They approached the lectern, expecting resistance, but the Custodians had vanished. The book lay open, pages unmoved. They leaned over it. They found no words. The pages were blank, as though waiting.

At first there was confusion. If it is empty, what have they been reading? someone asked. Another replied: Perhaps they read us, not the book.

A weaver traced a line with her fingertip and said, If the book is ours, it should carry our voices. She took a piece of chalk and wrote a story of her loom. A farmer added the names of each season’s crop. A child drew a spiral that seemed to move as the eye followed it.

Soon, the book was heavy with lines and sketches, smudges and crossings-out. No longer did it belong to the Custodians, or to anyone alone. When disputes arose, they gathered around the book, not to search for a verdict but to add another layer, as if each mark deepened the pages rather than covered them.

The Custodians returned, puzzled to find their authority dissolved into the margins. Some tried to forbid the writing, but their voices faltered in the presence of so many others. Others, shyly, picked up the chalk and wrote for the first time.

The book has no final page. The people say it grows lighter the more they write in it, as though carried by the words themselves. They carry it together, and when they open it, each sees what was written and what has not yet appeared, the space between the letters still alive, still waiting.