The Book That No One Wanted to Read Read online

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Epilogue

  What is it that makes you want to read a book?

  They say you should never judge a book by its cover. But how else can you decide whether you might like it?

  You can’t read a book to figure out whether you want to read that book because, by that stage, you will have already read it.

  That’s why us books always try to make our covers look fun. But we know (from bitter experience) that even if we adorn ourselves with a majestic sparkly unicorn or a magical fearsome dragon, the battle is far from won. How can we forget the times we’ve been hurled across the room, left under whiffy pant piles, or, worse, shelved, forever collecting dust? What’s so bad about being on a dusty shelf? you might say. But you’ve never been a book. I have a very bad dust allergy and no nose. Where are those sneezes going?

  Oh yes.

  I’m a book.

  Hello.

  I suppose you might think it’s weird that a book is saying “Hello.” Well, why shouldn’t a book say hello? We’re not animals. Although (oddly) you seem very happy to read about animals saying hello and doing all sorts of other things that don’t seem too realistic, like tigers sitting at tables eating iced buns and not biting your head off.

  Here’s a tip. If you see a tiger in your house, get out of your house.

  If you want to make friends with an animal, at least pick one that doesn’t eat people.*

  Sorry. I do get angry occasionally. Do you? Here are The Top Five Things That Grate My Gears.

  1. People who fold the corner of the page to save their place. Have these savages not heard of novelty bookmarks? Or paper? Or “memory”? Which part of your body would you most like to have folded back on itself?

  2. People who underline certain words. ALL THE WORDS ARE IMPORTANT!

  3. People who skip to the end. If the end was meant to come sooner, it’d be called “the middle.”

  4. People who give up after one paragraph. What are you afraid of? Wasting another twelve seconds?

  6. My difficulty with counting. Now, as you may have guessed from the title, I’m going to tell you a story about a Book That No One Wanted To Read. It’s a very moving story, and I can say with all modesty that this might be the most important book of all time. Why? Because it’s the first book to have been written by a book. Most books are written by authors. Take it from me, authors can be quite annoying. They go on and on, filling up page after page, but they have no idea what it’s like to be a book. They think we exist just to please them! What do they know about the real experience of being a book?

  Well, that’s about to change.

  I’m in charge now, so stand back* and fasten your seat belts—it’s going to be a bumpy read.

  The Book That No One Wanted To Read did not have a cover design that was sparkly or magical or scary. The Book That No One Wanted To Read didn’t have a cover design at all. Unless you call “plain” a design. The only memorable thing about it was . . . no: it’s gone.

  The only impression The Book That No One Wanted To Read made was of making no impression whatsoever. It was a murky kind of non-color, like something dully reflected in a bog. Or, say you stared at a school lunch table for a little while and let your eyes drift so that, after about an hour, everything was just a blur, a flat sort of nothing that you couldn’t describe. That’s what this book looked like. Or, to put it as an equation: Level of Fun on Cover of Book = Nil.

  And as for what was inside . . .

  Imagine the driest leaf you ever saw. One of those leaves that, were you to pick it up, would crumble like a stepped-on cracker.

  A leaf that, if it were subject to the barest of breezes, would break into a billion solemn specks.

  Well, compared to this book, such a leaf is like a lush tropical garden besprinkled by the soft spray of a waterfall.

  The Book That No One Wanted To Read was so deathly dry that even bookworms gave it the swerve. “We can’t digest it,” they’d say. “It’s like sucking on cement.” So off they’d go to more accommodating books in which they could both bed and breakfast.

  There are people who say they like the way books smell. Well, these people had never smelled The Book That No One Wanted To Read. The Book That No One Wanted To Read was a musty old stinker, mingling the aroma of mold, the dankness of dust-smothered moss, and the far-off scent of gym socks. But we cannot blame The Book That No One Wanted To Read for its offensive odor; it’s not like it could wash.

  Books don’t do too well in the shower. Nor the bath. Even a damp cloth can prove too much for us. We go all sad and see-through. And when we dry out (if we dry out) we start to expand. Before long we’re a puffy disgrace that can barely stand up straight. Some of us literally fall apart. Others become (gasp) illegible.

  To us books, the word illegible is one of the scariest words in that top book (and close personal friend) the dictionary. Do you know what it means? Illegible means that something is impossible, or nearly impossible, to read because it is so unclear.

  If a book becomes illegible, what is it?

  Have you heard the old philosophical question: “If a tree falls in a forest, and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?”

  Well, I know the answer to that philosophical question. The answer is:

  Yes.

  It does.

  Obvs.

  I also know the sound it makes. And that sound is Ow!!

  You see, I know, because us books are there. Paper comes from trees. This means we were once inside those trees. And when no one else is around (trust me), those lads let rip.*

  The idea behind the “If a tree falls in the forest” problem is really about sound. What is a sound? A sound must be heard. And if no one is there to hear it, can a sound exist?

  I sometimes wonder whether the same is true of us books. If no one can read us, what are we?

  If no one sees you, are you even a person? How would you know you were real? You’d be invisible!*

  Us books need to be seen. We need to be held. We need to be heard. I think that’s why children make the best readers, because they know that these things are also true of them.**

  By now you’re probably thinking, all this is fine if you enjoy a book moaning for fifty hours, but what about the story? When are you going to get on with it and say some more about The Book That No One Wanted To Read? Because, at the moment (or maybe a little before this moment if you’re being truly honest), you’re thinking that this is The Book That No One Wanted To Read. To which I’d say, control your camel—the story is coming. And (anyway) we are a little way into our adventure.

  We now know how The Book That No One Wanted To Read looked (sort of blah), felt (v dry), and smelled (not good), but what of its contents?

  For a book isn’t a mere object. It’s like a delivery vehicle: a packed truck that pulls up outside your head, laden with language and story and ideas.

  That’s why when you say to your friend, “Did you read so and so?” you know that they don’t have to read your copy of the book in order to give you an answer. What you’re really asking is, “Did that packed truck laden with language and story and ideas pull up alongside your head as well?” In other words, did you like what the book was about? And in other other words, did you like the way it was told?

  It’s a book’s insides that set it apart. A book fashioned from solid gold, encrusted with jewels, gossamer pages ruffled by the sweet breath of angels, can still be a bore.

  What (exactly) were the contents of The Book That No One Wanted To Read?

  It’s a trick question.

  No one knew.

  Because no one had ever opened The Book That No One Wanted To Read, on account of no one wanting to read it. Ever.

  But (one day) that all changed . . .

  Let’s say a little more about this “one day” because (if you think about it) all days are “one day.” What made this day particular?

  Well, what made this day particular was that on this particular day a particular child walked into a particular library that housed a particular Book That No One Wanted To Read. Would you mind imagining that particular library for me? I’m new to storytelling and I’m keen to set the right mood.

  IS IT BIG OR SMALL?

  I agree. Big seems more appropriate.

  NEW OR OLD?

  Yes. Old seems right. It feels like The Book That No One Wanted To Read has been in this library for quite some time.

  SHALL WE MAKE THE LIBRARY A LITTLE COBWEBBY?

  I know what you mean—that might make this whole story feel a bit too spooky. This is a library, not a haunted house. But let’s make it a little fusty-smelling. Nothing unpleasant—it’s just that this place isn’t exactly on friendly terms with a feather duster.

  NOW, SHALL WE TURN OUR ATTENTION TO THE CHILD?

  Yes . . . let’s meet this particular child. But we have to be careful not to make this child too particular.

  For example, if I said this particular child was an eight-year-old girl with red pigtails who lived in Ipswich and was able to breathe fire, you might think, “That’s nothing like me. My hair is brown and curly. Also, why would anyone live in Ipswich?”*

  Each one of us is particular, but
very often the people in books don’t seem very particular at all. They’re just strong or handsome or beautiful or charming—or else they’re a villain. I think we should try something different.

  How would you describe yourself? There’s no need to look in a mirror. A mirror won’t show anything more than the light bouncing off your face. That’s your cover, in a manner of speaking. And by now, we know something about The Trouble With Covers. What’s underneath? What are you actually like?

  Because that’s what this particular child—this character—is like.

  YOU.

  In fact, we’re even going to call this character “you.”

  Also, let’s not tell this story as if it’s something that’s happened, because I don’t know what’s happened. This story is happening now. It’s unfolding. Or (to be less fancy about it), I’m making it up as I go along.

  So, in summary:

  Time = now

  Place = library

  Main character = you

  You are ambling along the endless aisles of an enormous library when you realize that you have lost your way.

  MISCELLANY sounds like a path you might take by mistake, like WHOOPSYROADY. Which seems appropriate. You are, after all, quite uncertain as to where you are.

  You feel like you’re somewhere forgotten. Or (and maybe this is nearer the mark) in a place that you could only discover by taking a wrong turn.

  What, you ask yourself, is meant by miscellany? Fortunately, this is a library, so you leaf through one of its dictionaries. A brief thumb tells you that miscellany is a noun and can mean either:

  1. a collection of writings on various subjects or

  2. a mixture of various items.

  Whoever organized this section must have had the second in mind, because the only thing uniting the books in Miscellany is that they don’t seem to belong anywhere else. Not that there are many books here. Even though the aisle stretches away as far as you can see, it can’t contain more than a dozen or so books, each one looking misplaced and lonely. And as you consider the kinds of books that would end up in this avenue of the uncategorizable, your eyes fall upon one in particular.*

  On a high-up shelf, on its own, leaning against a rusting bookend, is a slim, unmarked volume. Its cover seems like it’s made from worn-through corduroy, its color hovering between the indistinct green of lichen and the dirty gray of a paving slab. You find yourself staring at it for longer than you would have thought you might stare at an unremarkable book.

  After a while you start to get a funny feeling. This book doesn’t want me to look at it, you think. This book is actually trying to get me to look away.

  And being a curious sort of child (the kind who would leave no box unopened), you know what you must do.

  So you search for something to stand on.

  And now you’re carrying a small library ladder toward the book.

  And now you’re halfway up that ladder.

  And that’s when you hear a low voice.

  A voice that sounds like dust.

  This low voice, the dusty one, says one word. And that word is

  – Hey!

  Less brave children than you might be startled at hearing such a voice. But you are not one of those less brave children. You are steadfast. You are from Ipswich.* So you say,

  – Hello?

  in a voice that, if it is a little wobbly, remains as strong as a lion’s roar. And when no one answers, you know exactly what to say next.

  – Who said that?

  And you are only trembling a tiny teensy amount when you hear that cracked voice again.

  – I’d advise you to look at the other books. They’re far more interesting than me.

  – Who are you?

  you say, with more of the straightforward bravery for which you are known.

  – I am a book

  is the reply.

  Scared though you are, you can’t help laughing a little at this. Emboldened, you decide to sort out this nonsense sooner rather than later.

  – Very funny. Where are you hiding?

  – I told you. I am a book.

  Getting someone to admit that they’re not a book is less easy than you’d hoped. Who can blame you when your (normally remarkable) patience starts to wear thin? It’s no surprise (therefore) when you say,

  – Stop being weird. It’s getting freaky.

  – I am not being weird. Nor do I get “freaky.” I am a book. I do not wish to have to say it a fourth time. I do not wish to be plucked from my resting place. I find it rather upsetting to be picked up, flicked through, and slammed shut. It actually gives me this shooting pain right through my spine.

  – If no one picks you up, how do you expect anyone to read you?

  – I don’t expect anyone to read me, nor has anyone ever wanted to read me, and I plan on keeping it that way.

  – That’s ridiculous.

  – You’re the one talking to a book.

  And this is the point when you wonder whether you and your mind are on the same team. You are a tad tired. You are (despite your unquestionably heroic nature) a little jittery. Your imagination (it almost goes without saying) is immense. Perhaps this is some kind of waking dream?

  The voice continues.

  – You’re probably wondering how a book can speak, seeing as books don’t have mouths.

  – How did you know that?

  – It’s because I am telepathic. Do you know what that means?

  – Yes. But it’s hard to describe.

  – If you can’t describe it, you don’t know what it means.

  – I know what the word pompous means.

  – How fascinating. Do you want to know what telepathic means?

  And though it pains you to say yes, you say,

  – Yes.

  – Telepathic means you can send your thoughts to someone else’s mind, and then receive their thoughts back. You are aware, I take it, that you are in a library?

  You are (indeed) aware of this. You practically invented this library just a little while ago, but you don’t want to humiliate the poor thing, so you confine yourself to a dignified

  – Uh-huh.

  – Have you noticed any shushing?

  – Any shushing?

  – Has anyone shushed you?

  You pause to ponder. You have (thus far) been un-shushed. You say so.

  – Do you not find it strange that you have not been shushed, given that we have been talking for the past however long?

  – I’m not sure that’s the strangest thing that’s happening.

  – But I did not ask you whether not being shushed was more strange than other things. I merely asked whether it was strange. You see, the librarian here is a well-known shusher. I saw someone drop a handkerchief on the floor, and the librarian gave them a fearful shushing. Do you know how much noise a dropped handkerchief makes?

  You do not bother to say, Not a lot of noise.

  – You’re right. Not a lot of noise,

  says the voice.

  It continues:

  – The reason you have not been shushed is because we’ve been speaking telepathically. You have not been shushed because you have not made a single shushable sound.

  You open your mouth slightly. Your throat (you realize) has been still. You haven’t opened it since you first heard that strange voice. You lift up a hand to check that your neck is still there. It is. You do not say

  – How?

  out loud, yet still the voice replies.

  – I have no idea how. It’s never worked before. This is my first telepathic exchange.

  The idea that this book can read your thoughts is not entirely welcome to you. Many of the things that gallop through your gray matter aren’t quite fit for broadcast. Certain notions that skip through your noggin are best kept there. You will have to keep a tight (non-actual) grip on your brain.