The Burning of the Book

the voyage of st. brendan Books were Brendan’s love. At number one, Amazing Tales, a vast compendium. Within, he found the Mathematic Salmon, the Manticore, the breath-defying Dragon. The dog-head folks, called Cynocephali, a godless bunch who play the banjolele. The Arctic tribes who worship tiger seals, their ice-hickle cities on wagon wheels. The whale Jasconius, its mountain-back all porcupined with oak, and elm, and ash. And Inexpressible Isle, its ruined fort with butterfly judges, Heart’s Grief Court. In time, this diet of ripe and rum detail weighed on Brendan: he sickened, grew pale. He craved, instead, a simple common sense in keeping with his Rule of abstinence. “These things,” he cried, “are figments, folderols. The truth is here, at hand: a linnet’s carols, Kerry mountains, Christ upon his hook.” And Brendan made a fire, and burnt his book.