What little I understood was that the overseers of Library Island—our captors uttered so few words to us—were trying to tear you away from the Outer World. Every bit of you, the seen and the unseen you.
“We’ve so enjoyed this process already—selecting books, working with publishers, authors, Wolverine Press, and assembling these unique collections. Our goal is simply to keep the program going, grow our subscriber base, and continue to provide signed first editions of the books we believe in.”
The one sage who escaped the Catastrophe is supposed to be still roaming the airport in various disguises, pretending to be a passport officer, barman or chiropodist, and distributing subversive pamphlets which denounce the allegedly lunatic usurpers of the Control Tower.
“I am arms and legs, pulse, / and my secret interior that has said nothing this time, nothing bad.”
Eicher takes the microphone, and, in his lilting, wry way of talking, he gently invites us to take our places, in small groups of four people, centered on stations that have been painted (dusted would be more accurate) onto the grass.