Insights from a person of questionable sanity

(I'm still working on it so apologies for mistakes. Enjoy!)

Sylvia Plath waited anxiously. Finally the front cover opened, it sounded like an old creaky door, she was ushered in and the front cover was slammed shut.

It was Friday night. Every Friday a new comer joined them on the Chair. They came out of space. Nobody stayed for long. The Hand (bless the hand) would come for you sooner or later. Sometimes in the dead night; sometimes early morning; but sooner or later it came for you. The Hand (bless the hand) would swoop down like a vulture and take its victim. Sometimes the Hand (bless the hand) changed its mind. Old Dickens was picked last time, but the Hand (bless the hand) faltered for a second from his weight and placed him back on the Chair. Nobody knew what happened after you were taken. Only Henry James had returned after being taken but he had repressed the traumatic experience. He remembered being opened up, flicked, touched, sometimes tenderly, gripped. He remembered bright lights on him, he remembered being probed, sometimes it lasted five minutes, other times for half an hour. Sometimes the pace was quicker- he hated that the most, it made him feel nauseous. He was about to reveal more (for a man who repressed his traumatic experience he certainly could remember a lot) but sweet Jane Austen broke down at this point and cried ‘No more, I beg you no more’. Nobody spoke of the afterlife after this incident. Ignorance was bliss, especially when you lived for only a few months. And each night they prayed the Hand (bless the hand) would be merciful with them.

Their life on the Chair was governed by many rules. The Chair was overcrowded as it was and team work was essential in order to avoid being toppled into the abyss below. Most importantly, fictional characters were to be kept in their room. If you were lucky, like Muriel Spark, you had three or four rooms – Loitering with Intent, The Driver’s Seat and Memento Mori. Under no circumstances was anyone from these rooms allowed to wander around. Some, like Vladimir Nabokov, were reckless. He’d been championing the rights and equality of fictional characters and believed they deserved to be free, not in chains. One sunny afternoon, Jane Eyre found Mr Humber Humbert in her room, talking to Adele. She’d only slipped out for a second for a clandestine meeting. Mr Humbert Humbert aplogised profusely and told Adele he would see her around. Jane had ears, she’d heard the rumours. She fumed with anger. How to protect Adele from this despicable man without revealing where she was? In the end her innate goodness got the best of her and she told her landlord Charlotte Bronte that Mr Humber Humbert was seen loitering around. Fortunately, Charlotte did not ask where she was. She did however take a restraining order against Humbert Humbert.

‘Sylvia!’ Iain Banks motioned towards her. ‘You won’t believe who the new comer is!’ He said to her once she joined him. He motioned towards the centre of the room where a large crowd surrounded someone in the middle. Sylvia’s eyes – out of habit – fell on Henry James. Yesterday, on her way back up from tea with Iain Banks, she’d bumped into him on the edge of the spines. He was an awkward fellow. She couldn’t remember what they talked about, the weather perhaps, or one of his books. But at one point he’d arched an eyebrow and said to her ‘There are women who are for all your 'times of life.' They're the most wonderful sort.’ What on earth did he mean? Was she a women for ‘all your times of life’. For all his times of life?
‘It’s Shakespeare!’
‘No!’
Iain Banks mistook her tone. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’
She didn’t think so. If truth be told she thought there were enough old bores in the place as it was. If that didn’t drive a woman to suicide what would?

___________

If Henry could foresee events of the future, or Sylvia’s suicide, than he surely would have ceased the moment with Sylvia. But being terribly shy and of a repressive temperament meant the boat always sailed without him.

It was Friday night again. And everyone had gathered on the edge of their book spine, candles in hand, waiting for the Hand (bless the hand) to come. Suddenly someone shouted ‘Look!’.

Suddenly a hush fell over the Chair. A shiver went down their spine and they wondered what it meant. The Hand (bless the hand) placed the newcomer on the top. Nobody came out of the front cover to greet them and they wondered who – or what – would.

‘We’re doomed’ Hemmingway said. Several people nodded.

The end had come.

‘On the contrary, salvation has come’ Henry James said ironically.

The inhabitants of the Chair looked up in awe and disgust at the new arrival: THE BIBLE.