The Wandering Library of MirMarnia: A Series

Part Seven: The Care and Feeding of Temperamental Tomes

(I drew this with a 2B pencil and Polychromo coloured pencils on Bristol Board, and it took me 8 hours to brainstorm, draw and finalise - Chaiga T. Cheska)
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A practical guide to books with ridiculous requirements

By Mistress Quilloria Spine, with reluctant field notes from Bramwell Corin and far too much commentary from Pip Thimble

Preface

In my thirty-seven years of cataloguing books, I have encountered volumes that sulk, texts that gossip, and manuscripts that hold grudges longer than most people hold mortgages. This is a guide to their care, compiled so that future librarians might avoid the mistakes we have made.

Or, more accurately, the mistakes Pip has made. Bramwell makes different mistakes, usually involving excessive logic applied to things that do not respond to logic. I make no mistakes, which is why I am writing this, and they are not.

What follows is not comprehensive. It cannot be. Books develop new requirements daily, often out of spite. But it may prevent you from being bitten, sulked at, or subjected to strongly worded prefaces that write themselves in your presence.

Section One: Books That Require Specific Environmental Conditions

“A Brief History of Eternal Grudges”

Requirements: Must be stored at exactly seventeen degrees, in shadow, with no other books touching it, facing north-northwest, on a Thursday.

Consequences of Non-Compliance: The book will close itself and refuse to open for a fortnight. When it does finally open, every page will contain the same sentence: “I told you Thursday.”

Bramwell’s Notes: I attempted to determine why Thursday was crucial. The book declined to elaborate beyond adding “You wouldn’t understand” to every page for three days. I have stopped asking.

Pip’s Notes: I accidentally shelved it on a Wednesday, and it screamed at me. Not like, metaphorically. It actually made a sound like “AHHHHHHHHH,” but in old-fashioned script, which appeared in the air. I apologised seventeen times. It counted. It wanted exactly seventeen apologies to match its required temperature. Books are exhausting.

“The Compendium of Moonlight Botany”

Requirements: Must only be read by moonlight. Any moonlight. Refracted, reflected, or direct. But it must be moonlight.

Consequences of Non-Compliance: The text becomes illegible, replaced by what appears to be botanical diagrams of imaginary plants. I once attempted to read it by candlelight and was treated to seventeen pages of increasingly hostile illustrations of a flower labelled “The Why-Won’t-You-Listen Blossom.”

Bramwell’s Notes: I pointed out that moonlight is simply reflected sunlight and therefore there should be no practical difference between reading by sun or moon. The book responded by displaying a full-page illustration of a plant labelled “Pedantic Weeds (Insufferable).” I have conceded the point.

Pip’s Notes: This one is actually quite nice if you follow its rules! I read it by the window last month during a full moon, and it showed me the most beautiful drawings of Moonberry plants, Silver Ferns, and something called Midnight Bluebells that only bloom when the moon is waxing! But then I tried to show Bramwell a diagram during daylight, and the book turned all the pictures into drawings of turnips. Just. Turnips. Everywhere. Aggressively illustrated turnips. The book has opinions about sharing.

Section Two: Books That Require Specific Readers

“Meditations for the Perpetually Anxious”

Requirements: Will only open for readers who are genuinely anxious. Attempts to read it whilst calm result in the book remaining firmly closed.

Consequences of Non-Compliance: None, technically, as the book simply will not open. However, it does emit a faint aura of judgement that I can only describe as “smugly therapeutic.”

Bramwell’s Notes: I attempted to read this during a particularly stressful cataloguing crisis. It opened immediately, and every page said, “See? Was that so hard?” I found this distinctly unhelpful.

Pip’s Notes: This is my favourite book. It opens for me all the time. Bramwell says this is “concerning”, but I think it’s nice that something in this library understands me. Yesterday, it had a chapter that was just “You’re doing fine. The teacup situation wasn’t your fault. Well. It was mostly your fault. But you apologised nicely.”

“The Diary of Someone Significantly More Interesting Than You”

Requirements: Will only open for readers wearing green. Not just any green. The correct green. What constitutes “correct” changes daily.

Consequences of Non-Compliance: The book opens just enough to display one sentence: “That’s not the right green. Try again tomorrow.”

Bramwell’s Notes: I have attempted to catalogue the acceptable greens. Forest green: acceptable Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Moss green: Tuesday, Thursday. Sage green: Saturday only. Teal: never acceptable, stop trying. The book called my research “adorably futile.”

Pip’s Notes: I own one green shirt. One. And it’s only the right green about once a month. Last week I tried wearing a green hat with my brown shirt, and the book said, “Nice try. No.” I’m not buying an entire wardrobe of green clothes just to read someone’s diary. (I’m considering it.)

Section Three: Books That Require Emotional Preparation

“Collected Tragedies of the Unnecessarily Dramatic”

Requirements: Must be approached with appropriate solemnity. Laughter, smirking, or any hint of amusement will cause the book to snap shut.

Consequences of Non-Compliance: The book will not open again until you have provided a written apology in verse, a minimum of eight lines, rhyme scheme optional but appreciated.

Bramwell’s Notes: I made the mistake of reading this aloud to Pip, who found the chapter on “The Maiden Who Perished From a Splinter (Probably Infection But We’re Calling It Heartbreak)” genuinely hilarious. The book slammed shut, hit me in the face, and demanded a sonnet. I am not writing a sonnet. The book and I are at an impasse.

Pip’s Notes: To be fair, the maiden did die from a splinter on page one, and the next forty pages were about everyone being sad about it! It was ridiculous! The book says it’s about “emotional depth”, but I think it’s about “making mountains out of splinters”, which is funny objectively. Bramwell won’t write the apology sonnet, so the book won’t open, and now he’s grumpy about it, which makes the situation funnier, and I’m not allowed to laugh about it near the book, which makes it harder not to laugh. This is the worst.

“Philosophies for Practical People”

Requirements: Must be read whilst sitting down. Cannot be skimmed. Must be taken seriously. The book knows when you are not taking it seriously.

Consequences of Non-Compliance: Every sentence becomes incredibly long and convoluted until you are forced to slow down and actually think about what it is saying, which is the point, though the book could make the point without being quite so smug about it.

Bramwell’s Notes: A perfectly reasonable book with perfectly reasonable requirements. I have no complaints about this one.

Pip’s Notes: Bramwell loves this book because it’s as pedantic as he is. They’re perfect for each other. Meanwhile, I tried to read it standing up while eating an apple, and it turned into a forty-page run-on sentence about the nature of attention and the importance of stillness, and I nearly cried. When I finally sat down properly, it went back to normal and added a sentence at the end that said: “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Books shouldn’t be sarcastic.

Section Four: Books With Dietary Requirements

“The Herbalist’s Companion”

Requirements: Must be stored with fresh mint leaves between pages 47 and 48. The mint must be replaced weekly. The book will accept no substitutes.

Consequences of Non-Compliance: All the herbal remedies described in the book become recipes for soup instead. I once needed a treatment for a headache, and the book provided instructions for turnip bisque.

Bramwell’s Notes: I attempted to substitute lavender, as we had run out of mint. The book responded by turning every remedy into increasingly aggressive soup recipes. “Remedy for Insomnia” became “Onion Soup for People Who Don’t Follow Instructions.” I bought more mint.

Pip’s Notes: I forgot to change the mint last month, and the book turned everything into soup recipes. Everything. I needed information on fever treatments and got “Broth for Fools Who Can’t Remember Mint.” I told the book this was excessive, and it added a recipe for “Humble Pie” with the note, “You should try this one.” I changed the mint immediately.

“The Collected Works of Digestive Philosophy”

Requirements: Must never be read at mealtimes. Must never be read within thirty minutes of eating. Must never be read by anyone who has recently thought about food.

Consequences of Non-Compliance: The book becomes incredibly detailed about bodily processes, to the point that eating becomes impossible for at least 3 hours afterwards.

Bramwell’s Notes: I made the mistake of reading this after lunch. I am not providing details. I will never make this mistake again. The book has been placed in Restricted Access, not because the information is dangerous, but because reading it near the staff room is biological warfare.

Pip’s Notes: I don’t want to talk about it. Bramwell warned me. I didn’t listen. I read it while eating a sandwich. I couldn’t finish the sandwich. I couldn’t eat anything for the rest of the day. The book describes things. Things. Things that should never be described in that much detail. Mistress Spine found me looking pale and asked what had happened. I just pointed at the book, and she nodded like she understood, gave me tea, and told me to sit quietly until the mental images faded. This book is evil and should be burned. (Mistress Spine says we’re not burning books. Even evil ones. This seems like a policy flaw.)

Section Five: Books With Social Requirements

“The Anthology of Collective Wisdom”

Requirements: Can only be read by two or more people simultaneously. Attempts to read it alone result in blank pages.

Consequences of Non-Compliance: The pages remain blank until a second reader joins. The book then displays a message: “Wisdom is better shared. Find a friend.”

Bramwell’s Notes: A reasonable requirement, I suppose, though “find a friend” seems presumptuous. I have colleagues. That should suffice. Pip and I read this together last month. It provided fascinating insights into collaborative knowledge-building. Pip fell asleep on page twelve.

Pip’s Notes: It was late, and Bramwell read in a monotone, and the book was talking about “epistemic frameworks”, which I think is just a fancy way of saying “how people know things”, but it used nineteen long words when two short words would work fine! I couldn’t help falling asleep! The book woke me up by displaying a message that said “We’re disappointed in you,” which seems rude. I helped Bramwell turn pages. That should count.

“The Autobiography of a Book That Desperately Needs Attention”

Requirements: Must be read aloud. Must be told that it is interesting. Must be assured regularly that yes, we are still paying attention.

Consequences of Non-Compliance: The book will stop mid-sentence and display: “Are you still reading? Because I can wait. I have all the time in the world. Unlike some people who clearly have better things to do.”

Bramwell’s Notes: This is the neediest book in our collection. It requires constant validation. I spent three hours reading it last week and had to pause to look up a reference. When I returned, it said, “Oh, you came back. How nice. I thought perhaps you’d found a more interesting book.” I am considering requesting hazard pay for emotional labour.

Pip’s Notes: This book is like my sister’s cat. Constantly demanding attention and then offended when you give it attention because it’s not the right kind of attention. I read it for twenty minutes yesterday and said, “This is really interesting!” and it said, “You don’t sound convinced. Try again with more enthusiasm.” I’m not reading it again. It’s exhausting. Bramwell can have it. They deserve each other.

Section Six: Books With Unreasonable Standards

“The Perfectionist’s Guide to Everything”

Requirements: Must be handled with clean hands. Must be opened carefully. Must be read without errors. If you mispronounce a single word while reading aloud, the book closes and sulks for six hours.

Consequences of Non-Compliance: The book judges you. Silently. But you can feel it.

Bramwell’s Notes: I appreciate attention to detail. I do not appreciate being corrected by a book when I mispronounce a word I have never encountered before. Last week, I said “ep-i-TOME” instead of “eh-PIT-oh-me”, and the book closed itself and emitted an aura of disappointment so profound that Mistress Spine asked if someone had died.

Pip’s Notes: This book hates me. It just hates me. I can’t do anything right. My hands are too sweaty. I turn pages too fast. I breathe too loudly. Last week, I sneezed while reading it, and it closed itself and wouldn’t open again for three days. Bramwell said, “Perhaps it’s trying to teach you standards”, and I said, “Perhaps it’s a nightmare made of paper”, and the book heard me, and now it won’t open for me at all. I’m counting this as a win.

“The Dictionary of Obscure Offences”

Requirements: Unknown. The book decides arbitrarily what offends it and punishes accordingly.

Consequences of Non-Compliance: Yesterday, it took offence to the word “moist.” It has not explained why. All references to moisture, dampness, or humidity have been replaced with asterisks. We are unsure how to reverse this.

Bramwell’s Notes: I have given up attempting to understand this book’s logic. Last week, it decided the word “subsequently” was offensive and replaced every instance with “and then, AS IF THAT WASN’T BAD ENOUGH.” I believe the book is unwell. Or possibly developing a personality disorder. Either way, it is being monitored.

Pip’s Notes: This book is CHAOS given FORM. Yesterday, it decided it didn’t like the letter Q. Just Q. ALL THE Q’S DISAPPEARED. Every “question” became “uestion,” and every “quite” became “uite,” and it looked TERRIBLE, but the book seemed PLEASED with itself! Mistress Spine made me apologise to it even though I HADN’T DONE ANYTHING, and after I apologised, it brought the Q’s back, but now they’re slightly BIGGER than the other letters, like they’re SHOUTING. I hate this book. This book hates me. We have an understanding.

Concluding Remarks (Mistress Quilloria Spine)

As stated, this guide is incomplete. Books develop new requirements with alarming regularity. Yesterday, “A Meditation on Cheese” decided it would only open on Tuesdays during rain. We are in a drought. The book appears to be enjoying this.

What future librarians must understand is this: books in the Wandering Library are not passive repositories of information. They are collaborators, critics, and occasionally, tormentors. They have preferences. They have standards. They have more personality than some people I have met.

Your job is not to fight this. Your job is to learn it, document it, and attempt to meet their requirements without losing your mind entirely.

This, I am told, is called “customer service.”

I call it “negotiating with paper-based tyrants.”

Either way, the tea helps.

Additional Notes (Added by Bramwell Corin):

Since compiling this guide, three more books have developed dietary requirements, one has decided it only opens for people born on odd-numbered days, and “The Definitive Truth About Everything” has begun requiring readers to bow before opening it. I am not bowing to a book.

Final Notes (Added by Pip Thimble):

I BOWED TO THE BOOK. It was NICE to me for FIVE WHOLE MINUTES before it decided my bow wasn’t RESPECTFUL ENOUGH. I’m leaving. I’m going to work in a NORMAL library where books don’t have OPINIONS, teacups don’t SING, and buildings don’t SULK.

(Mistress Spine says I’m not leaving. She says this is “character building.” I think it’s “character DESTROYING”, but apparently my opinion doesn’t matter because I’m “still on probation” and “lucky to be employed at all.”)

(The book about collective wisdom just opened on my desk to a page that says, “You’ll stay. You know you will.” I HATE that it’s right.)

Compiled over six weeks, during which fourteen books developed new requirements, Pip threatened to quit four times, and Bramwell’s relationship with “The Perfectionist’s Guide” deteriorated to the point where they now communicate only through pointed silences. The Autocurator delivered tea at regular intervals. The tea was always the correct temperature. We remain grateful.