In a "Rare and Used" bookstore in Black Mountain, NC, this weekend, I sifted and sifted until I found a book, now out of print, originally published in 1990, by a publisher of no repute, written by an author (b. 1951) with no Wikipedia page. And I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that none who reads my blog will seek the book out for himself purely as a function of my endorsement, but as a matter of conscience, here is a link:
Two men could, independently, write the same book. Granting that unlikelihood, one of the men could have written the book with the intention of revealing divine truth to his most earnest readers, whereas the other may have written the book hoping to make a living.
Now again, two men may read that book (either version, of course); and, one man may say that it matters greatly whether the author had divine intentions or financial intentions. The other man may say it matters not at all.
Now again, two men may read a book, authored by an author with divine intentions, and one may receive the transmission, while the other may not.
Now again, two men may read a book, authored by an author with mundane intentions, and one may be changed for the better, whereas another may not.
And further: women may even involve themselves in these kinds of scenarios!
Here follows a bit of text that I wish I could use as an epigraph in a scholarly article, but can't, because no editor is subtle enough to get the joke:
"No one realised that the book and the labyrinth were one and the same." --Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths, possibly translated to Russian by unknown, then quoted in Victor Pelevin's The Helmet of Horror, translated into English by Andrew Bromfield.