text: Oh! it is absurd to have a hard and fast rule about what one should read and what one shouldn’t. More than half of modern culture depends on what one shouldn’t read - Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest, 1895 I opened his pages and sniffed, basking in the smell of his yellowed leaves. He smelled like home or a rusty old cabin on a mountain or woods surrounding a lake in the middle of a hot summer day. My fingers, covered in dirt, caressed the ink covered pages and beautiful words that echoed in my head as I read the stories inside. I laughed in delight as I discovered the wit and tales he held in his heart. his name was The Importance of Being Earnest and Other Works by Oscar Wilde. A mouthful to say the least, but despite his long name, he was quick and clever. Yellow highlighter in hand, I marked his pages, making note of words he spoke that intrigued or amused me. On the inside in fading pencil is my mother’s name in cursive. Lying on the couch, I shout to my mom asking if she’d read it. She couldn’t remember, but she might have. Perhaps in college or high school she held on to it and then placed it in the bookshelf and left it forgotten for the next twenty or so years. Despite being surrounded by many other books, he seemed lonely as I pulled his out and examined him. A brown colored photograph of the author and several companions graced the cover, covered in a thin coat of dust that I blew off quickly. Earnest seemed to stare up at me as I gripped him in my hands, staring back down at him, as if we were competing to see who would blink first. He was the victor of the battle, but it was I who held his protectively as I wandered the house, delving deeper into his pages every minute. I’d met a cousin of his before, and that cousin was why I introduced myself to this noble Lord. His cousin was a film version of the play, and he had amused me greatly. When I saw this Lord’s title I knew I must introduce myself. “Ever since I first looked upon your wonderful and incomparable beauty, I have dared to love you wildly, passionately, devotedly, hopelessly.” I told him as I admired the words that stemmed out from his spine, my fingers following each line, tracing the tattoos left upon his skin by the ink. He quickly replied to my remark and surprised me. “I don’t think that you should tell me that you love me wildly, passionately, devotedly, hopelessly. Hopelessly doesn’t seem to make much sense, does it?” With a grin, I took him by the spine and whisked him off to the kitchen, where I grabbed turkey and bread and proceeded in making myself a sandwich. I knew at that moment we were meant for each others, that we appreciated humour that was well crafted and filled with wit. After a few minutes, I decided to propose, hoping to celebrate with a cold Dr. Pepper. Again, he surprised me. “Of course. Why, we have been engaged for the last three months.” I raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Worn out by your entire ignorance of my existence, I determined to end the matter one way or the other, and after a long struggle with myself I accepted you under this dear old tree here. The next day I bought this little ring in your name, and this is the little bangle with the true lover’s knot I promised you always to wear.” He then informed me that he had broken off our engagement, because “it would hardly have been a really serious engagement if it hadn’t been broken off at least once. But I forgave you before the week was out.” And so our life together began, and I introduced his to my family, who was greatly amused by his during Thanksgiving dinner. “Relations are simply a tedious pack of people, who haven’t got the remotest knowledge of how to live, nor the smallest instinct about when to die.” The table erupted in laughter at his commentary, and then descended into loud discussions of politics, school, and work. *** The rest is silence - William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 1599 It had been several years since our engagement, and he and I are still close. I picked him up and read and spoke to him on occasion, but at times I felt as though we were drifting apart, as if he’d become some book I simply placed on my nightstand and occasionally glanced at, flipping through his pages and reading a section before putting him down again. Sometimes I felt like he was still speaking to me, trying to grab my attention as I focused on other books. That was when I met Hamlet. He was shiny and new, with no other name written inside except for my own. He and I stayed up late, sitting on my bed with a bowl of popcorn and a Dr. Pepper, his black cover resting in my lap as I stared intently into his pages, my thumb holding my place as I popped another bite into my mouth before carefully turning the page to uncover the secrets inside. He was my very own Prince Charming of Denmark, speaking sweet words to me as I eagerly listened, taking them in and listening to his gentle voice soothing me. “Doubt thou the stars are fire / Doubt that the sun doth move / Doubt truth to be a liar / But never doubt I love”, he said, speaking promises into my ear. He was dark and mysterious, the ideal bad boy of my existence. His presence was alluring in a way that captivated my imagination and fascinated me in ways that Earnest could not. He was romantic yet enveloped by darkness with his black leather-like cover, like the void of the night sky. The silver words that spelled out his name shone like stars against this endless night sky. He was moody and restless, yet I loved him still, refusing to give up on my precious prince. His voice lulled me to sleep every night, the rhythm of his words like a lullaby to my ears, rocking me back and forth as he sang to me. His voice had the same feeling of black velvet on the skin, soft and dark at the same time, yet comforting in the cold winters as I wrapped it around me, drinking warm cocoa and reading in my bed as grey clouds cover the sky, blocking out the light of day, making time seem irrelevant to me. We stayed this way for a year or so, watching David Tennant on screen with a skull in his hand, reciting those words that Shakespeare had written so diligently in years before. At times though, as I held him by my side, I’d glance across the room and see Earnest watching, sadly, that same lonely look upon him as I had noticed those many years ago in the bookshelf, surrounded and yet alone. I felt a pang of guilt in my heart before returning to Hamlet, his words spoken quietly yet with a fierceness that was only possible coming from him. For a while, all was well, yet he began speaking harsh words to me. He did nothing harmful, but his words held so much power in them that I was harmed indeed. “ Let me be cruel, not unnatural / I will speak daggers to his, but use none,” I overheard him as I entered the room, before he began insulting me, yelling “Get thee to a nunnery. Go, farewell. Or, if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool, for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them.” Crying, I ran from him, grabbing my dear Earnest from the nightstand and running towards the bathroom. Shutting the door I turned on the water and stepped into it, lying back in the bathtub as I allowed the water to rise until it covered my face, leaving me in the silence except for the sound of the waterfall coming from the pipe, crashing into the water already in the tub. There, I was safe, away from my Hamlet, and at rest. “Good-night, ladies; good-night, sweet ladies; good-night, good-night,” I whispered, bringing my head above the water for a moment. Over the sound of the waterfall I could hear another familiar voice. “Now cracks a noble heart. Good-night, sweet prince / And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.” *** The truth is rarely pure and never simple. Modern life would be very tedious if it were either, and modern literature a complete impossibility - Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest, 1895 I held Earnest to me tightly, staring out the window into the empty street and quiet fall colors that covered the grass, orange and brown and red. He had grown jealous of Hamlet and I, and yet he had remained patiently with me, his pages always there to be turned and to provide me with whatever I needed. I felt a pang of guilt at how I had used him without caring for him in return. I had betrayed him and grown to love another. My fingers returned to the brown photograph on his cover, blankets wrapped around me like some eskimo in the Arctic. I bit my lip, accidentally drawing blood, tasting the copper tang in my mouth. Earnest was silent, staring back up at me with a blank face, emotionless and tired. As if all had been lost and there was no way to return to the way we had been before. His pages felt cool to the touch now, no longer bringing the warmth I had felt. I had not returned that devotion that had been so present in the beginning, and the way he sat on the bed, turned away from me, the cover shut and blocking me out, I could tell the damage I had done just by looking. Sighing, I carried him outside, towards the swimming pool where I sat by the edge of the deep end, dipping my toes in the cool blue water, opening him to my eyes and reading what I had read so many times before, but this time, it felt so different. I didn’t deserve to read those lines, to touch those pages printed with ink that marked every word he spoke to me. Earnest spoke differently to me than Hamlet had, although during our time together I’d felt that the prince had truly cared for me. Yet he didn’t give me that same warmth and laughter my true love had so often provided me. He was witty and yet when I needed any comfort, he held me in his arms, gently wrapping those soft yellow pages around me, caressing my skin as I listened to his words. There was comfort in those words, unlike the cold harsh speech Hamlet would use against me at times. Yet Earnest was never unkind, too cruel or demanding. He was sweet. I stood, holding him to my chest, sighing quietly as I listened to the laughter of children in the backyard behind ours. They were probably having friends over, judging by the level of noise coming from it. As I turned to go back inside my home, I tripped, skinning my knee as he fell from my hands, away from me, into the deep end of the pool. I knelt by the edge, leaning forward to retrieve him, but he was already sinking into the depths of the dark lonely pool. I cried out his name one last time, before remembering something he had said so many years ago. “The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what fiction means.” My eyes had been opened, though I was not asleep, and I saw my reality as it should be.