The Biography
Lies led to further lies, dividing like cells, scattering in a multitude of directions, so delicately constructed and subtly detailed, based not simply on words alone but the nuances of his finely tuned spoken delivery. It would take a superhuman act of memory to recall every detail of the elaborate world he had constructed, peopled with fictitious characters who themselves had multiple shifting identities, in some cases appropriated from the dead.
Many of those he deluded had spent years maintaining immensely detailed records, data, statistics, log books, files in the hope of discovering something truly significant that might lie somehere in the midst of of it all, like an artefact sealed in a tomb. They would give up the ghost in abject failure, broken and demoralised by years of futile searches. Yet it seems he was never aiming for perfection, nor held no interest in consistency, carefully maintaining a flawless construct. He would deliberately, wilfully, embellish his lies with outrageous immediate truths, daring his adversaries to discover the full shock of his intrigue. How he would delight in their humbling, their self hatred and humiliation.
Amidst the delicately constructed city of his lies were entire broken factories, weed strewn abandoned yards, rusty railings, crumbling alleyways. Or a ruined house in a windswept empty field miles from anywhere. He, as a creator of immensely complex yet malfunctioning worlds, had put them there, then relished the decay.
He preferred their imperfections, their ruined corners of intrigue. It was here, in these rain sodden neglected broken ruins rather than elite distinguished realms of power and conceit where his enemies would discover clues which would potentially lead to his undoing. He would deliberately plant trails in the hope they would walk these lonely weed strewn alleyways, follow the graffiti trail of abandon through a flaking broken door up cold stone steps to find him waiting in the shadows, sitting in the middle of an abandoned room, by a window, at a desk, at a silent telephone the cord of which was severed.
He might be close to death but how quickly and skilfully he could turn the tables, assembling and reassembling himself enjoying subtly manipulating the fate of anyone who dared to question his integrity to the point where they would rather throw themselves in front of a train than continue in life having doubted him.
***
I sat in the corner of the library, laughing to myself at the ridiculous situation but all the same I could feel the sweat on my brow, the urgent intensity of my pulse. I had no direction to my research, noone to guide me, no touchstones, no sense of certainty. I began to suspect some elaborate hoax or intrigue. How could I possibly piece together a biography with such a paucity of information? I envisaged myself at the end of my life sitting in the same corner of the library, staring fixedly down the thin vacant shadows of the vaulting shelves Already I was slipping into daydreams of walking along a vivid wintry beach. A few yellowing heavily edited papers and a single fading photo slipped from my fingers.
Many of those he deluded had spent years maintaining immensely detailed records, data, statistics, log books, files in the hope of discovering something truly significant that might lie somehere in the midst of of it all, like an artefact sealed in a tomb. They would give up the ghost in abject failure, broken and demoralised by years of futile searches. Yet it seems he was never aiming for perfection, nor held no interest in consistency, carefully maintaining a flawless construct. He would deliberately, wilfully, embellish his lies with outrageous immediate truths, daring his adversaries to discover the full shock of his intrigue. How he would delight in their humbling, their self hatred and humiliation.
Amidst the delicately constructed city of his lies were entire broken factories, weed strewn abandoned yards, rusty railings, crumbling alleyways. Or a ruined house in a windswept empty field miles from anywhere. He, as a creator of immensely complex yet malfunctioning worlds, had put them there, then relished the decay.
He preferred their imperfections, their ruined corners of intrigue. It was here, in these rain sodden neglected broken ruins rather than elite distinguished realms of power and conceit where his enemies would discover clues which would potentially lead to his undoing. He would deliberately plant trails in the hope they would walk these lonely weed strewn alleyways, follow the graffiti trail of abandon through a flaking broken door up cold stone steps to find him waiting in the shadows, sitting in the middle of an abandoned room, by a window, at a desk, at a silent telephone the cord of which was severed.
He might be close to death but how quickly and skilfully he could turn the tables, assembling and reassembling himself enjoying subtly manipulating the fate of anyone who dared to question his integrity to the point where they would rather throw themselves in front of a train than continue in life having doubted him.
***
I sat in the corner of the library, laughing to myself at the ridiculous situation but all the same I could feel the sweat on my brow, the urgent intensity of my pulse. I had no direction to my research, noone to guide me, no touchstones, no sense of certainty. I began to suspect some elaborate hoax or intrigue. How could I possibly piece together a biography with such a paucity of information? I envisaged myself at the end of my life sitting in the same corner of the library, staring fixedly down the thin vacant shadows of the vaulting shelves Already I was slipping into daydreams of walking along a vivid wintry beach. A few yellowing heavily edited papers and a single fading photo slipped from my fingers.
posted by Johnny Rem at 2/13/2016 02:43:00 PM
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