How to murder perfectly with a triangular book The best writer in the world, whom the world knows nothing about, is sitting at the table. He is sitting straight. He is not bent forward, his torso is not twisted, his legs are not crossed. He hopes such posture will help him. Straight posture means straight thoughts and clear ideas. Logic. Cool calculation. And this is what he needs so much. No raptures, euphorias, excitements, delights, inspirations coming from nowhere which results only in inconsistencies and contradictions. A distorted body brings distorted thoughts, while here everything must be absolutely clear. Like this sheet of paper lying on the tabletop between two hands placed parallel. A pencil on the paper. Ordinary, most simple one. A straight thin little wooden stick with straight thin lead in it, nicely and precisely sharpened. As befits the best writer in the world, he decided to write the best crime novel in the world, which means better than all crime novels written so far doesn’t matter where and when, so good that nobody ever and anywhere will write a better one. Thanks to this work the world will finally learn about its best writer. The best is the best. The best is one and the only. Before the writer begins to write the best crime novel in the world, he has to solve a fundamental problem. The best crime novel, or the perfect one, has a kind of contradiction in it which can easily be defined as a perfect contradiction. The best crime novel should have the best murderer as a main character. The best murdered should have the best murder weapon and using it he should commit the perfect crime, meaning impossible to be uncovered. But in the best crime novel there should be the best detective, no doubt. And the best detective should use the best tools to uncover every crime, even a perfect one which is impossible to be uncovered. Holy crap! What a mess! He’s sighing. At first he has to write down the possible solutions of this dilemma, briefly, simply, clearly, not to provide any fuel to doubts and concerns; if he doesn’t do this, they will start to grow like hyphae, like mould, will proliferate and spread with no restraints and limits till they create a kind of thick, soft fog around him, as if a cocoon where he won’t begin to transform himself into a gorgeous butterfly, but will disintegrate into scraps of phrases, single words, syllables, murmurs and mutters, and the best writer in the world will turn into a heap of decaying letters crumbled into single strokes, dots, commas and ogoneks. And nobody will ever know that once there lived the best writer in the world whom the world knew nothing about. Of course, we can only guess all these things watching the writer carefully. In the beginning he is sitting motionlessly. Like a statue. He looks astonished and entirely surprised. It won’t last long. Won’t turn out that for months he has been practising motionlessness so now will be able to sit like that till he finds an idea – nobody’s expecting this due to hardly noticeable face shrinking and eyelid trembling which not necessarily is caused by the magnesium deficiency. And this deep heavy sigh... He looks very healthy although we know perfectly well the look love to cheat. Yet in this very case it is like we expect it to be. Certainly, we expect surprises, but not the usual ones. This is an unusual film, so nothing in it happens as usually, as in usual films – if somebody is going to stop the ticking bomb, he will not do this in the very last second, which is what everybody is waiting for because such things always happen in the very last second hence they are not surprising at all, but a dozen minutes earlier, or will explode having cut the wrong cable, which is what nobody’s expecting from the super hero super minesweeper. So, there will be no surprise and the look of his face is telling the truth and only the truth. And every part of his face keeps speaking. The lips never still, always changing their shape, stuck out, swollen, pumped up, bitten, twisted, clamped, hidden, half opened, pushed out by the tongue… the hardly audible purrs, clicks, smacks discreetly coming out from between them... The forehead sometimes wrinkled, sometimes smooth, bright, almost shining, flashing, then clouded, dark, matt... The nose now sharp, then round, nostrils widened and narrowed, almost closed (how can he do this?)... The cheeks sunken from despair, round from… from what?… from a triumph? as if he was playing a fanfare on trumpet, blowing a horn… as if he wanted to blow... The head, all those shakings, turnings, tiltings, leanings, noddings... The eyes alternately burning and fading out, vanishing under the lids, then goggled, jumping out from the orbits, rolling inside the skull as though he wanted to look inside his head (was he an apprentice in one of Kathakali theatre groups?)... eyes covered by fingers, thumbs, wirsts, palms, hands... And his hands. First of all his hands. They take carefully the pencil up. Now the incredible dance in the air begins. Stunning stunt flying. Pirouettes, spirals, loops, turns, merry-go-rounds, wind-mills, whirlings… Then the ballet on the table. Circus. Acrobatics. Gymnastics. Somersaults, splits, rolls. Tappings. Oh, yes! Tappings. Tapping the table, the head, the hand, the paper, the sleeve. What a variety of rhythms. What an abundance of patterns. What a combination of tempos… The paper sheet is never in the same position, either. It moves. Closer and further. A bit to the left, a bit to the right. And again to the left. And more to the right. Then it goes askew, its edges are no longer parallel to the table's edges. It slants, one corner moves up, another corner moves up, as if the sheet wanted to take off, but at once gives the idea of flying up. All these moves are being repeated tens, hundreds of times – is it a secret code to send a secret message to anybody? Who is he going to send this message to? In the room he is sitting in we can see nobody else, but the cameras keep zooming on him all the time. Maybe somebody is observing him through the window (if there is a window) or through a hole in the ceiling (if there is a ceiling). Pondering this we are following with even greater interest the rapidly changing moods running across his face, across his entire body, like clouds in the sky, like wind on a calm surface of a lake. Until in the least expected moment, or when it seems to us the writer will give a deep sigh of relief and jump from the chair driven by enthusiasm finally having answered all those oppressive questions, we see his figure, so far string tight, break and deflate. Now he is moving clumsily, the vigour is gone, the pencil has stopped to dance, the hands don't fool around, the eyes are ashy. Resignation. Deep resignation. He will come up with nothing. He's been defeated once again. And in the act of ultimate surrender, having accepted his defeat, he is folding the paper sheet, slowly and precisely. That's it – instead of crumpling it violently and throwing furiously into the bin he's folding it diagonally which is absolutely against any logic. He himself doesn't know why he's doing so, it's astonishing that he's trying to overlap the edges as exactly as possible to get the sharpest tip. What for? Is he going to make a little paper plane? A flying paper arrow? Very seldom he succeeded to make such one properly and usually the plane nose-dived to the floor right at once. Yes, he never could remember that complex combination of folds made in a very specific order which didn’t tolerate any mistakes for they were absolutely disqualifying and unfixable. He's looking dully at the folded paper. Is about to grasp it and unfold to fold it again, inversely, but his hand freezes in the air – an ideal neverlanding paper plane. A TRIANGULAR BOOK! He’s thunderstruck. A triangular book!!! A square page folded diagonally. Yes! This is it! A book like a club. Like a shakuhachi which combines in itself the most subtle sounds with wild strength. Like a bit modified patu where roundness has been replaced with angularity, and ornaments with letters. A book like a boomerang. Yes. Just grasp one of the two acute corners and smite blindly with the third one, the right one, like with a Paleolithic chopper tool. Or throw it, then it swishes in the air mowing heads. Yes. This is it. And what will this book be about? This book will be a gibberish. Most books are just gibberish. Less or lesser understandable. This one will be an absolute gibberish. Total. Enormous. Deathly gibberish. Oh, it's easy. He’s a master in writing such books. Master of mumbling. And when the book is in bookshops, when people begin to purchase it tempted by its uniqueness, when they open it, and it opens delightfully like a butterfly opens its gorgeous wings, and they begin to read it, then if they are not knocked down at once by it nonsenseness, they will get furious and begin to throw the books away and the books will fly roaring and decapitating. Oh! Will it be a perfect crime? Will it be a perfect murder weapon? Nobody will suspect the author. Affection and accident will be accused. Reader's sudden obtuseness. Not the avant-garde character of the work. Oh no! Not the avant-garde itself! Never! Of course, we can only read that in the writer's face, in his burning eyes. He is not talking loudly, not even whispering to himself in ecstasy. He knows well it is a secret that can't be let out from his head. We can look into his head, because we are allowed to do so. He doesn't know about us, and even if he does, he knows we will not reveal the secret. We want to learn what will happen next. Now the events are going on rapidly. The action is as dynamic as it was dramatically slow in the beginning which lasted so long that almost reached the end... He is rushing along the street. Keeping in his hand a pile of triangular paper sheets seamed sloppily. This is a mock-up. The first take. Not even a prototype. He wants to find whether it is possible to make such a book. He wants to know what he can demand from publishers, from printers. This makeshift book looks quite well. Would look much better if the edges were cut smooth. The cover (he doesn't know yet what cover) will make the spine invisible so its roughness will not irritate, but the rough edges must be cut. That is why he is rushing to the book binder. Many times he brought books there to renovate them. The book binder knows him and appreciates. Book binders do appreciate book lovers. And if he respects him, he will not ask stupid questions. That's the point – not to be investigated, otherwise he, being so enthusiastic, might tell the binder too much. This is the gate. He is almost running into a tiny yard, dark and cemented, where the weakest grass blade wouldn't grow. Cripple door, dirty window beside. He's on time. The workshop is still open. He's coming in. No customers. As he expected. The place is known only by a very few. Dark cave where cast-iron monsters live nursed and nurtured by the stooped, puny old man. The writer salutes the book binder and asks: Could you cut a book for me, please? The book binder answers gladly: Surely, no problem... Oh, but there is a problem – the book is triangular... What!? The old man erects. His face looks like a piece of cardboard. It's impossible! I can't! Can you hear me? I can't cut the triangular book. It's impossible. It doesn't fit! The world of books is a rectangular world. There's no place for any triangles in it!! And he's running like mad into the yard. Now he's rushing through the dark gate to the shiny street. He's haring along seeing nobody. He's poking the people, bumping houses, lanterns, cars. All the time mumbling to himself: Why me? Why has he come to me? So it's true. It's really true. It has accomplished. Like it was written. One day a man in middle age, supposedly the best writer in the world whom the world knows nothing about, will come to an old book binder, to his forgotten shop right before the closing time, and will bring a triangular nonsenseful book, and will ask to cut its edges. And then the world will end. And it is ending.  >>>