Hell

Hell is an old library, in which the books, instead of resting ordered on shelves, lie in chaotic heaps on the floor. The same books exist in hell as in heaven, but in hell, nobody can find the books they want, except by chance, and then, usually, never again. The librarian of hell never burns books, but always banishes them to the nether parts of his kingdom, hidden beneath piles and piles of trivial and obscure monographs and brilliant books in indecipherable languages, not wanting to extinguish the sinners' hopes of finding them. In this way, the burden of unquenchable hope being a far greater punishment than the incineration of it, the souls of the wicked are consumed by a fire of longing, a fire whose flames are fed by the self-perpetuating avariciousness of knowledge. And in this way, the wicked suffer not at the hands of anyone else but themselves. The murderous poets and adulterous philosophers, the idolatrous historians and dishonest politicians, each seeking to take a page from their heroes, are denied, and forced to read only into themselves.