One day you wake up in a library. At first you are fascinated by the building itself and wander among the bookshelves. But gradually you realise you have seen no way out, that you appear to be imprisoned there. Then, in a panic, you begin desperately looking for a means of escape. You examine the walls and floor and succeed in finding five windows, each with a beautiful view. But the windows are sealed and though the view is beautiful, you would have preferred to find a door. At last, in desperation, you sit down and begin to cry. There is no escape.
   When you have cried enough, it comes to you that perhaps the secret of how to escape from the library is written in one of the countless books that line the shelves in all directions as far as you have ever explored. So you begin to read the books. They are about all manner of subjects and are fascinating. There are books on the physical aspects of matter and books on the spiritual aspects of thought. There are books on art and books on nature. Gradually you become so absorbed in reading you quite forget that you were looking for a book containing the secret of how to escape from the library. But the books are now a passion and you cannot resist them.
   One day, after many years of reading, you realise there never will be time to know all the books, no matter how fast you read. Perhaps, you think to yourself, the most important thing is to know all the titles, and you begin reading just the titles. For a while this too absorbs you utterly. The titles are innumerable and cover every aspect of life and death. Surely, one of these titles must contain the secret?
    And thinking about the secret again reminds you of your original quest. You sit down, as you had years before, and begin to cry. You are no nearer to the secret than you were then. And it comes to you that every title you read only tells you of another book you have not read; that the more titles you read, the more you are aware of your lack of knowledge; that, indeed, by reading the titles, you are increasing your ignorance, not your knowledge.
    At that moment your eye lights on a book you had never noticed before. Its title is your own name. You take it from the shelf and open it with trembling hands. Inside all the pages are blank except one page and on that one page are written the following words in your own handwriting:

 The secret is in every book.

And even as you read the words, holding the blank pages of your own life in your hands, so the walls and ceiling and floor of the library simply disappear and all the books leave the shelves and, using their pages as wings, fly into infinite space.