Page 15 of Katabasis

Pride, superbia , arrogance. Hubris , the defiance of gods; māna , the puffed-up mind.

None of the sojourners’ accounts said anything about a university library, and so she had to return to first principles, philosophical basics.

She riffled through texts, images, treatises, that resided in her mind.

Icarus, hurtling from the sky; Arachne, limbs splitting into eight.

What was pride? For Augustine, the original sin; for Pope Gregory, the root of all evil.

For Plato, the First Court punished those possessed of a timocratic soul—the soul who purported to love justice and honor and beauty, but who cared more about preserving the appearance of such things rather than making the sacrifices necessary to fulfill those things themselves.

For Confucius, the Court of Pride housed the xiaoren , the petty men, who chased the names of things but not their nature.

A mismatch between the name and the thing—yes, that was it, the common thread running through all these theories.

But what did all this have to do with defining the good?

And how did one go about defining the good?

If she just could figure this out, then she could retrace Professor Grimes’s path, for he surely would have cracked this in an instant.

But she found it so hard to think. Her thoughts kept flying away from her even as she tried her best to sort through what she knew.

The library no longer seemed quite so hallowed.

Noises kept crowding her mind—bickering, whispering, scratching, coughing, breathing, pens scratching, pens clicking—none of it above an atypical volume, but it was all so blindingly present , harsh to distraction.

And someone the next shelf over kept moaning, an insufferable sound that grew louder and louder.

She whirled round the shelf. “For heaven’s sake!”

It was the Shade of a young man, skinny and long limbed, hunched on the floor with his knees drawn to his chest as he rocked back and forth.

He had the look of a law student, though Alice couldn’t say why; she just felt this was the case.

Something about his chin. Books lay scattered all around him, and streaks of spilled ink marred the carpet.

At the sight of Alice and Peter, he wailed even louder.

“They won’t pass me. Seventeen times, seventeen times and they still won’t pass me, I’m such an idiot. ..”

“Oh, no, no.” Alice was sorry she had snapped.

She was familiar with sights like this, and normally when people had mental breakdowns in the college library you spoke to them in a soft, calming voice and confiscated all the sharp items on the table and sent them off for a biscuit and a nap. “You’re not an idiot.”

“But I’ve done everything,” hiccupped the Shade. “Read all the recommended texts. Read Russell , for Christ’s sake.” He smacked his palm against the side of his head. “I even followed the regimen in The Republic . I studied mathematics —oh!”

He slumped sideways and knocked against the table leg, which sent a stack of notes cascading across the floor. At this, he made a keening noise and rolled forward onto his hands and knees. “And now my notes are out of order.”

Peter knelt down to help him collect them. “Here—”

The young Shade clutched them to his chest. “They’re color-coded,” he wailed. “Not that they care.”

“Werner, please.” A second Shade, a shorter and older-looking fellow, hurried down the aisle toward them. He placed his hands under Werner’s armpits and, grunting, hauled him upright. “We have talked about this. You may not have mental breakdowns in the stacks.”

“They failed me again,” sobbed Werner. “They hate me.”

“Yes, I know.” The older Shade patted him on the cheeks. “But pull yourself together, please. There’ve been noise complaints.”

“I’ll never get out...”

“Crying fits are to be conducted in private, that’s library rules.” The older Shade clapped him on the back. “I’ve booked you a place. Study room C-56. Third floor. Go on.”

Werner, still weeping into his hands, stumbled obediently off toward the staircase.

“Good man.” The older Shade dusted off his palms, then turned to Alice and Peter. “So very sorry, won’t happen again—why, you look new! Just arrived?”

“Yes indeed,” said Alice.

“Double suicide,” Peter added, which Alice found rather dramatic but did not challenge.

“You’re remarkably well-presenting!” The Shade brushed the back of his hand across Peter’s shoulder. “The stitching on your collar. Incredible. How do you manage?”

“Er,” said Peter. “I really try?”

“It’s quite magnificent! You wouldn’t believe the laziness that passes here. Most new arrivals don’t even bother with a face.” The Shade bowed low before them, hands clasped as if in prayer. “George Edward Moore. At your service.”

He was the most human-looking Shade Alice had seen thus far, which was to say that every part of him was richly detailed and solid, from the gray wisps atop his head to the scuffed tips of his leather shoes.

He had the slightly lopsided smile of lifelong pipe smokers—and yes, there it was, a pipe hanging from his left hand.

This he waved in their direction. “And you are...?”

“Peter Murdoch.” They answered both at once. “Alice Law.”

“And where did you study, Peter Murdoch?”

“Oh, I’m—we’re at Cambridge,” said Peter. “Department of—”

“Ah, Cambridge!” Moore grasped Peter’s hand and shook vigorously. Alice he ignored. “A Cambridge man! What wonderful news. I was at Trinity myself. Come, come. Let me give you the tour.”

He set off for the staircase. Alice glanced to Peter, who shrugged as if to say, Why not?

No better options presented themselves, and Moore did not look obviously dangerous—in any case Alice did not know of any demonic entity calling itself George Edward Moore—so they fell into step. Moore, turning, gestured magnanimously toward the first floor.

“Now, the floors alternate between workspaces and stacks. Stacks are organized in ascending order chronologically by century, and then alphabetically within discipline. It is a bit complicated, but I do recommend starting at the sixth century BC and working your way up.” Moore paused, overlooking the first floor, which was indeed composed of busy study tables and endless hallways of study rooms. “You’ll find it a shock at first, being newly deceased and all, but there are no bathroom facilities or kitchens.

No one needs to sleep or eat. They are freed to engage full-time in their work. ”

“Defining the good,” supplied Peter.

“Quite right. So the plaques tell us. That’s the only rule of this place: figure out the meaning of the good.

When someone comes up with a definition they like, they go out to the shore for an oral defense.

If they pass, they cross on. If they fail—well, you saw poor Werner.

” Moore nodded over the dozens of toiling Shades.

“Most have been at it for years. Look at them go.”

Alice felt the twitch of an impulse to join them.

Not because the project sounded so interesting—in fact it sounded overly vague and a little annoying—but because there was pleasure in being handed a simple, defined task and pursuing it with vigor.

All those Shades looked so diligent and purposeful, which seemed somehow virtuous.

It was always good to be engaged in research.

As Aristotle put it, complete happiness was some form of study.

“But that doesn’t seem so difficult,” said Peter.

“That’s what you think.”

“But isn’t it just like—you know, good things?”

“Ah,” said Moore. “But that’s a tautology.”

“Happiness, then,” said Peter. “And justice. And kindness, and...”

“You’re just saying synonyms now.”

“But surely they’re all parts of the good—”

“Oh, so there is a complete list? And what else qualifies for your list? What is the common quality of all virtues on your list? Can you give me a comprehensive, tightly defined version of your list?”

Peter paused. “I see.”

“It’s harder than you think.” Moore smiled. “Everyone comes in believing they already know the answer, and they fail many times before they turn to the literature. And now the really severe cases, they never make any progress at all and then they end up bronzing—”

“Bronzing?” Peter repeated.

“A terrible affliction. Starts in your feet, and then you can’t move, and then you’re stuck where you are. We move them to the pedestals when that happens. Look, there’s Newton.”

Alice had been leaning on a plinth; she flinched back. “These statues are people ?”

“Yes indeed, every one.” Moore knocked his knuckles against a plinth that read, Galileo . He continued up toward the second floor. “They do wake up, though who knows after how long. Between you and me I think they like it in there—they get a break from the work, and everyone has to marvel at them.”

“So what puts in you in this court?” asked Alice. “I mean, what’s everyone in for?”

“Don’t ask! You’re not supposed to ask, that’s the first rule you’ve got to learn.

It is considered very rude.” Moore lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Though rumors travel, of course. People get distracted and leave their transcripts where anyone can see.” He pointed.

“For instance, that fellow there—he told everyone he taught at Oxford, where really he taught at Oxford Brookes .”

“That’s enough to put you in Pride?”

“Oh, yes. You wouldn’t believe the sort we get in here.” Moore kept pointing as they walked. “That one there, he rejected submissions if they hadn’t cited his own work.

“That one gave eighty-two presentations on Goethe.

“That one likes to remind folks that Dartmouth is in the Ivy League.

“And over there—creative writing students.” This was said in reference to a study room of eight Shades, all glowering at one another in silence. “Somehow they always come in groups. Can’t understand why.”