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Paul (who had a surprising resemblance with Sarkon the Prophet, although they were not fully identical) had found the book in a very ancient trunk, in the attic of a remote ancestor's residence he had never heard of just a week before, and which through inheritance was now his.

He had looked at it, he had looked into it, and soon, he had been reading it. At the beginning, he had not liked it, but after a few pages, he had been captivated by it.

After three days and three nights (he wasn't a fast reader, and the book was quite thick), he had turned the last page. Although he had neither drunk nor eaten anything, he wasn't very exhausted - he felt light, and his head burned with feverish excitement. The book was beautiful, the book was great; the book was, in a way, neat.

He decided others would certainly be as enchanted as himself by its reading, so he made a copy of it and symfaxed it to as many publishers as he could find out, for he truly believed the book deserved to be known as widely as possible. It cost him a lot of money, but he was convinced it would be worth it. Besides, he was sure his inheritance could pay it.

The tale of the treasure discovered in the inherited ancestor's domain had repeated once again.

After some time (quite more than three days and three nights, much to Paul's wonder), answers began to come. There were much less than the number of copies Paul had sent, and most of them were standardized.

And they were refusals. All of them.

Of the very few which were not prewritten rejection letters, he soon made out the keywords: "...incomprehensive...", "...contradictory...", "...too badly written...", "...too long...", "...not original enough...", "...poor vocabulary...", "...endlessly boring...", "...repetitive...". Beside these, offending remarks like "...primitive style, if this can be called a style at all...", "Let us give you some good advice: buy a dictionary of synonyms...", "...such proposals make the job of editor a depressing one..." or "I truly feel sad someone has spent so much time on this useless stuff..." were strewn through the sentences.

This was a disheartening period for Paul, all the more because it had turned out that the house he had inherited was crumbling away to such a point that the risk of falling in was too high for the local security code, and that consequently it had to be demolished. He had expected to gain quite a sum of money from its sale, and now he didn't even have enough to pay for its demolition!

After some more time, though, one answer pierced the gloom with its good news: an editor had accepted to meet him in order to discuss the book. At last! A short audiophonic contact with the editor's secretary set the encounter for that same afternoon - this availability wasn't surprising to Paul: the book had such strength that everyone who really read it was compelled to drop everything for it.

However, he would have to go to the opposite side of the country, and covering the 6000 kilometers between the coasts would be quite a long trip: with a direct connection of the Airmagnetic, he would need at least 25 minutes. But he did not fear long journeys, and, taking the original of his book with him, he left for the east coast.

The editor (who looked devilishly like General Kwar, although they were not fully identical) did not welcome him with the large smile of someone who had made a stunning literary discovery. In fact, his expression was much more one of compassion than of admiration. "Please take a seat, Mr. Tarsus," he said, shaking Paul's hand but avoiding his eyes.

"To make things clear from the beginning," began the editor when they were settled, "I'll tell you immediately that I'll not publish your book."

"But..."

"Let me tell you why I agreed to meet you, then," the editor broke in, preceding Paul's question. "I don't know exactly myself. Perhaps because I've been impressed by the volume of this work - I wondered how a lifetime could be enough to write this book, and now that I see you're quite young, I'm even more surprised. Perhaps also out of pure curiosity..."

"But I didn't write it. I found it in one of my ancestor's belongings..." said Paul, showing the original.

"Ah, that explains how you can be so young," said the editor while examining it. "But it doesn't explain everything at all. How could someone publish this stuff? Even centuries ago, people were supposed to have sense..." he added shaking his head.

"But is it really so bad? You know, I wouldn't even ask for royalties..."

"Royalties aren't the determining factor. Even the fact that the style, the vocabulary and the whole writing in general are poor isn't determining. No, the determining factor is..." and he paused for a fraction of a second to grin (Sarkon Paul noticed that he truly resembled General Kwar) and finally look into Paul's eyes, "...the market. This is why it will be very difficult for you to find a publisher for your stuff: such a Tolkien genre simply doesn't sell anymore. Nowadays, people want to read something about reality, about what truly happens or has happened, or about what can at least have a chance of happening or having happened. Your book is merely... Out of fashion, if you allow me that expression - a mild one, in your case, I'd like to add."

Paul, alas, had nothing to add. The discussion was over.

So he had failed.

He was back before the trunk in which he had found the book, in the attic of the house he had inherited not a long time ago, and which would soon be demolished.

Paul wept.

He put the forgotten book back into the forgotten trunk, and a last time before being swallowed by eternal darkness, the golden, glittering letters on the cover of the book caught the light and read, "The Holy Bible."