On Reading From A Book Poem by David Mitchell

On Reading From A Book



I wander'd through the library
In search of a good book;
And one it chanced my eyes did see
And in it then did look.

I open'd the fair volume, then
I turn'd its pages o'er;
But I was disappointed, when
My eyes were thus made sore.

They read the good translator's note,
From 1966,
But did not read (rather did float)
Over the dull dry mix

Of illustrations some good man
Had thought to make a list
For inattentive eyes to scan;
Nor was it that he miss'd

The chance to make a catalogue
Of dull abbreviations;
But we must plough through this dense fog
Towards our destinations.

But first we pause to read a bit,
The 'editor's foreword' –
'Tis but a page, not too long writ,
And tho' it seems absurd,

There follows a biography
(Compiled by the translator)
Of the biographer, whose sea
Of words must wait till later.

Ah, here we are! Is this the start?
Alas! my child, but no.
It very nearly breaks my heart
So sad, to tell you so;

But this is but the 'Foreword to
The Third Edition, dear;
Could there be more? Yes! There is, too
- 'Editor's Notes' I fear.

This must be it. Don't hope too high.
The introduction now is.
Will we begin before we die?
This great confusion how is?

After another note, we find
The text at last commences:
But after all of that my mind
Is tired, as are my senses.

The moral here is very clear,
Do not try to read prefaces,
For they belong, as tells my song,
In the earth's deepest crevices.

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