Novella

LATE SUMMER 2008

In his carry-on luggage, Quincy Pollard held a piece of literary light. He was dark skinned with bright white teeth. He wore a gray blazer with a white dress shirt and no tie. He flew in the business section of the plane. With the aircraft in flight, Pollard still had a glowing sense in his mind. As he passed by other passengers reading Stephenie Meyers’ Twilight or David Sedaris’ When You're Engulfed in Flames, his mind glowed with realization that he held something worth more than all of those books combined. In the days of Blackberry phones and flip phones; before iPhones, Nook, and the Kindle became popular, there was still the physical book.

Paperback or hardcover books actually could be used as advertisements, signaling the taste and disposition of the reader. The readers of the Twilight series, mostly women and the Sedaris book, mostly men, sort of commingled together like a soupy mix of ideas blended by the readers themselves.

Pollard had read the novella Anthem at least ten times. He had a notion to make the book go viral in an analogue way. On the five hour flight from California to Delaware, he’d got a notion.

“Miss,” Pollard said. “Excuse me Miss,” he continued.

She looked up from the Eclipse book she was reading. “Yes?” She was twenty something and had pale features and a button nose. Her eyes looked like brown diamonds. She was slender and could easily pass for a swimmer or field hockey player.

“I was just wondering if you wanted to have some new reading material in your life,” he implored.

“I’m not interested. Thank you.”

“I beseech you in the name of all that is right and holy within this earthly realm that you read this book,” Pollard petitioned.

“Alright, what is it? Anthem? Isn’t this by that right wing Libertarian nut job?” Kelly Delton asked.

“Not at all. Ayn Rand was none of those things. She fashioned her own philosophy and theory on literature. She was a radiant light in the province of ideas and continues to be remembered as an Objectivist not a Libertarian maniac.”

“Okay, I’m sold. I’ll read it.” She swapped books with him.

He clutched the Twilight series with both hands like the cover with the pale white arms holding an apple. She held the novella with the lightbulb on the cover.

As Pollard thumbed through the pages, he noticed that Kelly was speed reading through the ones in Anthem. She couldn’t stop. There must have been some kind of record broken with the way she was flipping through the pages at break-neck speed. She finished the book in forty five minutes.

“Wow! That was a lovely little literary treat. Thank you.…”

“Quincy.”

“Thank you sir,” Kelly said and passed the book to the man listening to his iPod next to her.

“Sir, I don’t mean to bother you, but this book is phenomenal. It is a must read and you must read it right now!”

The man, Horace Hyland, a light skinned and black, husky but handsome figure with a salt and pepper beard and glasses like a professor, took hold of Anthem.

“Thank you.” His thumbs went through the pages. He also experienced the same sense of intrigue and mystery, wondering what kind of dystopian world was unraveling before his eyes. By taking the time to read and re-read passages, he finished the book in thirty minutes. Another record smashed.

“That was a ride. I can see why Rush dedicated their album to this author. I get it now.” He looked over at another man with his head in the Sky Mall magazine.

“Pardon me, sir. But I would urge you to read this book.”

The man was in his early forties, brown skinned and clean shaven and wearing a black shirt and black tie. “What is it?” asked Cordell Notts.

“It’s called Anthem. It will change your perspective on life. If you liked 1984 you’re going to adore this tiny bit of reading.”

Notts read the book in a half hour, too. Pollard noticed the book being passed around as if it were a gift of gold. It was a friend to the fertile mind and the passengers kept exchanging it every thirty minutes to an hour.

Then, a literary critic and collectivist received the book. His name was Verdun Moreau. He was also a black man with a professorial look with tortoise shell glasses and a tweed jacket. He noticed the commotion while reading Le Monde. He looked about and inside of the book and slammed it shut after only about ten pages. He turned to his fellow passengers.

“Alright, this must end. This book is a menace. All of Rand’s books are despicable. They preach selfishness, cruelty, and being greedy. There is nothing that can be said that is positive about such drivel.”

Loud boos arose from the various people in the business class section.

The book now had been passed to everyone in under three hours. With a couple of hours remaining. The passengers debated with Moreau.

“Where else can you find such a delicious piece of writing, pithy and clear? It has a central theme of individualism triumphing over the backward and collective mindset. The fact that we’re flying in this plane is enough to say that we’ve got some shred of egoism left in this world,” Kelly said.

Moreau was not without a base of his own. He had a few passengers on his side, too.

“Anthem is an abomination to the human spirit. Instead of championing the togetherness we all share, the book seeks to share a story about a misfit who can’t keep still long enough to love and care for his brothers in an altruistic way,” Brian Breyer said. He was stocky but had an intellectual air about him. His combed blonde hair showed some gray revealing himself to be in his early fifties.

“There’s nothing you can say about this book that hasn’t already been said,” Serita Greenfarb said. She was pale also with jade eyes and long black hair. “If you want dystopian works, read the books of John Wyndham. But this is trash. These are nothing more than the howls from a deranged woman who was upset she couldn’t have kids.”

Pollard waited for that bombshell to drop.

He then walked down the aisle and found Moreau, Breyer and Greenfarb. “You say all of this rhetoric, but do you truly understand the work? Do you get why the hero must struggle to find his way in the world? Why is he beset by the weak and puny ideals that preceded him? That his discovery is an illuminating point in the history of world literature? Miss Rand went on to write books much longer and wider in scale and scope. That’s why she didn’t have children. There was no biological prevention. She chose to work on her career rather than take care of babies. In this, her shortest book, she should be hailed as a consummate figure in the fields of literature and philosophy. Every work that the people of this plane were reading owes a debt of gratitude to Miss Rand whether they admit it or not. The authors of the books should be saying Ayn Rand’s name with reverence. Their individualism to seek fortune and fame for their own lives is a direct reflection of the beauty of selfishness. The only cruelty is in the collectivist souls of those who reject Miss Rand. And one should always be greedy to produce more in this life.” Applause arose as Pollard found his seat.

“Ladies and gentleman, we ask that you please fasten your safety belts and prepare for our descent into Wilmington Airport.” The voice, perky and bright, chimed over the intercom system. Pollard allowed the book to be held in a thirteen-year-old boy’s hands. He saw the child look at him as he cradled the book with the plane in its last moments of flight.