Then I asked myself: “Where did those figs come from?” Figs were not even in season in Obaba.
I picked up the white dish and, having examined it, all my doubts vanished. For it was clear that the fruits so neatly placed there were the very ones picked by Axular on the island.
At last I saw things clearly; I understood everything that had happened. I had not had that dream purely by chance, but according to the express wish of the Master, because he needed someone to spread the good news about plagiarism. And I realized too that the figs on the plate were no ordinary figs, those figs were full of wisdom, and, as they had already begun to, they would teach me how to plagiarize.
I meditated for a while on what had happened, amazed at the powers disposed of by those who dwell on Mount Parnassus. But the notebook was still by my side reminding me of the task I had promised to undertake. With that thought, I picked up my pen and prepared myself to write rules three and four.
An example will explain better than any dissertation how to resolve the problem of time and space. Let’s suppose that we have to plagiarize a story that takes place in Arabia or in the Middle Ages and that its two protagonists — who are embroiled in an argument over a camel — are Ibu al Farsi and Au Rayol. Right, the plagiarist should take the story in its entirety and set it — let’s say — in modern-day England. So the protagonists become, for example, Anthony Northmore and Philip Stevens, and, instead of a camel, the cause of the argument between them can be a car. As you can easily imagine, these changes will bring in their train a thousand more so as to render the plot completely unrecognizable to anyone.
Having discovered the origin of my inspiration, there was now nothing to prevent me from getting out of bed, and I went down to the kitchen to make some coffee. By then a lot of people were out and about in the village and the good mornings and good-byes they exchanged floated up to my house. The sun was driving away the few clouds in the sky. Shortly afterward, a knock on the door announced the arrival of the newspaper. Yes, the wheel of life was still ceaselessly turning and I felt happier than I had for a long time.
A few hours later, I poured my second cup of coffee, ate three figs one after the other, and was ready to transcribe the final rule.
“The preparation of a good defense is of vital importance to the plagiarist,” I began and added to that statement the following lines:
There is a possibility that despite following the preceding four rules point by point, a plagiarist may have his plagiarism uncovered. Anyone can have a stroke of bad luck. This is especially true among minority cultures where, since there is little space, relations — especially literary ones — tend to be rife with intrigue, malice, and hatred.
However, that stroke of bad luck need not necessarily prove prejudicial to the plagiarist; on the contrary, he may emerge strengthened from his enemy’s nets. But three conditions must be satisfied if this is to happen: First, he must leave scattered throughout the work “traces” of the text he has taken as his model; second, he must find out a little about metaliterature; third, he must make a name for himself. If he fulfills these three requirements, he will have built his own Praetorian guard.
Let’s suppose — to explain the first two rules of the defense — that the plagiarist has used for his purposes a story by Kipling and has done so by moving the story far ahead in time and setting it in the environs of the planet Uranus. To fulfill the first rule, it is vital, then, that the plagiarist call the astronaut Kim.
“May I ask you a rather impertinent question now?” a journalist will say to him a few days after his book has been published. “It seems that the story you tell in your book bears a remarkable resemblance to a story by the writer Pikling. Some have even used the term plagiarism. What do you have to say to that?”
“The writer’s name is Kipling, not Pikling,” the plagiarist will begin with great dignity, adding, with just a hint of scorn in his smile: “If my accusers were true readers and, instead of sharpening their claws, had read the whole of Kipling’s work, they would immediately realize that my work is nothing more nor less than a homage to that great writer. That is precisely why I call the astronaut Kim. For that is the title of a work written by that charming imperialist. To be honest, it doesn’t strike me as a particularly difficult reference to pick up. But, as I said before, these accusers of mine do not even have a clear idea of what reading involves.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t I hear you use the expression ‘charming imperialist’? With respect, those two words together do sound slightly odd to me…” the journalist will start in on his attack again, from another front this time. However, the plagiarist will not let him continue along that road, and, deploying the second rule for the defense, he will launch a further attack on the enemy.
“Moreover, I must say that these hairsplitters intent on discrediting others are very backward when it comes to literary theory. They’ve probably never even heard of metaliterature…”
“I have heard something about it, but I don’t quite remember…”
“Well, briefly, all the term means is that there’s nothing new under the sun, not even in literature. All those ideas the Romantics had…”
Ah, yes, love and all that…”
“Well, no, or rather, yes, their concept of love too, but I was referring to their literary ideas; the Romantics considered a work of art to be the product of a special and unique personality, and other such nonsense…”
“And metaliterature?”
“Well, as I said, we writers don’t create anything new, we’re all continually writing the same stories. As people often say, all the good stories have been written already, and if a story hasn’t been written, it’s a sign that it isn’t any good. The world today is nothing but a vast Alexandria and we who live in it merely write commentaries on what has already been created, nothing more. The Romantic dream burst long ago.”
“Why write at all then? If all the good stories have already been written…”
“Because, in the words of someone whose name escapes me, people forget. And we, the new writers, merely serve to remind them of the stories. That’s all.”
From everything that has been said up to now, it is clear that the respectability of the plagiarist would thus be placed beyond doubt. But just in case — bearing in mind that no one believes a complete unknown — he would be wise to have fulfilled the requirements of rule number three for the defense. In other words, he should make a name for himself. Because if his name is known and talked about, all the aforementioned reasons will take on extraordinary force and significance.
And, however arduous it may seem at first, there is no need to be intimidated by the task of making a name for oneself. Because, given the quantity of newspapers and the sheer volume of cheap chitchat — whether such and such a politician did or did not say something, whether the arrangements for the Carnival are satisfactory or unsatisfactory, whether the problems of traffic or trafficking have been resolved — getting your name into the public eye every week — answering surveys, signing petitions, etc. — will be a cinch for the plagiarist.
By the time I had written the last lines of the method, the sun was at its highest point and the smoke from the chimneys of Obaba told me it was lunchtime. However, having eaten all those figs, I was not in the least hungry and I decided instead to put the method into practice right there and then. I needed to demonstrate the efficacy of the method with an example. So I went to the library and chose a story with a clear plot from a book that had gone through dozens of editions. Before nightfall I had finished and written out a fair copy of the plagiarized story that follows: “The Crevasse.”