The Last Page of The Last Book

Imagine you’re given a book of blank pages. Every single page is completely blank, and the paper is of the highest quality, immaculate, clean and unspoiled. You can use the pages any way you like, to write stories, or to write down your thoughts. Or to put a letter together, to send later. You can list all the things you love, or the things that annoy you. You can make a To Do list, a fresh one on each page, if you like. It almost seems a shame to besmirch each page with such trivialities, but to hell with that, there’s always another book.

Or then again, you can draw a nice picture on each page, or just a doodle. Or maybe a quick sketch, something right from the right side of the brain, unfettered by plans or logic. Or maybe a really cleverly executed drawing of something that fascinates you, perhaps the inner workings of some intricate technological device. Or maybe the face of someone you saw on the street, a person you thought betrayed his or her innermost thoughts and feelings in their expression; you could try to draw that from memory. Now, that would be a challenge. But a challenge you’d be prepared to accept, right?

You could draw a dreamscape, if that’s what you find interesting, filled with strange shapes and shadows, bits of archaic ruined architecture and gnarly, melancholy trees and meandering paths, and steps that seem to lead nowhere. Or perhaps you could keep drawing the same things again and again, each time reaching for a degree of perfection, in the hope of seeing your drawings getting better over time.

How will you use your book?

You could use these pages any way you chose to. And there would never be a problem because when you finished one book there would always be another, freely and generously delivered to you, each one equally unsullied and perfect, and easily and painlessly obtained. Imagine how wonderful that would be.

Now imagine if someone delivered that book to you and said “I have a message to deliver, as well as the book. Listen carefully, as this is important information for you; this is the last book you will ever receive. The very last one. There will never be any more books, ever.

You can use this book just the way you used all others, or you can be more careful … your choice entirely. You used some of the other books quite carelessly at times, and that’s fine, that was your choice. Because you knew there would always be another book, whenever you wanted it. But now, everything changes; this … this book here … this is the last book, and you will never receive another. Choose carefully how you use it.”

The last book? Ever?

You take the book, saying not a single word, and almost immediately the messenger is gone. You are stunned into silence. Can this really be the last book? The last one ever? Oh my … how you will have to take care to make every page count now. From this moment on, each page will be worth much more than its weight in gold; in fact, it will be invaluable, utterly priceless

What will you write? Or will you dare anymore to venture a sketch? Maybe you will mess a page up, and ruin it? What then? You are filled with dread at the thought of wasting even one page … yes, even a single page. Because this is the last book. The last one … ever.

Can you imagine how carefully you will use the book now, knowing this is the last one? Would you dare to risk wasting a single page? Never again would you use a page for a hasty, scribbled note that was of no real importance. If you were to put pencil to paper, you would ensure you made it worthwhile. How could you ever risk wasting a page? Yes, even one single page. It would be priceless. Invaluable.

You would take better care of it than your firstborn child. You would get up each morning and check the book was still there and nothing had happened to it overnight. And you would use it carefully, once you got over the shock … extremely carefully. Because you would realise how unutterably priceless that book was, and how irreplaceable.

The book of your life

The book, and all its pristine pages, are the days of your life. When you were a child you used them frivolously, scribbling on the pages and ripping them out carelessly, always confident there would be more pages and more books … more days. Days of fun and happiness and smiles. You were going to live forever, and the eternity of your life stretched out before you in a diminishing heat-haze, with not the slightest hint of a final destination anywhere ahead.

Now you’re older, and somewhat wiser, and you become more aware of the incredible, incalculable pricelessness of each page, let alone each book. Each day is becoming more and more of a magical experience, filled with unspeakable wonders. Because now you are hauntingly aware of the final destination; one day, that day will be your last. You know now that it will happen. It may be a long, long way in the future, but it will happen. And who knows … it might be much closer than you think. Death comes like a thief in the night, isn’t that what the Good Book says?

You start to make very careful use now of all the pages in the book, because this book might be your last, and each page is heavy with value. You want to wring every last moment out of every day. You want to write your stories carefully, in your very neatest handwriting, weighing every single word and phrase. You strive to draw the most heart-wrenchingly true drawings, done with the utmost care and focused intent. For these might be your very last sketches. Last book … last page … nothing more.

Your book’s pages are valuable beyond imagination

The book is more valuable than if every page was made of beaten gold. It is priceless beyond imagination. Each page, and each moment, is indescribably precious. Its value is fully revealed to you now, and you are becoming more acutely aware of it. You never want to waste a single second of it.

Take good care of your book. Feel free to write in the pages, and make it something worth writing. And something worth reading. Whatever you do, do something. Don’t go to your grave leaving behind a stack of empty books that you should have filled with your thoughts and your words, and maybe even your sketches. Yes, draw your sketches, by all means. But draw them with renewed vigour, and with a truer and more honest understanding of the art you are practising. Make this book the best book you’ve ever had, and its contents the best that you’ve ever produced.