One Man's Meat

A mystery in which several men are at a dinner table:

One is eating steak; the rest are eating broccoli. The mystery is who has the steak. A detective is brought in to solve the case. He refuses to simply look at the table, where the answer is clearly shown, as this would rob him of the chance to showcase his prodigious deductive skills. He instead conducts a series of interviews to determine the character of each of the men and whether such a man is likely to eat steak - and to have someone serve it to him. Who brought the steak? We realize the mystery is greater than we imagined. The detective arrives at the conclusion that there is only one man at the table, and this man has never tasted beef or broccoli. Moreover, this table is in Sierra Leone.

Wormbooks

Lately, I've spent a lot of time thinking about books. Much of this is in the usual vein: what should I read next? Why do I have a high tolerance for dialect and creative capitalization unless these things are present in Victorian literature? Is it better to give money to a public library, thus providing for the common literary good, or is it better to amass a library of my own, giving the books new meaning through their association?

Specifically, I have been wondering why I am drawn to histories that I know are not true. Part of this, certainly, is my delight in the absurdism of conspiracy theories. (My most recent theory: Aaron Burr was under the direct control of extra-terrestrial thought rays.) However, this cannot explain why my bookshelf contains The Diary of Jack the Ripper, which I am damned certain was not written by Jack the Ripper - rather, it is the work a contemporary reading the newspaper, a work of escapist fantasy.

Nevertheless, it is shelved in nonfiction, alongside Double Cross: The Explosive Inside Story of the Mobster Who Controlled America, in which relatives of Sam Giancana seriously relate their memories of how the Chicago Mafia single-handedly authors every major event from 1950 to 1970 - including the World Series, the Bay of Pigs, several assasinations, and the entire career of Marilyn Monroe.

Why do I own these books? Why do I own these books and others like them? They contain no truth, either philosophic or literal. They are certainly not well written. Their only contribution to history is to misinform people who don't know any better. At the same time, I am always compelled to take them home and keep them safe.

One must assume it has something to do with situational irony.