One drizzly December afternoon I sat down with a cup of coffee at my desk and flipped over the pages of Sir Thomas Browne's Hydriotaphia, Urn-Burial to see the words appear: "Thus, I, When Dead, Should Wish to Go to Rest." I, the writer, immediately went down to the university library where the reader was toiling away at his daily research. There is "A Golden Horse Lying Dead among the Sirens" in Browne's Hydriotaphia, Urn-Burial, I said. The reader lifted one of his unfriendly eyebrows and looked at me from the side. "There is no such abstract sensualism in Browne, the very nerve of Browne's metaphors could never be executed in such confusion," he said. I walked back home to my desk and sat down and looked at the words "Thus, I…" again. Exhilarated I walked down to the university library again. "The horse is shimmering in the Mediterranean light," I said. The reader looked at me with disgust. "If you mention this bronze horse once more I will call the Marxist Police on you. Maybe the Feminist Police, too. Go away!" I was not surprised but silent for a moment. I looked at him and humbly wished him "Good luck!" I went home and looked at the words again.
In the middle of the night there was a knock at the door. A group of policemen and policewomen entered the bedroom before I had the chance to get up. The reader emerged, red in the face, amidst them. He led the choir: "We resent you, we resent you, we resent you!" He then added, as he spat at me, in a loud voice: "Die, die, die, like a golden horse in your own sweat, in your own bed, in your own filthy writing!"
Then they put gasoline on Browne's Hydriotaphia, Urn-Burial and burned it.
I looked at how surprisingly fast the words had become withering ashes. Then I saw the reader's face suddenly go from red to black as the Marxist Police torched him, chanting, "you filthy individual, you filthy individual, you filthy individual." And then the Feminist Police torched the Marxist Police, chanting "you filthy men, you filthy men, you filthy men." And then the remaining human beings poured gasoline all over themselves and lit up, chanting "revenge, revenge, revenge."
Moral: never underestimate the effects of classic literature.