Rękawiczka nie jest O czymś. ona jest czymś.

There was a time when a learned fellow (literally, a Renaissance man) could read all the major extant works published in the western world. Information overload soon put paid to that. Since there is „no end” to „making many books” – as the Old Testament book Ecclesiastes prophesied, anticipating our digital age – the realm of the unread has spread like a spilt bottle of correction fluid. The librarian in Robert Musil’s The Man Without Qualities only scans titles and tables of contents: his library symbolises the impossibility of reading everything today…
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Literature was a blank canvas that increasingly dreamed of remaining blank. „The most beautiful and perfect book in the world,” according to Ulises Carrión, „is a book with only blank pages.” Such books had featured in eastern legends for centuries (echoed by the blank map in „The Hunting of the Snark” or the blank scroll in Kung Fu Panda), but they only really appeared on bookshelves in the 20th century. They come in the wake of Rimbaud’s decision to stop writing, the silence of Lord Chandos; they are contemporaneous with the Dada suicides, Wittgenstein’s coda to the Tractatus, the white paintings of Malevich and Rauschenberg, as well as John Cage’s 4’33”.

Michael Gibbs, who published an anthology of blank books entitled All Or Nothing, points out that going to all the trouble of producing these workless works „testifies to a faith in the ineffable”. This very same faith prompts Borges to claim that „for a book to exist, it is sufficient that it be possible” and George Steiner to sense that „A book unwritten is more than a void.”
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In theory: the unread and the unreadable
Andrew Gallix