On the Making of the Book

Whatever I might say, others have said before; they have already walked through the garden of knowledge. Even if I can find no place on the highest branch of that fruitful tree, since climbing to the top is beyond me, still, whoever stands beneath a tall palm is sheltered by its shade from harm. Perhaps I can at least build a foothold on a branch of that shade giving cypress, so that through this famous book of kings I may leave a lasting keepsake in the world. Do not take this for a lie or a mere fable; do not dismiss it as trickery and pretense. Whatever in it agrees with reason, take plainly; the rest carries a hidden meaning you must seek beneath the words. There was a book from ancient times, filled with many a story within it, its pages scattered in the hands of many a priest, each wise man holding some share of it. There was a champion of noble Persian stock, brave and great, wise and generous. A seeker of the days of old, he searched out all the words of the past. From every land he summoned an aged priest who kept the memory of this book alive. He asked them about the kings of the world, and about those famous and fortunate lords: how they held the world at the beginning, and how they left it to us in such a broken state; how, under a lucky star, their age of heroic deeds came to its end. The great ones told him, one by one, the tales of kings and the turning of the world. When the commander had heard their words, he laid the foundation of a famous book. Such a keepsake was left in the world that both low and high sing its praise.