Chapter 9: The Unfolding Canvas of Knowledge
Elías finished laying out his intricate drawings and consolidating his ideas about the empires. The act of creation, born from the depths of historical grimness, now led him to a profound realization. He cataloged the monotonous boredom inflicted by countless authors as a side effect of realism. It was as if they strived for photographic perfection, only to discover that capturing the true brilliance of reality, its unpredictable nuances, was maddeningly difficult. Elías formulated an intriguing theory: fantasy could be molded, reshaped at will, but reality was stubbornly unyielding. Like a painter striving for a perfect, realistic depiction, one quickly learned that brilliance was elusive, and capturing everything flawlessly was simply impossible. Fantasy, by its very nature, offered a pliable canvas, while reality presented an untamable wildness.
With this thought simmering, Elías took time to quietly observe the children in the village. They were bored, yes, but not entirely oblivious. In a small, makeshift schoolhouse, their motivation flagged. The books, dust-laden and neglected, reflected the weary resignation of rote learning. The village, though rural, was not as ignorant as in generations past. Elders had imparted much knowledge about the capital, about the families of means, and the undeniable influence of money and rigorous study in this era. The children knew, in their quiet way, that the world beyond their village operated on different rules.
A new passion ignited within Elías. He carefully selected some of the less significant, more common textbooks – basic tomes on mathematics, reading, and rudimentary history. His "quantum brain," ever seeking solutions, began to process. It wasn't just about making the books "better"; it was about transforming them into something inherently understandable, something that resonated with the very fabric of life around them.
He started with mathematics. Instead of abstract numbers, Elías drew problems with real-world examples he'd observed in nature: the spiraling growth of a fern, the precise angles of a spider's web, the perfect symmetry of a fallen leaf. He illustrated these with unique, almost otherworldly circumferences, lines, and patterns, born only from a mind like his. For reading, he wove simple tales of village life, but infused them with subtle allegories about perseverance and the interconnectedness of their community, gently nudging the reader towards broader ideas without explicit instruction. His designs weren't just illustrations; they were a psychological tapestry, subtly guiding the reader to perceive different points of view, to find solutions through visual cues a common person might never conceive.
As he worked, his internal system, cold and analytical, dissected each success. Every time he managed to simplify a complex concept, to make a dry fact visually appealing, he analyzed the 'why' behind it. He wasn't just learning; he was evolving a methodology for intuitive understanding. He crafted bamboo covers for these revamped books, each one unique and creatively different from the rest, a stark contrast to the faded, drab originals. The lettering on these new pages was like the sky and the earth – bold yet graceful, inviting to the eye, reflecting the newfound depth of their content.
Finally, exhausted but satisfied, Elías returned to the farm and fell asleep, unaware of the profound impact his quiet work would soon have. In the makeshift schoolhouse, the next day, boys and girls, compelled to study yet bored and unwilling, would stumble upon this treasure. As they cautiously opened Elías's transformed books, a subtle shift would begin. Though their inner voices still whispered that studying was hard for rural children, especially when measured against the distant glitter of the capital's wealthy families, the images and concepts Elías had so meticulously infused would begin to speak to them, slowly, imperceptibly, changing their understanding from the ground up.