SECTION 11 Concerning our Priests

Flatland is known to only one living person—the Chief Circle, for the time being. Upon his deathbed, he passes the secret to none but his Successor. Only one manufactory produces it, and to prevent the secret from being betrayed, the workers are annually consumed, and fresh ones are introduced. The terror that our Aristocracy feels when they recall the far-distant days of the agitation for the Universal Colour Bill is immense.

It is high time I move from these brief and discursive notes about life in Flatland to the central event of this book—my initiation into the mysteries of Space. This is my subject; all that has come before is merely preface.

For this reason, I must omit many matters that, I believe, would not be without interest to my readers. For example, our method of propelling and stopping ourselves, despite not having feet; how we fix structures of wood, stone, or brick, although we have no hands and cannot lay foundations as you do, nor make use of the earth’s lateral pressure; how the rain originates in the intervals between our zones, so the northern regions do not intercept moisture from the southern; the nature of our hills and mines, trees and vegetables, seasons and harvests; our Alphabet and method of writing, adapted to our linear tablets—these and a hundred other details of our existence I must leave out. I only mention them now to show that their omission is not due to forgetfulness, but out of respect for the reader’s time.

Yet, before I move on to my legitimate subject, I should make a few final remarks about the pillars and mainstays of Flatland’s Constitution. These are the controllers of our conduct and the shapers of our destiny: the objects of universal homage and almost adoration. Need I say that I mean our Circles or Priests?

When I call them Priests, let me not be misunderstood.