[ WP ] The history of the world is literally written by someone named Victor .

kssssssshk, kshhhhhk, kssshk. The scratches of his instrument were like nails on the proverbial chalkboard, but he'd heard it for so long it may as well be silence. Those who do n't remember history are condemned to repeat it. He had been handsome, surely. A chiseled jaw lain under pockmarked skin, waves of onyx hair thinned into what barely seemed to be a puddle of ash brown. His frame shifted powerfully as he scribbled on the stacks of parchment, but his power was but a ghost of decades past, his fragile frame could lift but the stone pen he now inscribed with. 
 
 His brow ruffled now and again as he contemplated the significance of his words. He would slow to a halt and even stop as though he had nothing to say, but would break forth with rapid frenzy just as often. I watched him carefully and took note of his traits. 
 
 Often he frowned, sometimes his eyes would widen and his jaw would clench. He would sneer, always in disdain, sometimes anger. He looked seasoned, but nothing about his appearance or demeanour would betray the sheer magnitude of what he had seen. 
 
 He often paused to contemplate the irony within that. With all his wisdom, he would never halt, even for a second, to influence the words he wrote. With all the accumulated knowledge of a thousand kings and a thousandfold more tyrants, he was doomed to only record. 
 
 He rarely tipped his stone bust of a head, and when he did, he would catch himself, continuing the arduous task. He took no notice of me as he wrote. Pages piled upon pages, and spilled onto the ground. 
 
 I tried to speak to him. I saw his face tense, but the fluid movement of his hand over the parchment was unceasing. 
 
 I tried again, but my novelty had already faded. The man had resolved me as so far being inconsequential to his work. I felt then that I could scream and scream, even inches from his ear, and his writing would never waver. 
 
 One day, I did. 
 
 He finally looked up, responding calmly as though my shrieks were but a child's whisper. 
 
 `` If you bother yourself any more with me, I may have reason to write about you.'' 
 
 I never did again. Nor did he.
