There are an almost unlimited number of objections that one could make to Borges’s Library of Babel. Not least is the question of who reshelves the books to maintain the mathematical precision of this infinite conceit, and how this reflects the author’s real-life role as a head librarian.
In the place of this old man’s labyrinth, Sally presents us instead with a vast and near-limitless laundrette. She insists on refusing to countenance actual infinity, preferring the grain of sand of infinity minus some small non-integer sum.
Those who occupy the laundrette do not search for grammatically coherent sentences that might suggest some gnomic wisdom, but rather for the more modest acquisition of lost socks. These are, Sally tells us, of almost limitless variety: sport socks, argyll socks of almost any colour combination, novelty socks knitted with, for example, the face of Borges or Nick Kamen.
No-one searches for matching pairs; only losers wear matching socks.