The second labyrinth is an allegory for The Corruption of Reading in the Modern World, moving beyond the personal vanity explored in the first labyrinth to critique the systemic, institutionalized devaluation of literature. The Institute of Reading Research is a sterile, bureaucratic space where silent workers move with robotic uniformity, an environment that physically manifests the dehumanizing effect of its director’s philosophy. The antagonist, the director (or Mutilator of Books), is a scholar whose methods (chopping classic texts into single-sentence synopses) represent an extreme extension of modern anxieties about time and information overload. His argument that he’s “saving” books from obsolescence by making them consumable is a justification that mirrors real-world trends like speed-reading apps. By framing the mutilation of books as a benevolent act, the novel stages a complex debate on the soul of literature, arguing that a purely utilitarian approach severs the connection between art and the human experience.

Central to the chapter’s argument is the value of slow, deliberate reading, presented as the antidote to the director’s philosophy of speed and summary. Rintaro’s strength comes from his internalization of his grandfather’s wisdom. The memory of his grandfather’s metaphor that “reading a book is a lot like climbing a mountain” provides Rintaro with a coherent counter-philosophy (82). This analogy reframes reading not as passive consumption but as an active journey in which the struggle itself is the source of reward. Rintaro demonstrates this concept via an artistic analogy. By fast-forwarding the cassette of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, he illustrates a universal principle: Art has an inherent pace that can’t be altered for convenience without destroying its essence. His assertion that “[t]he Ninth Symphony has to be played at the Ninth Symphony’s pace” transcends the specific argument about books and becomes a defense of all deep, experiential engagement (85).

This confrontation catalyzes Rintaro’s character arc, thematically advancing The Courage to Emerge From Isolation. In addition, his development is linked to Sayo joining the mission. Her presence transforms the mission from a solitary defense of an ideal into an interpersonal responsibility. Sayo’s logical insistence that if the mission is dangerous, she should not let him “walk into it alone” forces Rintaro out of passivity and compels him to take responsibility for her well-being (62). When Sayo begins to succumb to the director’s persuasive arguments, falling into a trance, her vulnerability provides Rintaro with urgent motivation, compelling him to act for the safety of his friend. He’s no longer just a boy remembering his grandfather’s lessons; he becomes an active protector, using that inherited wisdom to shield another person from a harmful ideology. This shift from internal conviction to external action marks a significant step in his recovery, demonstrating that connection forges courage.

The chapter deepens the symbolic weight of Natsuki Books by contextualizing it within the grandfather’s personal history, establishing the shop as the embodiment of a human-centered philosophy. The revelation that the grandfather was once a university academic who abandoned that world for the quiet work of a secondhand bookseller reframes the shop as an ideological statement. He left a world of institutionalized knowledge because he believed that he could more effectively counter misguided modern values by fostering direct connections between individual readers and stories. This backstory positions Natsuki Books as the antithesis of the labyrinthine realms that Rintaro must conquer. Unlike the first labyrinth’s sterile mansion or the second labyrinth’s bureaucratic institute, the shop is a sanctuary where literature’s power is personal and transformative. By defending the integrity of books, Rintaro simultaneously inherits and validates his grandfather’s life’s work.

Structurally, the second labyrinth escalates the novel’s central conflict. While the first antagonist, the Imprisoner of Books, represented a private misuse of literature (hoarding books for status), the Mutilator of Books represents an active and public threat. The director’s ideology isn’t contained within a private mansion but is institutionalized within a research facility and is intended for mass dissemination. This escalation raises the narrative stakes: The danger is no longer just to a collection of books but to the culture of reading itself. Sayo’s susceptibility to the director’s seemingly rational arguments visualizes this wider peril, showing how easily a logic of convenience can erode artistic appreciation. This structural choice suggests that the threats facing literature are evolving from individual apathy to systemic devaluation, framing the defense of deep reading as a necessary cultural intervention. The implication that literature and its appreciation face a systemic threat leads smoothly to the next chapter.