Monday

 

Birthday Borges blogging

It's Borges, the other one, that things happen to. I walk through the streets of Buenos Aires and I pause—mechanically now, perhaps—to gaze at the arch of an entryway hall and its inner door; news of Borges reaches me by mail or I see his name on a list of academics or in some biographical dictionary. My taste runs to hourglasses, maps, eighteenth-century typefaces, etymologies, the taste of coffee and the prose of Robert Louis Stevenson; Borges shares these preferences, but in a vain sort of way that turns them into the accoutrements of an actor. It would be an exaggeration to say that our relationship is hostile—I live, I allow myself to live, so that Borges can spin out his literature, and that literature is my justification.I willingly admit that he has written a number of sound pages, but those pages will not save me, perhaps because the good in them no longer belongs to any individual, not even to that other man, but rather to language itself, or to tradition. Beyond that, I am doomed—utterly and inevitably—to poblivion, and fleeting moments will be all of me that survives in that other man. Little by little, I have been turning everything over to him, though I know the perverse way he has of distorting and magnifying everything. Spinoza believed that all things wish to go on being what they are—stone wishes eternally to be stone and tiger, to be tiger. I shall endure in Borges, not in myself (if, indeed, I am anybody at all), but I recognize myself less in his books than in many others', or in the tedious strumming of a guitar. Years ago I tried to free myself from him and I moved on from the mythologies of the slums and outskirts of the city to games with time and infinity, but those games belong to Borges now, and I shall have to think up other things. So my life is a point-counterpoint, a kind of fugue, and a falling away—and everything winds up being lost to me, and everything falls into oblivion, or into the hands of the other man.
 I am not sure which of us it is that's writing this page. -Jorge Luis Borges, "Borges and I," Collected Fictions, Andrew Hurley tr.

I'm too out of my mind from weekend birthday celebration in Atlantic City followed immediately by the first day of Law Review orientation to do more than transcribe.

# posted by washerdreyer @ 8/15/2005 11:47:00 PM
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