Borges and I

§0§l Borges§0 §0§l and I§0 §0 §0 §0 §0 §0 §0 §0§o by§0 §0 §0 §0 Jorge Luis Borges§0

§0 §0§o Originally§0 §0§o transcribed to§0 §0§o BookWorm during the§0 §0§o summer of 2012 by§0 §0§o Marcus_Flaminius.§0

It's Borges, the other§0 §0one, that things§0 §0happen to. I walk§0 §0through Buenos Aires§0 §0and I§0 §0pause-mechanically§0 §0now, perhaps-to gaze§0 §0at the arch of an§0 §0entryway and its inner§0 §0door; news of Borges§0 §0reaches me by mail, or§0 §0I see his name on a§0 §0list of§0

academics or in some§0 §0biographical§0 §0dictionary. My taste§0 §0runs to hourglasses,§0 §0maps,§0 §0eighteenth-century§0 §0typefaces, etymologies,§0 §0the taste of coffee,§0 §0and the prose of§0 §0Robert Louis§0 §0Stevenson; Borges§0 §0shares those§0 §0preferences, but§0

in a vain sort of way§0 §0that turns them into§0 §0the accoutrements of§0 §0an actor. It would be§0 §0an exaggeration to§0 §0say that our§0 §0relationship is§0 §0hostile-I live, I allow§0 §0myself to live, so that§0 §0Borges can spin out§0 §0his literature, and that§0 §0literature is my§0

justification. I willingly§0 §0admit that he has§0 §0written a number of§0 §0sound pages, but§0 §0those pages will not§0 §0save me, perhaps§0 §0because the good in§0 §0them no longer§0 §0belongs to any§0 §0individual, not even to§0 §0that other man, but§0 §0rather to language§0 §0itself, or to§0

tradition. Beyond that,§0 §0I am doomed-utterly§0 §0and inevitably-to§0 §0oblivion, and fleeting§0 §0moments will be all of§0 §0me that survives in§0 §0that other man. Little§0 §0by little, I have been§0 §0turning everything§0 §0over to him, though I§0 §0know the perverse§0 §0way he has of§0

distorting and§0 §0magnifying everything.§0 §0Spinoza believed that§0 §0all things wish to go on§0 §0being what they§0 §0are-stone wishes§0 §0eternally to be stone,§0 §0and tiger, to be tiger. I§0 §0shall endure in§0 §0Borges, not in myself§0 §0(if, indeed, I am§0 §0anybody at all),§0

but I recognize myself§0 §0less in his books than§0 §0in many others', or in§0 §0the tedious strumming§0 §0of a guitar. Years ago§0 §0I tried to free myself§0 §0from him, and I moved§0 §0on from the§0 §0mythologies of the§0 §0slums and outskirts of§0 §0the city to games with§0 §0time and§0

infinity, but those§0 §0games belong to§0 §0Borges now, and I§0 §0shall have to think up§0 §0other things. So my life§0 §0is a§0 §0point-counterpoint, a§0 §0kind of fugue, and a§0 §0falling away-and§0 §0everything winds up§0 §0being lost to me, and§0 §0everything falls into§0 §0oblivion, or into§0

the hands of the§0 §0other man.§0 §0I am not sure which of§0 §0us it is that's writing§0 §0this page.§0

This is the original§0 §0work of Jorge Luis§0 §0Borges. It has been§0 §0transcribed to§0 §0Bookworm by§0 §0Marcus_Flaminius and§0 §0to Book and Quill by§0 §0SomethingSaucy on§0 §02/27/13 for the§0 §0benefit of the Citadel§0 §0and the rest of§0 §0Civcraft.§0

§0 §0§o Copy by§0 §0 §0 §0§lMaester Flaminius§0 §0§o of§0 §0§l The Assembly§0 §0 §0§o on§0 §0 §0 February 13th§0 §0 §0 2014§0

§0 §0 §0§l Maester§0 §0§l Alliance§0 §0 §0 §0 §4§l The§0 §4§l Assembly§0 §4§l Scriptorium§0