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173 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1930
One day in 1904, in a house that still stands on Honduras Street, Evaristo Carriego regretfully and eagerly read the adventures of Charles de Baatz, lord of Artagnan. Eagerly, because Dumas offered Carriego what others are offered by Shakespeare or Balzac or Walt Whitman—a taste of the fullness of life. Regretfully, because Carriego was young, proud, shy, and poor, and he believed himself remote from life. Life was in France, he thought, in the sharp clash of steel or when Napoleon’s armies were inundating the earth, but my lot has fallen to the twentieth century—the too late twentieth century—and a shabby South American suburb. Carriego was in the midst of this brooding reflection when something happened. The laborious tuning of a guitar, the uneven row of low houses seen from his window, Juan Muraña touching the brim of his hat in reply to a greeting (the same Muraña who two nights earlier had slashed the face of Suárez the Chilean), the moon from the square of a patio, an old man with a fighting cock—something, anything. Something we cannot pinpoint, something whose meaning we know but not its shape, something commonplace and hitherto unnoticed which revealed to Carriego that life (which offers itself wholly at every moment, anywhere, and not just in the works of Dumas) was there as well, in the despised present, in Palermo, in the year 1904. “Come in,” said Heraclitus to those who found him warming himself in the kitchen, “the gods are here as well.” [Italics Mine]Except this revelation wasn’t really made to Carriego: It was made to Borges, who, ever afterward, while his feet still stood in the Palermo of his youth, became a world writer whose reputation has only grown—everywhere but in certain pusillanimous corners of Scandinavia. (Borges was denied the Nobel Prize for Literature repeatedly because he allegedly had accepted an award from the hands of Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet Ugarte.)