De Aleph en andere verhalen

by Jorge Luis Borges, Barber van de Pol (Translator)

Bevat de bundels:
- Wereldschandkroniek (Historia Universal de la Infamia, 1935)
- Fantastische verhalen (Ficciones, 1944)
- De Aleph (El Aleph, 1949)

De Aleph en andere verhalen is een bundel boordevol filosofische puzzels en bovennatuurlijke verrassingen. Dit indrukwekkende boek verscheen voor het eerst in 1964 in een Nederlandse vertaling en is sindsdien vele malen herdrukt. De man met het absolute geheugen, het meisje dat haar verkrachting op briljante wijze wreekt, de schrijver die Don Quichot herschrijft, de moordenaar die een bedrieglijk eenvoudig labyrint optrekt waarin een politieman zijn dood tegemoet gaat, Judas die Jezus verraadt om hem te kunnen idealiseren, de Aleph die alles bevat wat ooit is geweest en wat ooit zal zijn, de wereld als bibliotheek of de bibliotheek als wereld – het zijn enkele van de inmiddels klassieke verhalen uit deze bundel.

Genres: Fiction, Short Stories, Classics, Literature, Fantasy, Magical Realism, Philosophy

439 pages, Hardcover

First published September 1, 1998

About the author

Jorge Francisco Isidoro Luis Borges Acevedo was an Argentine short-story writer, essayist, poet and translator regarded as a key figure in Spanish-language and international literature. His best-known works, Ficciones (transl. Fictions) and El Aleph (transl. The Aleph), published in the 1940s, are collections of short stories exploring motifs such as dreams, labyrinths, chance, infinity, archives, mirrors, fictional writers and mythology. Borges's works have contributed to philosophical literature and the fantasy genre, and have had a major influence on the magic realist movement in 20th century Latin American literature.
Born in Buenos Aires, Borges later moved with his family to Switzerland in 1914, where he studied at the Collège de Genève. The family travelled widely in Europe, including Spain. On his return to Argentina in 1921, Borges began publishing his poems and essays in surrealist literary journals. He also worked as a librarian and public lecturer. In 1955, he was appointed director of the National Public Library and professor of English Literature at the University of Buenos Aires. He became completely blind by the age of 55. Scholars have suggested that his progressive blindness helped him to create innovative literary symbols through imagination. By the 1960s, his work was translated and published widely in the United States and Europe. Borges himself was fluent in several languages.
In 1961, he came to international attention when he received the first Formentor Prize, which he shared with Samuel Beckett. In 1971, he won the Jerusalem Prize. His international reputation was consolidated in the 1960s, aided by the growing number of English translations, the Latin American Boom, and by the success of Gabriel García Márquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude. He dedicated his final work, The Conspirators, to the city of Geneva, Switzerland. Writer and essayist J.M. Coetzee said of him: "He, more than anyone, renovated the language of fiction and thus opened the way to a remarkable generation of Spanish-American novelists."

Reviews

[BlackOxford · Rating 5 out of 5]

Humbled by the Word

The Master. What educated person could live without his factional fiction? Borges created a genre which itself is now a fact in Western culture. And that fact, inadequately but accurately put, is that words lie. They can lie beautifully and even beneficially, but they nevertheless lie. And we love them for it.

Words cannot reveal but oh how they direct one’s attention, often to opposing points of the compass. Words do not cut the world at its joints but separate off bits of reality arbitrarily with bloody and ragged edges that look different from every angle. Words then hide their duplicity behind a facade of neutrality and objectivity. Their beauty distracts us so we hardly notice the flesh behind the masque.

Words lurk. They wait patiently, sometimes over millennia, for the unwary reader, whom they invade without conscience. Every use of a word is a Trojan horse meant to surreptitiously further someone's agenda: to convince, to inform, to threaten, to attract, to mislead, to embarrass, but never merely to designate reality accurately or completely.

It is only when we think that we control words, when we think that we know with some certainty what they really, really mean, that they become dangerous. Speaking and writing words do not control them but spread them like a virus coughed into a crowd. Philosophers know that words speak people as much as that people speak words. Words, texts, essays, books, libraries are as controllable as an atomic explosion, and spread even more fallout.

So humility is the prime virtue of the writer who knows he is controlled by every word he uses. He revels publicly in his literal humiliation by the words he publishes. He tells the truth by letting us know he lies with his words. He humbles himself before his words in order to become their master. He is more clever than words because they don't know how to be humble. Their hubris is their vulnerability.

This is why Jorge Luis Borges may be the humblest writer ever to exist.

[Cecily · Rating 5 out of 5]

Fabulous

For the last year or so, I've been working at a film studios.

As I wander around the site, what I find most fascinating is not star-spotting (they tend to be shielded from prying eyes anyway) but the many and varied pre-production activities needed to make the magic of cinema a reality: building sets and props; puppet-people in motion-capture suits; food carts for the crews; the whir of industrial generators; cabling for light and sound; the making of costumes, weapons and jewellery. Real, tangible crafts, performed by and for living, breathing people.

Reading Borges' multi-layered and ambiguous blending of truth and imagination has made me consider what is real, and what is fiction in new ways.

At the studios, there are sets within sets, to tell stories within stories, as well as different versions of the same story.

First, there was a traditional fairytale, then Uncle Walt's team made a blockbuster animation of it, and now they're making a live action version.

That in itself prompts philosophical musings, but there's more to it than that.

Even this "real" version of the story is illusory. The huge and impressive sets are made of cheap timber, plaster, plastic and polystyrene; their beauty is skin deep, and best viewed from a distance.

Blue and green-screen are used for backgrounds and special effects. Maybe audiences will think the sets are CGI as well, so why have builders, carpenters, and sculptors been toiling for months to create the ephemeral palaces of dreams? Would such a misapprehension diminish or enhance the importance of their work? (This question becomes more personal: I write help and user guides for software; if no one reads what I write, is my effort worthless, my job pointless?)

In a few months, the sets will be dismantled, props and costumes repurposed or thrown away. But an impression will live on in the digital realm and people's memories.

Ephemeral - or not?
Real - or not?


Last month, I touched Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. She's real.


Read the stories

See HERE.


My reviews

The publications in this volume of Collected Fictions are reviewed individually:

• 1935, A Universal History of Iniquity 3* - plain, macho stories

Then a group of philosophical, mind-warping stories:

• 1941, The Garden of Forking Paths 6*, which includes:
Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius 6*
The Library of Babel 6*

• 1944, Artifices 6*

• 1949, The Aleph 6*

• 1960, Dreamtigers (aka The Maker) 5*, which includes
1969, In Praise of Darkness 6*

• 1970, Brodie's Report 4* - back to plainer, more realistic stories, but some have a deeper, more ambiguous aspect

• 1975, The Book of Sand 6* - another switch: back to the style I like best. It includes
The Congress 5*

• 1983, Shakespeare’s Memory 6* - the master's final four stories are a triumph.

[Glenn Russell · Rating 5 out of 5]

Many classic stories by the master collected here. For the purpose of my review, I'll focus on a Borges tale frequently overlooked by critics - The Sect of the Phoenix.

Indeed, a relatively small number of commentaries are written on this short riddle-like tale. Perhaps the reasons have to do with the impenetrable, sphinxlike nature of the secret cult Borges speaks of and the existence of what the author refers to as the Secret (that’s with a capital S) of this secret cult being, well, a secret. Nonetheless, I offer the following cluster of comments. At the bottom is the story itself.

From the tone of this Borges tale, we are given the unmistakable impression the Secret is revealed only through direct experience. Without such immediate first-hand initiation, anybody, no matter how well read or intellectually savvy, not matter how well traveled or wise in worldly things, will forever remain on the outside looking in.

Terence McKenna, an American ethnobotanist and field researcher who has made a lifetime study of the use of plants with psychedelic properties by tribespeople and indigenous cultures, upholds the Secret refers to religious practice based on the use of hallucinogenic plants that have existed for millennia. Considering the large number of tribes and indigenous peoples both prior to and in the year 1952 when Borges wrote this tale along with the author’s including such language as: “since there is no human group which does not included partisans of the Phoenix” McKenna’s interpretation makes abundance sense.

A close cousin to imbibing powerful hallucinogens are the intense physical practices within the yogic and tantric traditions from the East. Usually many years of vigorous, demanding discipline is required to receive higher teaching to activate one’s subtle energy body (these traditions use such technical terms as kundalini and chakras). I refer to these practices since a number of interpreters of The Cult of the Phoenix point to specific passages within the text as evidence the Secret that Borges is citing is sexual intercourse or even more specifically, homosexual intercourse.

And what, you may ask, is the link between sexual intercourse and these Eastern physical practices? These esoteric traditions speak of the union of male/female, Shiva/Shakti energies within one’s own physical body and subtle energy body. To maintain secrecy, many times the gurus, rishis and teachers of these esoteric practices have used conventional sexual language to represent what is happening on the spiritual level. Additionally, since the practitioners are awakening both male and female subtle energies within their one-and-same body, in this sense there is also a homosexual component.

Perhaps another distant cousin are the mystics and the path of mysticism within the three great Western monotheistic religious traditions as well as the esoteric teachings within Buddhism, most especially Tibetan Buddhism. Matter of fact, in the tale Borges mentions Buddhism specifically. We need only think of those Buddhist monks and solitary hermits in the land of snow with their chanting, visualizations and hyperphysical practices such as tummo meditation.

So, is Borges’ secret Cult of the Phoenix really about hallucinogenic plants, esoteric Eastern traditions or religious mysticism? Aren’t we as far distant as we can possibly be from the reflections and storytelling of a refined, bookish aesthete such as Jorge Luis Borges? Yes and no. Unless biographers have missed something, it doesn’t appear the author had initiation into any of these practices or traditions. However, Borges being Borges, he had sometime that in many respects was even stronger medicine: an unbounded, creative imagination.



THE SECT OF THE PHOENIX by Jorge Luis Borges
Those who write that the sect of the Phoenix originated in Heliopolis, and make it derive from the religious restoration which followed the death of the reformer Amenhotep IV, cite texts by Herodotus, Tacitus, and inscriptions from the Egyptian monuments; but they ignore, or try to ignore, the fact that the denomination of the sect by the name of Phoenix is not prior to Rabanus Manrus, and that the most ancient sources (the Saturnalia, or Flavius Josephus, let us say) speak only of the People of Custom or the People of the Secret. Gregorovius had already observed, in the Conventicles of Ferrara, that any mention of the Phoenix was extremely rare in oral language. In Geneva, I have spoken to artisans who did not understand me when I asked if they were men of the Phoenix, but who admitted, in the next breath, that they were men of the Secret. Unless I am mistaken, the same phenomenon is observable among the Buddhists: the name by which they are known to the world is not the same as the one they themselves pronounce.

Miklosie, in an overly famous page, has compared the sectarians of the Phoenix with the gypsies. In Chile and in Hungary there are sectarians of the Phoenix and there are also gypsies; beyond their ubiquity, they have very little in common. The gypsies are horsedealers, tinkers, smiths, and fortune tellers; the sectarians tend to practice the liberal professions successfully. The gypsies are of a certain definite physical type, and they speak – or used to speak secret language; the sectarians are indistinguishable from the rest of the world; the proof of it is that they have not suffered persecutions. Gypsies are picturesque and inspire bad poets. Narrative verse, colored lithographs, and boleros pay no heed to the sectarians . . . . Martin Buber declares that Jews are essentially pathetic; not all sectarians are, and some of them despise pathos, this public and notorious fact suffices to refute the vulgar error (absurdly defended by Urmann) which sees in the Phoenix a derivative of Israel. People think more or less as follows: Urmann was a sensitive man, Urmann was a Jew, Urmann associated with the sectarians in the ghetto at Prague; the affinity felt by Urmann serves to prove a fact. I cannot in good faith agree with this judgement. The fact that sectarians in a Jewish environment should resemble Jews does not prove anything; the undeniable fact is that they resemble, like Hazlitt’s infinite Shakespeare, all the men of the world. They are everything to all men, like the Apostle. Only a short time ago Doctor Juan Francisco Amaro, of Paysandu, marveled at the ease with which they became Spanish-Americans.

I have mentioned that the history of the sect does not record persecutions. Still, since there is no human group which does not included partisans of the Phoenix, it is also true that there has never been a persecution which they have not suffered or a reprisal they have not carried out. Their blood has been spilled, through the centuries, under opposing enemy flags, in the wars of the West and in the remote battles of Asia. It has availed them little to identify themselves with all the nations of earth.

Lacking a sacred book to unify them as the Scripture does Israel, lacking a common memory, lacking that other social memory which is language, scattered across the face of the earth, differing in color and features only, one thing – the Secret – unites them and will unite them until the end of time. Once upon a time, in addition to the Secret, there was a legend (and perhaps also a cosmogonic myth), but the superficial men of the Phoenix have forgotten it, and today they conserve only the obscure tradition of some cosmic punishment: of a punishment, or a pack, or a privilege, for the versions differ, and they scarcely hint at the verdict of a God who grants eternity to a race of men if they will only carry out a certain rite, generation after generation. I have compared the testimony of travelers. I have conversed with patriarchs and theologians; and I can testify that the performance of the rite is the only religious practice observed by the sectarians. The rite itself constitutes the Secret. And the Secret, as I have already indicated, is transmitted from generation to generation, but usage does not favor mothers teaching it to their sons, nor is it transmitted by priests. Initiation into the mystery is the task of individuals of the lowest order. A slave, a leper, a beggar plays the role of mystagogue. A child can indoctrinate another child. In itself the act is trivial, momentary, and does not require description. The necessary materials are cork, wax or gum Arabic. (In the liturgy there is mention of silt; this, to, is often used.) There are not temples specially dedicated to the celebration of the cult; a ruin, a cellar, an entrance way are considered propitious sites. The Secret is sacred, but it is also somewhat ridiculous. The practice of the mystery is furtive and even clandestine, and its adepts do not speak about it. There are no respectable words to describe it, but it is understood that all words refer to it, or better, that they inevitably allude it it, and thus, in dialogue with initiates, when I have prattled about anything at all, they have smiled enigmatically or taken offense, for they have felt that I have touched upon the Secret. In Germanic literature there are poems written by sectarians, whose nominal theme is the sea, say, or the evening twilight; but they are, I can hear someone say, in some measure symbols of the Secret.

As stated by DuCange in his Glossary, by way of apocryphal proverb. Orbis terrarium est speculum Ludi. A kind of sacred horror prevents some of the faithful from practicing the extremely simple ritual; the others despise them for it, but they despise themselves even more. On the other hand, those sectarians who deliberately renounce the Custom and manage to engage in direct communication with the divinity enjoy a large measure of credit. To make this commerce manifest, these latter sectarians have recourse to figures from the liturgy, thus John of the Rood wrote:

May the Nine Firmaments know that God is a delightful as cork or muck.

I have enjoyed the friendship of devotees of the Phoenix on three continents; it seems clear to me that at first the Secret struck them as something paltry, distressing, vulgar and (what is even stranger) incredible. They could not reconcile themselves to the fact that their ancestors had lowered themselves to such conduct. The odd thing is that the Secret has not be lost long ago; despite the vicissitudes of the world, despite wars and exoduses, in its tremendous fashion, to all the faithful. One commentator has not hesitated to assert that it is already instinctive.

[s.penkevich [hiatus-will return-miss you all] · Rating 5 out of 5]

Do yourself a massive favor and read Borges. He can deliver more plot and twists in 2-5 pages than many authors do in 300. Every page will blow your mind as you loose yourself in the brilliant labyrinth of his words. Read it. Now.

[Tadiana ✩Night Owl☽ · Rating 5 out of 5]

"The South"* is perhaps my favorite story from this collection, as well as Borges’ himself. In the prologue to Artifices, Borges comments:

Of “The South,” which is perhaps my best story, let it suffice for me to suggest that it can be read as a direct narrative of novelistic events, and also in another way.

The main character is Juan Dahlmann, a mixture of German and Spanish ancestry, whose life is mundane but who dreams vaguely of a more romantic life, inspired by the Flores side of his heritage and the Flores ranch in the South that he owns but has never visited.

One day Dahlmann brushes his forehead against something in a dark stairway and realizes afterwards that he is bleeding. He develops a life-threatening infection and is taken to a sanitarium for treatment. After many excruciatingly painful and feverish days, he recovers, and decides that he will take a trip to his ranch to convalesce. He travels out of the city on a train, feeling as though he is traveling into the past, and has an unexpected confrontation as he nears his final destination. Or does he? You decide, but several clues in the text ― a mysterious cat symbolic of eternity, a spitball that brushes his face echoing his initial injury in the stairwell, a dagger tossed to him by an old gaucho, and some other clues ― have led me unequivocally to my own conclusion.

I was completely engaged by this tale, which was complex and layered enough to make me think, but didn’t lose me in a labyrinth of difficult-to-grasp ideas. This isn't the most philosophical of Borges' short stories, but I think it's one of the most accessible ones and, thankfully, it has an actual plot!

If you're looking for a relatively easy introduction to Borges' writings, I highly recommend "The South." Here's an online version of it; it's not the translation I read, but it seems to be a pretty good one. If you'd like a more mentally challenging Borges work, check out The Library of Babel, The Approach to Al-Mu'tasim or The Circular Ruins. If you really want to challenge your brain, go read Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius, which I tried to grapple with and failed miserably.

*This used to be a review space just for "The South" but a Goodreads editor, in their infinite wisdom, moved it to this collection as part of a general effort to get rid of review spaces for individual short works that appear in collections. I've read a number of the stories in this collection, though - see my Ficciones review.

[Dolors · Rating 3 out of 5]

“You who read me, are You sure of understanding my language?” Jorge Luis Borges, “The Library of Babel”

Even though I read Borges’s “Collected Fictions” in Spanish, my native tongue, I have to confess I didn’t understand half of it. Presumptuous of me to think I would. Famous for being the founder of postmodernist literature and influenced by the work of fantasists such Edgar Allan Poe and Franz Kafka, whom I adore, I was naive enough to assume I would be able to untangle Borges’s labyrinthine, almost rigorously mathematical style to form a coherent opinion of his short narratives. I was also deceived by the apparent simplicity of the tales which turned out to be complex, condensed and thought provoking meditations about philosophical and existential issues.

Borges’s enormous erudition, which might be appealing to others, worked the other way round for me, leaving me mostly frustrated by the multitude of literary allusions from cultures around the globe which I struggled to connect with the meaning of his surrealist inventions. It seems this proved to be too much of a strenuous task for my ignorant self.

The blurred line between reality and dream challenged comprehension in tales such as “Tlon, Uqbar and Orbis Tertius” where Borges depicts an ideal, metaphysic world made real by the power of imagination.

The same idea is reinforced in “The Circular Ruins” , in which a man is able to create a son only dreaming about him. Later, after the man accomplishes his goal, much to my astonishment, he discovers that he in turn is being dreamt by someone else. The tittle, which also notes the mythical temple where the man appears out of nowhere (maybe time travel?), might also carry the analogy of the infinite repetition which can be seen in a circle, a geometric figure which has no end and no beginning. Like the act of this neverending regression of dreaming and creating process presented in the story.

I was most disturbed by the oppressive idea “The Library of Babel” conveyed to me. We are introduced to a Library whose cataloguing system consists of hexagonal and identical galleries to classify the infinite books it contains. The inhabitants of this Library know the answers to all their questions lay somewhere, among the books, although the probability of being able to find those answers is close to impossible. The central conflict of the individual intellect and the physical manifestation of the infinite chaos is portrayed with negative connotations, pointing out the futility of trying to establish order in a chaotic universe, which reminds me of the insignificance of human beings.

"The Babylon Lottery” follows the same line of thought in presenting a detached narrator who depicts life as a labyrinth through which a man wanders without control over his own fate, which is governed by ruthless uncertainty. Here again there seems to appear the issue of trying to put order in a fragmented, indecipherable universe ruled by randomness.

My favorite one was “The secret miracle” probably because I could identify with the need of Hladík, a Jewish poet and the main character, to freeze time when he is arrested and condemned to death by the Nazis. I found the way Borges manages to portray the subjectivity of time simply brilliant, especially in the scene where Hladík is being executed. Everything seems to end in a second for the rest of world except for Hladík whose prayer is answered in the form of a precious year in which everything becomes paralysed so that he can mentally finish the last act of his half-written play. “Funes the Memorious” is similar in the way it deals with the curse of having an extraordinary memory to absorb details and subtle changes at a precise moment but not the capability of abstraction needed to control our acts.

It is in “The South” , “The Shape of the Sword” and “Three versions of Judas” where Borges’s metafiction is most palpable with the multiplication of character identity, combining historical facts with detectivesque narrative techniques.

I think I can sense the lurking forces behind Borges’s mathematical concision, audacious adjectives and unusual ideas, I think I grasp his need to defy understanding to make his point about incomprehensible concepts such as infinite, time and reality. I even feel strongly attracted to the notion that reality can be seen as a mere convention and that the true nature of things is vacuous, existing only in conditional relationship with other things. It is language which ultimately creates illusion and builds meanings. And it is the dreamer who creates reality as the writer creates the possibility of a reader.

The problem is that all these feelings didn’t implode in within me, I had to struggle against Borges’s detached, metallic style to get them through. Maybe I shouldn’t have read all the tales in one sitting, maybe Borges is that kind of author to read sparsely, one story at a time, like a rare, exquisite delicatessen to let all the flavors fuse and wholly impregnate the senses. It might not be very orthodox, but these three stars are meant to be a rating referred to my own inadequacy to truly enjoy this novel rather than directed to the novel itself, which I am not that fool to recognize as a genuine, exceptional work of art.

[Markus · Rating 5 out of 5]

Borges’ Collected Fictions
By Luis Borges (1899 -1986)

Newly translated by Andrew Hurley, this volume includes all ten editions from 1935 to 1975
of Luis Borges short stories.

Borges’ characters are murderers, knife fighters, throat slitters, liars, evil and violent, and in his favorite themes, we meet gauchos, Indians, blacks and mirrors, leopards, tigers, books, libraries, infinity, and the human identity itself.

The majority of these ‘novelitas’ are inspirations from existing works of a variety of ancient or contemporary authors.

He took the detective story and turned it into metaphysics, he took fantasy writing and mixed it with everyday reality, central to his works of fiction.

He created wholly new and original fiction. And very original at that.

The setting of his works is mostly in Buenos Aires, some in Europe, some in Asia, and some in undefined space.

The time settings are throughout the nineteenth century, seeing the endless civil wars of Argentina, kindled by opposed Whites, and Reds, the remnants of Aristocratic Feudal Families against gauchos and low cast immigrants in the dangerous slums around Buenos Aires.

It is a ‘macho' world. Except for one or two slave girls, there are not many female characters in Borges's works.

Borges’ work may be compared to the most immortal of storytellers and poets.
Chekhov comes to my mind, Kafka, James Joyce, Alighieri Dante, Edgar Alan Poe, Boccaccio, and Rudyard Kipling.
And looking at my bookshelves, I will find more.

For his style, I give you some quotes from his own words:

“I do not have any aesthetics. Time has taught me a few tricks – avoiding synonyms, the drawback to which is that they suggest imaginary differences; avoiding Hispanicisms, Argentinisms, archaisms, and neologisms; using everyday words rather than shocking ones, inserting circumstantial details, which are now demanded by readers, into my stories; feigning a slight uncertainty, even though reality is precise, memory isn’t; narrating events (this I learned from Kipling and the Icelandic Sagas) as though I didn’t fully understand them;”


“The extravagant title of this volume (‘A Universal History of Iniquity’) proclaims its baroque nature. Softening its pages would have been equivalent to destroying them; that is why I have preferred, this once, to invoke the biblical words “quod scripsi, scripsi” and simply reprint them. They are the irresponsible sport of a shy sort of man who could not bring himself to write short stories, and so amused himself by changing and distorting (sometimes with aesthetical justification) the stories of other men.

In this text, which is written in the accents of the toughs and petty criminals of the Buenos Aires underworld, the reader will note that I have interpolated many "cultured" words – entrails, conversions, etc. I did this because the tough, the knife fighter, the thug, the type that Buenos Aires calls the ‘compadré or compadrito' aspires to refinement because ‘compadres’ are individuals and don’t always talk like The Compadre, which is a Platonic ideal.
The learned doctors of the Great Vehicle teach us that the essential characteristic of the universe is its emptiness. They are certainly correct about the tiny part of the universe that is in this book. Gallows and pirates fill its pages, and that word of ‘iniquity' strikes awe in its title, but under all the storm and the lightning, there is nothing.
It is all just appearance, a surface of images – which is why readers, may, perhaps, enjoy it.
The man who made it was a pitiable sort of creature, but found amusement in writing it;
It is hoped that some of the echoes of that pleasure may reach its readers."

“Friendship, you know, is as mysterious as love and any other state of this confusion we call life.”

"I presume that in the Heaven of the blessed, there are those who believe that the advantages of that location are much exaggerated by the theologists, who have never been there themselves; and perhaps in Hell, the damned are not always (un?)happy."

"In the course of these stories I have interwoven, as is my won't, certain autobiographic features."


For myself, I found inspiration for further readings from Borges's favourite books.

The often mentioned ‘Icelandic Sagas,' the ‘Battle of Maldon,' ‘Schopenhauer's works, Popes' Odysseus, and more.

This book is a must-read for any lover of literature, whatever his preferences.

[Sasha · Rating 5 out of 5]

Deep in Don Quixote, for a while I convinced myself that Cervantes had written the footnotes too, and the Quixote commentators the editor cited were actually made up by Cervantes. He messes with you like that: he plays so many tricks that you end up thinking anything is possible.

Four months later I pick up Borges, and...here he is doing exactly that. Writing essays about imaginary books, with footnotes pointing to other imaginary commenters on the same imaginary books. Layer on layer of fiction.

Obviously I'm not the first to point out that Borges is Cervantes' spiritual descendant. The first was Borges, or (more likely) some guy Borges made up.

One of his persistent themes is the relative reality of literature, and I always think of Richard III; there are two of them: the monster in Shakespeare's play and the slightly-less-monstrous asshole in real life. But Shakespeare's version is way better known. In fact, his is so dominant that most people assume it's the only one. Richard III is cited as a warning story, used as a measuring stick for other monstrous leaders. So isn't he more real than the real one? Hasn't he had more impact on history?

Borges is obsessed with this idea, as in "Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius," in which a secret cabal writes an encyclopedia of an imaginary world so detailed and convincing that it takes over the real world. Not like this is his personal idea: Yeats deals with it, and Nabokov, and the King in Yellow. And She-Hulk. And it's half the joke of Don Quixote. (The second half, to be precise.)

(Borges also, BTW, in The Garden of Forking Paths, suggests a quantum multiverse that scientists would begin to take almost seriously fifty years later. The possibility of a particle being in two places at once suggests the possibility that, given a choice, both outcomes always happen, with reality forking infinitely off and there being as many times as points on a line. Which is, like, whoa, man, and then Borges wrote a story about it.)

I made the mistake of blazing through all of "Ficciones" on a flight; these are not stories to read in great gulps. Since then I've read them intermittently, and I'm occasionally going back to Ficciones to take those one at a time as well. They're so intense and (I might as well just use the word) labyrinthine that you need to chew on each one for a while.

"Universal History of Iniquity" is Borges' first collection, and it's unlike the others: a series of almost straight-forward stories rewritten from sources. The only hint of Borges' upcoming trickery is the fact that sometimes the story he tells is radically different from its source, or not from that source at all. (And how would I know that if I hadn't read the notes?) The final story, "Man on Pink Corner" or "Streetcorner Man," hints at the Borges to come.

With "Ficciones" he's suddenly here, apparently with no awkward middle period. This is his best stuff: staggeringly original and weird.

At its best, "The Aleph" matches Ficciones, but at its worst, it reminds one uncomfortably of M Night Shyamalan; Borges has developed an O Henry-esque obsession with twist endings, so that halfway through each story you start to guess what the twist is. Borges is still Borges, so you're often wrong...but being right even once is unworthy of him.

Many of "The Maker"'s stories are just sketches, tiny little puzzles. Whereas in Ficciones Borges wrote papers about imaginary books, now it sometimes seems like he's writing abstracts of the papers about the imaginary books. It works better than I've made it sound, and this is my second-favorite of his collections.

The remainder of the collection (In Praise of Darkness, Brodie's Report, Book of Sand and Shakespeare's Memory) is...spotty. At times ("Undr") it feels like Borges is just kinda flipping the switch on the crazy-idea machine. Others ("Shakespeare's Memory") stand up to his best stuff easily.

As I told Alasse below: I feel like I've been waiting for Borges all my life. He will take the rest of my life to read.

[Mala · Rating 5 out of 5]

You who read me—are you certain you understand my language?

Imagine you are watching a highly recommended, multiple awards winning, foreign-language film- it's everything you expected it to be, then, suddenly, the subtitles stop working- how annoying! But you are hooked; you can't stop watching– welcome to the Borgesian Labyrinth!

The 'Collected Fictions' consists of the following nine collections- 'A Universal History of Iniquity', 'Fictions', 'Artifices', 'The Aleph', 'The Maker', 'In Praise of Darkness', 'Brodie's Report' , 'The Book of Sand', and finally 'Shakespeare's Memory', totaling around 103 stories.

'A Universal History of Iniquity', describing villainous characters from all over the world, reveals two characteristic features of Borges' fiction- as translator Andrew Hurley writes in the introduction:

This volume is purportedly a series of biographies of reprehensible evildoers, and as biography, the book might be expected to rely greatly upon "sources" of one sort or another—as indeed Borges' 'Index of Sources" seems to imply. In his preface to the 1954 reprinting of the volume, however, Borges acknowledges the "fictive" nature of his stories... This sui generis use of sources, most of which were in English, presents the translator with something of a challenge: to translate Borges even while Borges is cribbing from, translating, and "changing and distorting" other writers' stories.

Another is the geographical and historical diversity of Borges' fictional universe: from Southern slave traders, New York gangsters, to Chinese pirates, Japanese Ronins, Arabic false prophet..stories are short & easy to follow. The stand out ones are The Cruel Redeemer Lazarus Morell (perhaps Tarantino read it for Django Unchained!), Hakim, the Masked Dyer of Merv, for the sheer horror of its ending but the pièce de résistance is The Man on Pink Corner–a Hemingwayesque homage to the culture of Machismo.

The stories in 'Fictions' (1944), are the ones Borges is most reputed for–Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius,The Approach to Al-Mu'tasim, Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote, The Circular Ruins, The Library of Babel, & The Garden of Forking Paths, are the ever shining gems of his oeuvre.

Borges' style, as seen here, is deceptively simple–Quietness, subtlety, a laconic terseness—these are the marks of Borges' style. It is a style that has often been called intellectual, and indeed it is dense with allusion—to literature, to philosophy, to theology, to myth, to the culture and history of Buenos Aires and Argentina and the Southern Cone of South America.

Add to that the Apocryphal nature of his writing– fake reviews of fake books, interpolations from known-fake sources– & his stories become forbidding mind-benders: as Borges remarks in his Paris Review interview– Most of those allusions and references are merely put there as a kind of private joke.

Labyrinths, mirrors, dreams, doubles -- so many of the elements that appear over and over in Borges' fiction are symbols of the psyche turned inward– it's hard to escape solipsism and alter egos of Borges as blind librarians, diffident, celibate, middle-aged academics & writers people the stories– Borges and I, The Other, August 25,1983 are outstanding stories in this regard :

Here's Borges having a laugh at his own expense in August 25, 1983:

I realized that it was a masterpiece in the most overwhelming sense of the word. My good intentions hadn't lasted beyond the first pages; those that followed held the labyrinths, the knives, the man who thinks he's an image, the reflection that thinks it's real, the tiger that stalks in the night, the battles that are in one's blood, the blind and fatal Juan Murana, the voice of Macedoniel Fernández, the ship made with the fingernails of the dead, Old English repeated in the evening.

"That museum rings a bell," I remarked sarcastically.

"Not to mention false recollections, the doubleness of symbols, the long catalogs, the skilled handling of prosaic reality, the imperfect symmetries that critics so jubilantly discover, the not always apocryphal quotations.

The military background of Borges' family, his love of epic poetry, link him with "Argentine history and also with the idea of a man's having to be brave." This finds expression in stories like Man on Pink Corner,The South (Borges called it his best story!),The Dead Man,The Wait*,The Encounter, The Duel, Juan Muraña & The Elderly Lady.

A character in the story Juan Muraña, asks him:

Somebody lent me your book on Carriego," he said. "It's full of knife fighters and thugs and underworld types. Tell me, Borges," he said, looking at me as though stricken with holy terror, "what can you know about knife fighters and thugs and underworld types?"
"I've read up on the subject," I replied.

How can you not love this bookish writer! My favourite Borges stories are– The Aleph, Shakespeare's Memory, The Secret Miracle, Borges and I, August 25,1983, The Circular Ruins, Funes, His Memory, & The Gospel of St.Mark. The least liked was The Immortal.

DFW, in his review, 'Borges on the Couch', emphasized the seminal importance of Borges in literature:

Why Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986) is an important enough fiction writer to deserve such a microscopic bio. The truth, briefly stated, is that Borges is arguably the great bridge between modernism and post-modernism in world literature. He is modernist in that his fiction shows a first-rate human mind stripped of all foundations in religious or ideological certainty -- a mind turned thus wholly in on itself. His stories are inbent and hermetic, with the oblique terror of a game whose rules are unknown and its stakes everything...And the mind of those stories is nearly always a mind that lives in and through books. This is because Borges the writer is, fundamentally, a reader. The dense, obscure allusiveness of his fiction is not a tic, or even really a style; and it is no accident that his best stories are often fake essays, or reviews of fictitious books, or have texts at their plots' centers, or have as protagonists Homer or Dante or Averroes. Whether for seminal artistic reasons or neurotic personal ones or both, Borges collapses reader and writer into a new kind of aesthetic agent, one who makes stories out of stories, one for whom reading is essentially -- consciously -- a creative act. This is not, however, because Borges is a metafictionist or a cleverly disguised critic. It is because he knows that there's finally no difference -- that murderer and victim, detective and fugitive, performer and audience are the same. Obviously, this has postmodern* implications, but Borges's is really a mystical insight, and a profound one. It's also frightening, since the line between monism and solipsism is thin and porous, more to do with spirit than with mind per se. And, as an artistic program, this kind of collapse/transcendence of individual identity is also paradoxical, requiring a grotesque self-obsession combined with an almost total effacement of self and personality. Tics and obsessions aside, what makes a Borges story Borgesian is the odd, ineluctable sense you get that no one and everyone did it.

I dreamed that this review was already written so I wouldn't have to write it!

Borges is a life-time reading project because he gets better with repeated readings.
Don't let the perceived "difficulty" of Borges from reading him– as these inspiring lines from Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote proclaim:

Thinking, meditating, imagining... are not anomalous acts—they are the normal respiration of the intelligence. To glorify the occasional exercise of that function, to treasure beyond price ancient and foreign thoughts, to recall with incredulous awe what some doctor universalis thought, is to confess our own languor, or our own barbarie. Every man should be capable of all ideas, and I believe that in the future he shall be.

References:
(*)The story is uncannily similar to Hemingway's famous story The Killers, but Borges doesn't mention him anywhere in the Foreword.

Take a look at the long list of writers that Borges has inspired:

http://www.themodernword.com/borges/b...

Paris Review - The Art of Fiction No. 39, Jorge Luis Borges
http://www.theparisreview.org/intervi...

DFW's essay on Borges: Borges on the Couch.
http://www.nytimes.com/2004/11/07/boo...

[Frank Hidalgo-Gato Durán · Rating 5 out of 5]

Este libro representaba un compromiso personal para con la obra Borges. Había leído “Ficciones” y me quedé con ganas de más, de continuar descubriendo la genialidad de este hombre, conformado por mil hombres más. No obstante, para mi gusto, fue demasiado de Borges. Al leerse uno todos sus cuentos, tiene la sensación de que algunos se parecen bastante. Pero es natural y tampoco es que me haya molestado tanto.Si bien Borges es un grande del mismísimo y el esoterismo,un “mago” de la palabra, y un erudito de la prosa; en ocaciones es verdad que no llega uno a disfrutar de la historia en sí, para centrarse en los recursos literarios que utiliza hasta el agotamiento, “marginando” en ocaciones la trama de la anécdota en sí. Como escritor me ha servido bastante, ya que esta obra es un máster literario en sí. La mayoría de las historias son geniales, pero muchas ocaciones la exageración en la utilización de recursos como la hipérbole, la metáfora, la analogía, el hipérbaton etc,hacían del libro un mero manual técnico literario,más que un libro de cuentos fantásticos y amenos. Sí que me gustó! Y mucho. Así es Borges! , y así hay que entenderle. 😊👍

[Lynne King · Rating 5 out of 5]

Islam tells us that on the unappealable Day of Judgement, all who have perpetrated images of living things will reawaken with their works, and will be ordered to blow life into them, and they will fail, and they and their works will be cast into the fires of punishment.

Only Borges could possibly have made such a statement at the beginning of a short story called “Covered Mirrors” under “The Maker” (1960) in this multi-faceted selection of mesmerizing and fascinating short stories.

Why I began with “The Maker” which is halfway through the book still deludes me but I’m glad that I began here. Admittedly the author is now beginning to enter into an older period in life as he’s now sixty. It’s basically rather a random collection of works but they immediately entice one and show the broad spectrum of Borges’ works. His themes are rather fascinating, that of dreams, mirrors, slashing of throats, libraries amongst other things but more bizarre is his love of tigers. When he was young he was just rather taken with them and I guess that was that:

In my childhood, I was a fervent worshipper of the tigers – not the jaguar, that spotted “tiger” that inhabits the floating islands of water hyacinths along the Parana and the tangled wilderness of the Amazon, but the true tiger, the striped Asian breed that can be faced only by men of war, in a castle atop an elephant.

Can you imagine, one moment we have a short story on dreamtigers, one on toenails (now that was extraordinary to say the least!) and then one on mirrors. Diverse indeed but fascinating.

I would love to be able to understand Borges’ thought processes but I never will of course. He has tantalized me with his views on life and it never ceases to amaze me how authors come up with these brilliant ideas.

The book is divided up into different sections during Borges’ life starting with “A Universal History of Iniquity” in 1935 with further sections “Fictions” – 1941, “Artifices” - 1944, “The Aleph” - 1949, “The Maker” - 1960, “In Praise of Darkness” - 1969, “Brodies’ Report” - 1970, “The Book of Sand” - 1975 and “Shakespeare’s Memory” – 1983.

The short stories are all brilliant and one can literally open up at any page and continue to be delighted.

And my favourite section? Well it has to be the final one: “Shakespeare’s Memory”. It says it all and it is for you to read this book to find out!

But the “Library of Babel” is also a must read under “The Garden of Forking Paths” (1941). This is the most exquisite writing on a library. I loved it! And remember Borges was Director of the Argentine National Library from 1955 until 1973.

The beauty of this book is that the translator, Andrew Hurley very kindly gave copious notes on all sections. I felt as though I was at university again while a lecturer went into full flight with his favourite subject.

I absolutely loved this book.

[Miltos S. · Rating 5 out of 5]

Μπορώ να καταλάβω πολύ καλά, γιατί ο Μπόρχες θεωρείται ένας από τους κορυφαίους συγγραφείς του αιώνα που πέρασε και γιατί έχει τόσο φανατικούς θαυμαστές παγκοσμίως.
Παρ όλα αυτά, δεν μπορώ να αποδεχτώ ότι όλες οι ιστορίες της συγκεκριμένης συλλογής βρίσκονται στο ίδιο κορυφαίο επίπεδο. Ίσως ήταν η επιλογή των ιστοριών? Ίσως η μετάφραση?
Σε κάθε περίπτωση όμως, δεν μπορώ να βαθμολογήσω και με λιγότερα από 5 αστέρια, γιατί πιστεύω ότι στιγμές-στιγμές, ο Μπόρχες έχει πραγματικά συνομιλήσει με την μεγάλη έμπνευση.

[Jonfaith · Rating 4 out of 5]

Fame is a form--perhaps the worst form--of incomprehension.

I can recall the first time I discovered the name Borges. That marks a near singular occasion. It was 1990 and I was thoroughly enjoying my Philosophy of Religion course and curious about nihilism. This engendered another retreat to the library and there on the opening page of some text was a quotation from this strange figure. It was a few minutes later when I had culled a number of texts from stacks. Like many a reader and a number of Borges characters, I was never the same. A purchase of Labyrinths was soon to follow.

Over the years I've maintained an intimacy with many of the stories in the Collected Fictions. Some tales like Pierre Menard and The Aleph I must have read 15-20 times in my life. This reading was thus a wonderful opportunity to discover such jewels as Emma Zunz. While I've maintained my love for such episodes as Death and the Compass (see the film starring Peter Brook) I have cultivated an affection for the subtle Borges, the gnawing uneasiness which is both philosophical and all-too-human.

There were certainly times poring over these abstracts of imagined books when I not only felt like an illiterate swindler but also that the text would never cease, both like the Book of Sand as well a paged equivalent of the Blue Tiger, forever multiplying in my grasp, like some curse of abundance. Maybe one day I'll relax on a park bench and find adjacent that 20 year old undergraduate, wild eyed about The Library of Babel: what should I say?

[Paradoxe · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ύφος αποστασιοποιημένο, αυτό που θα ταίριαζε σε μια έκθεση, ή αναφορά και όμως φιλικό και σαφές. Ο ρυθμός άλλοτε γρήγορος κι άλλοτε περιστροφικός, γλώσσα σταράτη κι όλα βαλμένα με τάξη, αιτίες, αίτια, αποτελέσματα.
<< Η μοίρα, έτσι αποκαλούμε τον άπειρο και ατέρμονα συνδυασμό εκατομμυρίων διαπεπλεγμένων αιτίων >>
Μετά από λίγο καταλαβαίνεις μέσα από τις εύστοχες παρατηρήσεις πως έχει τον απόλυτο έλεγχο της αφήγησης του, το οποίο προκαλεί περιέργεια και δέος. Σε ορισμένες περιπτώσεις, η κατάληξη, ακολουθείται από κατακλείδα, συνήθως αδυσώπητα ειλικρινή για τις ‘’μικροπροσποιήσεις’’ του ανθρώπου, απ’ τις οποίες ξεκινούν βέβαια, οι μεγάλες. Παρακάτω, αρχινά μια αφήγηση που με κοίμισε, με έφερε σε κατάσταση νωχελική και καθώς αποκαλυπτόταν το πρόσωπο του βαφέα της Μερβ κι όλα τα κομμάτια σε μια αναλαμπή που ξεγύμνωσε το μύθο, έμπαιναν στη θέση τους, σα να με πέταξε ένας γίγαντας απ’ το κρεβάτι, καθώς…

Δε μπόρεσα να μη σκεφτώ διαβάζοντας το Μάγο που όλο περίμενε, πως θα ‘ταν η ζωή αν μπορούσαμε έστω μια φορά στη ζωή μας, να δημιουργήσουμε μια ψευδαίσθηση για κάποιο προσφιλή, μια δοκιμασία που θα αποδείκνυε αν στο τέλος θα τρώγαμε μόνοι, τις πέρδικες. Όμως βαδίζουμε γυμνοί και οι καλύτερες προθέσεις χτυπούν σε τοίχους.

Φράσεις ολοκληρωμένες νοήματος που μένουν σε μια μόνιμη έλλειψη για όλα εκείνα τα ενδεχόμενα που αφήνουν ανοιχτά, για όλες τις σκέψεις που μπορούν να συνοδεύσουν, αυτά που δεν έχουμε σκεφτεί ποτέ ξανά, σαν αριθμοί με δεκαδικά όλα διαφορετικά μεταξύ τους και κανένα τέτοιο που να μπορεί να ευκολύνει μια στρογγυλοποίηση, πας να προσπεράσεις και μετά το σκέφτεσαι, αυτό που γράφω δε σου μοιάζει αληθινό, πάντα μπορεί να γίνει μια στρογγυλοποίηση, είτε προς τα κάτω, είτε προς τα πάνω. Ναι; Μπορεί;
<< Έμοιαζε μ’ εκείνα τα ενσαρκωμένα πνεύματα που δεν έχουν εσωτερική αντίληψη >>.
Κι αν κάπου ξεκινούν οι αριθμοί και κάπου τελειώνουν, ποιος θα επιλέξει τη φράση στρογγυλοποίησης τους; Ποιος θα ορίσει την τελειότητα; Την παύση; Σαν τους συνειρμούς, τελειώνουν άραγε ποτέ, σαν τις αιτίες, ποια ήταν πρώτη;

Κυκλώνει τα θύματα του προσεκτικά, με ηρεμία, μοιάζει αφύσικο πως από πουθενά δε μπορείς να βγεις, να βρεις το σημείο εκείνο που ορίζει το ψέμα, την κρυμμένη αλήθεια, σα να σου εύχεται ο εχθρός σου, την πιο μεγάλη νίκη, τα βασιλικότερα επιτεύγματα, τις ωραιότερες ανάσες, αρκεί να ξέρεις πως στο τέλος της μέρας, θα πεθάνεις, απ’ το χέρι του, θα πεθάνεις και θα σβήσεις, σα να μην υπήρξες στιγμή, θα ξεχαστείς. Και τελειώνει η ευχή και δεν έχεις καταλάβει, ενώ έχεις κατανοήσει, όμως δε μπορείς να συλλάβεις αν προτιμάς ένα πανέμορφο, περίλαμπρο ταξίδι, με οικτρό τέλος, ή αν προτιμάς να φύγεις, να διαγράψεις όσα ποθούσες μια ζωή, μα να ζήσεις, ως τα βαθιά γεράματα, να ζήσεις, σε κάποια γωνιά, μα και τότε, θα σβήσεις, σα να μην υπήρξες στιγμή, θα ξεχαστείς. Η λήθη είναι σίγουρη, μα πριν, τι προηγείται; Ο πιο πιστός μελετητής του Δασκάλου, παίρνει το λόγο του απ’ τον Κόσμο ως βούληση και ως παράσταση και ζωγραφίζει κυκλωτικά ακολουθίες, ιχνογραφεί τις Παραινέσεις, βάζει μια άνω τελεία και σε προσκαλεί να καταλάβεις. Σου προδιαγράφει πως η έξοδος είναι μόνο μία: να σκεφτείς. Να παραμερίσεις ταξίδια μυθικά, ή να τ’ αγκαλιάσεις σαν το μαξιλάρι σου τη νύχτα, και, να επιτρέψεις στο μυαλό σου ν’ ανασάνει, να φυσήξει αέρα στην καρδιά. Βούληση, ή Ιδέα; Σαν ένα τανγκό, που σε πάει όπου θέλει αυτό, γιατί έτσι είναι η μουσική, σε πάει σ’ αυτή τη μια, μοναδική έξοδο: σκέψου.

Αν σου ζητούσα να σκεφτείς αν ο κόσμος μας λειτουργεί στα πλαίσια της ύλης, ή της ιδέας τι θα απαντούσες; Ίσως να μου έλεγες πως η νόηση δε μπορεί να είναι ύλη και νόηση υπάρχει στον κόσμο. Ίσως πάλι να μου έλεγες πως η νόηση είναι μέρος μου, άρα αντικείμενο μου κι εγώ αποτελούμαι από στοιχεία αυτού του κόσμου. Μα μετά; Τι θα μου έλεγες μετά; Αν σε ρωτούσα για το χρόνο, ή για το χώρο; Αν σε ρωτούσα για το ρήμα, ή το ουσιαστικό; Θα κατέληγες τελικά, προτού πονοκεφαλιάσεις αρκετά ότι ο κόσμος είναι ένα μιξ κι αυτό για να σ’ αφήσω ήσυχο και γιατί αισθάνεσαι ( είναι σωστή η επιλογή του ρήματος; ) πως γονατίζεις στη διαρκή αλληλουχία, στα ενδεχόμενα, στα αντικείμενα. Ή μήπως θα συνέχιζες στην μια φράση μετά την άλλη να αυτοαναιρείσαι; Κι αν μπορούσες να επιλέξεις ένα κόσμο φτιαγμένο από ‘σενα, εξ’ ολοκλήρου από ‘σενα, που τώρα δεν υπάρχει τίποτα ( άρα μήπως υπάρχει; ) θα ξεπατίκωνες αυτόν που ζούμε, ή στο μεταξύ ερωτευμένος με τον ιδεαλισμό, ή τον υλισμό, θα προσπαθούσες να εφαρμόσεις τον έναν απ’ τους δύο; Τι θα υπήρχε μέσα του;

<< Κάθε άνθρωπος είναι ικανός για όλες τις ιδέες >>,
ναι αλλά και για τις ίδιες ιδέες; Αν δεν έχουν ξεκινήσει απ’ το ίδιο σημείο, με τις ίδιες αφορμές, τα ίδια βιώματα, την ίδια ψυχοσύνθεση, στον ίδιο χρόνο, για να αναπληρώσουν το ίδιο κενό, είναι πραγματικά ίδιες οι ιδέες; Μπορούν να ταυτιστούν πραγματικά οι άνθρωποι; Μην κοιτάς το βιβλίο που κοιτάς, κοίτα δίπλα σου τι έχεις, ένα φίλο, τον παππού σου; Υπάρχει εκείνο το σημείο της απόλυτης ταύτισης, ή το μόνο που μπορεί να υπάρξει είναι θαυμασμός ή σύμπραξη, ή παραλληλισμός; Όλα έχουν ειπωθεί, δεν έχουν όμως εμπεδωθεί, γιατί ο βαθμός δεκτικότητας ποικίλλει, όσο και ο βαθμός μετάδοσης κάποιου άλλου που συνδέεται μαζί μας, αυτοί οι σπουδαίοι, ερωτεύσιμοι, αγέρωχοι συνδυασμοί κι εκείνες, οι λάγνες, συχνά καμουφλαρισμένες σαμποτέρ, οι ερμηνείες. Κι όμως, θα μπορούσα να γράψω έστω δυο κεφάλαια απ’ το Κόκκινο και το μαύρο, χωρίς να πλησιάσω το βιβλίο κι ίσως εσύ να έβλεπες πως μιλούμε για την ίδια Ματθίλδη, μα θα ήταν τα ίδια λόγια, η ίδια στίξη, το ίδιο ύφος κι όμως άλλο να σήμαινε για ‘μενα το να χρησιμοποιώ την απεικόνιση της Ματθίλδης, να σηκώνεται βαριεστημένη απ’ το μπουντουάρ κι άλλο για το Στεντάλ. Ίσως το σωστό πρόσωπο να ερμήνευε μέσα στην εικόνα, μια άλλη εικόνα κι ίσως ένα άλλο άτομο, να έβρισκε μια παρήγορη σκιά. Γιατί τίποτα δεν έχει ειπωθεί και όλα είναι γνωστά. Γιατί όλα έχουν συμβεί και τίποτα δεν είναι αναμενόμενο.

Ένα εξαιρετικό εφεύρημα του συγγραφέα είναι που αφηγείται ιστορίες ατόμων που για να τους προσδώσει αληθοφάνεια, σε αρκετές περιπτώσεις, προσθέτει στο κάτω μέρος της σελίδας, σημειώσεις που δρουν σαν παρανοϊκά πιστοποιητικά, εξωθώντας σε μια διαφορετική αντίληψη. Το επινόημα αυτό είναι φρέσκο και όμως παραπέμπει κατά κάποιο τρόπο, στο Στεντάλ που σε αρκετά κεφάλαια παρέθετε αποφθέγματα πειραγμένα. Αν μη τι άλλο, είναι γοητευτικό, κυρίως για την αίσθηση που δημιουργεί. Μου δημιουργείται για δεύτερη φορά, η εντύπωση του φαινομένου Μοργκάνα, ή εκείνες τις ταμπέλες που υπάρχουν σε ορισμένους δρόμους και σου δείχνουν διαφορετικές ενδείξεις, για το πώς να πας στο ίδιο πάντα μέρος.

Το απλό γίνεται τυχαίο και το πολύπλοκο, άπειρο. Και το συμφέρον γίνεται οικουμενικός παντοκράτωρ, που μόλις εγκαθιδρύει την παντοδυναμία του, αλλάζει. Μετατρέπεται, ή μεταστοιχειώνεται, κανείς δεν ξέρει. Όλα χάνονται κατά μήκος, κατά πλάτος κι ο καιρός περνάει κι όλα διακλαδώνονται, όλο διακλαδώνονται. Μία έξοδος: σκέψου.

Ο κήπος με τα διακλαδωτά μονοπάτια, είναι μεν αφήγημα, αλλά μαζί, για εμένα, είναι το σπουδαιότερο δοκίμιο που γράφτηκε ποτέ, για το μεταμοντερνισμό, σε οποιαδήποτε έκφανση του κι αν αναφερόμαστε. Γιατί όχι για το χρόνο, ή την αχρονικότητα, ή το συγχρονισμό, είτε το κενό, θα πει κάποιος που το ‘χει διαβάσει. Ο χρόνος αναφέρεται, ο χώρος ( και οι διαστάσεις, τα σχήματα, οι υφές ) παραλείπεται ( υπάρχει όμως ένα παλάτι, όπως υπάρχει ένα περίπτερο, ένα γραφείο, μια βιβλιοθήκη, το περίστροφο στην τσέπη, ένας κήπος που όμως δεν είναι ο κήπος και ο κήπος που δεν είναι μέρος του κήπου, αλλά είναι μέσα στον κήπο ) και τα μέλλοντα είναι άφθονα, όχι όμως όλα. Αυτό που συμβαίνει και συμβαίνει τώρα, συμβαίνει σε ‘μενα, λέει στην αρχή και χαιρετάει τον καθρέφτη. Μια άλλη λέξη βέβαια, που επίσης, παραλείπεται είναι η μεγάλη απούσα, η συγχρονικότητα.
Ίσως μόνο, η κατακλείδα που του λείπει να είναι αυτή, ένα αγκάλιασμα του μοντερνισμού στο μεταμοντερνισμό:
<< η νύχτα μίκρυνε τόσο πολύ,
που το χτες να φτάνει στο αύριο
κι εμείς να τα βλέπουμε ένα, υπέροχο
δώρο του ταυτόχρονου >>, Χέρμαν Μπροχ, Αθώοι.

Το σχήμα του σπαθιού είναι ένα αφήγημα που χρησιμοποιεί ένα εξαιρετικό εφεύρημα και προκαλεί μια μικρή έκπληξη στο τέλος, ωστόσο βασίζεται όπως λέει, σε μια ερμηνεία πάνω σε κάποια θέση του Σοπενάουερ. Σε θέμα ερμηνείας είμαι αντίθετος. Κατά το Μπόρχες, η ερμηνεία είναι πως εμείς είμαστε οι άλλοι, σύμφωνα με ‘μενα πως μέσα σε όλους μας ζει η ίδια βούληση ( εννοώ το ‘’κομμάτι’’ που μας αντιστοιχεί απ’ την καθολική ).Αν και βέβαια παρακάτω, το αφήγημα Τέλος, με κάνει να σκεφτώ ξανά τη βεβαιότητα μου. Όπως και η άριστη ανάλυση, στο τελείωμα του Αθανάτου. Αντίθετα, στο Φουνές, με χαρά διαπίστωσα πως αποτελεί μια παραβολή βασισμένη πάνω στη ρήση του Σοπενάουερ, πως η έλλειψη γνώσης σε έναν άνθρωπο με ικανότητες μπορεί να αντισταθμιστεί, ενώ η έλλειψη ικανοτήτων σ’ εκείνον που έχει τις γνώσεις, δεν προσφέρει τίποτα ουσιαστικό. Βέβαια, το πώς ερμηνεύεται αυτό στο πρόσωπο του Φουνές, είναι διττό. Ακόμα και η ρήση από μόνη της επιδέχεται πολλών συνδυαζόμενων, ή μη, ενδεχομένων. Ενώ παρακάτω στο αφήγημα του ήρωα και του προδότη, επιλέγεται το ‘’αστυνομικό’’ σχήμα, ή περίπου. Στην πρώτη πρόταση βέβαια, συναντάμε τα ονόματα του Τσέστερτον ( θα του άρεσε ο συνδυασμός του με τον παρακάτω κύριο, θα διασκέδαζε πολύ στην ιδέα ) και του Λάϊμπνιτς ( είχε και μεγάλη μαλλούρα θα ‘χε να τραβάει ). Εκ των πραγμάτων, αυτή η αναφορά προμηνύει κάτι, αν μη τι άλλο, απολαυστικό και δελεαστικό. Ομοίως, παρακάτω, η αναφορά του Βίκο ( αυτός που σου μάθανε στο σχολείο ότι πρώτος έθεσε το ερώτημα αν ο Όμηρος ήταν αρχαίος ποιητής, ή ομάδα κάτω από μια ιδέα ), με έκανε να περιμένω κάτι πολύ απαιτητικά ωραίο.

Και λοιπόν, ο Μπόρχες είναι κάποιος που γράφει παραβολές γύρω απ’ τη σοπεναουρική φιλοσοφία; Όχι δεν είναι. Και εγώ θα μπορούσα να γράψω παραβολές πάνω στην οποιαδήποτε φιλοσοφία που κατέχω ( κι ο Μπόρχες την κατείχε άριστα, περισσότερο απ’ το Μωπασάν και σχεδόν όσο ο Χάρντυ ), μπορεί να μην άρεσε, μπορεί να μην είχα ταλέντο, αλλά αντικειμενικά θα μπορούσα να σκαρώσω κάτι. Δε ρωτάμε ποτέ αν ο Μωπασάν, ή ο Χάρντυ περιστρέφονταν γύρω απ’ αυτό, γιατί δεν περιστρέφονταν. Ομοίως και ο Μπόρχες. Ο Μπόρχες διασχίζει με τα αρρωστημένα μάτια του και τον αεικίνητο νου του, την Ιστορία, τη σύγχρονη του ζωή, τις μόδες, τις σέκτες, τις κοινές πεποιθήσεις και τις εξειδικευμένες σκέψεις, στέκεται στις νότες στα πεντάγραμμα, όσο στέκεται και στα διαστήματα ανάμεσα. Απλώνεται και κυκλώνει. Πολύ πιο περίτεχνος απ’ το Βολταίρο, αν και μειονεκτεί στο φυσικό διάλογο, περισσότερο κι από εκείνον, χρησιμοποιεί με ευχέρεια το μοντερνισμό, αν και μοιάζει να φλερτάρει ορισμένως με την κατάλυση, του μεταμοντερνισμού. Γράφει ζεστά, με λέξεις σαφείς, που όμως αποκτούν ελαστικότητα, χωρίς να αποκτούν και ορμή.

Θα τον βρεις να σου μιλάει για κάθετί που έχει διασχίσει αυτό τον πλανήτη, να σκύβει στον άνθρωπο και να του ανταποκρίνεται με συμπόνια, ενίοτε αυστηρά, απαιτώντας να σκεφτεί, αρνούμενος του, το δικαίωμα της ατέρμονης συσσώρευσης γνώσης. Κάθετί που έχει διδαχτεί, υπάρχει στο Μπόρχες, χάνει όμως το διδακτισμό του, το σχολαστικισμό του και συνδυάζεται διαρκώς με οτιδήποτε άλλο το κοιτάει από οποιοδήποτε άξονα, οποιουδήποτε συστήματος. Καθένας απαντάει μόνος, αν αξίζει να δώσει μια ευκαιρία στον εαυτό του, να γνωρίσει ένα μεγάλο μάστορα της μικρής φόρμας. Ακόμα κι ο ρεαλιστής, ή ο συμβολιστής θα βρουν κάτι να τους αρέσει, να τους εκφράσει. Ας μη φοβηθούν όμως, ούτε το μοντερνισμό του, θα τους μπάσει γλυκά, σχεδόν ανεπαίσθητα. Κάποια άλλα κείμενα δεν είναι για όλους, όχι επειδή είμαι ιδιοφυϊα, αλλά γιατί απαιτείται ένα ορισμένο είδος εμμονής στο ύφος, στον τόνο, ή στον τρόπο που υπάρχουν κάποιες λέξεις, όπως και οι τρόποι ( όχι μονής φοράς ) που συνδέονται τα νοήματα. Ακόμα, σε μερικές περιπτώσεις κι εκείνο που ξεχωρίζει, που δεν ταιριάζει με τα υπόλοιπα, ή και αναζητώντας το νόημα σε όσα παραλείπονται, ή και αντιμεταθέτοντας την άρνηση με την κατάφαση κι ανάποδα. Παντού όμως, συναντάμε μια φαινομενικά ήσυχη καταβύθιση και σύνδεση των ψυχολογικών κινήτρων, με τις φιλοσοφικές σκανδάλες. Τέλος, έχει καλλιεργηθεί να είναι, τόσο φυσικά πειστικός ο λόγος του, που πάρα πολλές φορές ‘’με έστειλε’’ να ψάχνω ανύπαρκτους ανθρώπους, ανύπαρκτα έργα, ή ανυπόστατες θεωρίες και όμως, μου σύστησε και αρκετούς λογίους, ή έργα που αγνοούσα και πιθανόν θα συνέχιζα να αγνοώ και ίσως να συνεχίσω να αγνοώ, αφού στην Ελλάδα, η έκδοση είναι ζήτημα βιοπορισμού. Κι οι απανταχού ανοιχτές βιβλιοθήκες εστιάζουν στα σκαναρίσματα κι όχι στη σοβαρή δουλειά, πάνω σε γραπτά και στοχαστές, που αποτελούν, ή που θα έπρεπε να αποτελούν παγκόσμια κληρονομιά.


Τελικά, το βασικότερο σημείο στο Μπόρχες, είναι να προκαλεί διαλεκτικά πυροτεχνήματα. Όταν ο Τρωγλοδύτης μίλησε, αισθάνθηκα όσο υπερβολικό κι αν φαίνεται, εκείνη την περίεργα ένοχη φρεσκάδα, που νιώθουμε, όταν το σεξ που έχει τελειώσει από ώρας, είναι καλό και έχουμε φτάσει σε αυτό και στις κορυφώσεις του, μέσα από μια εντελώς ασυνήθιστη διαδικασία κι η οποία όμως, έτερψε όλο μας το είναι, κάτι που χτίστηκε, ή που κερδήθηκε, που δημιουργήθηκε απ’ το μηδέν, που δε μπορεί να επαναληφθεί, μέχρι να ξανασυμβεί. Το να σε εκπλήσσει έτσι ένα κείμενο, όπως όταν κάποιος κάνει στράκα με τα δάχτυλα του βιρτουόζικα, μες στην απόλυτη σιωπή, είναι όπως όταν ενοικούν μέσα σου όλες οι φύσεις που αναζητάς στον άλλο. Και μένοντας στο ίδιο κείμενο, η αρετή του Μπόρχες, ενώ γνωρίζει το Βίκο, να επιτρέπει και στον Τρωγλοδύτη, να είναι, επιβεβαιώνει αυτή την αμερόληπτη αντιμετώπιση που πρέπει να έχουμε για όλες τις a priori προτάσεις ( με την έννοια που δίνει ο ίδιος ο Μπόρχες [ δηλαδή ο Σοπενάουερ στην απόδειξη ενός συμπεράσματος που ήδη εμπιστευόμαστε και γι’ αυτό θέλουμε να αποδείξουμε στους άλλους ): εξετάζονται, χρησιμοποιούνται, δεν κατοικούν καθ’ ολοκληρία ένα ‘’χώρο’’.

Μια απ’ τις συλλογές που περιλαμβάνονται είναι η ‘’Αναφορά του Μπρόουντι’’. Χαρακτηρίζεται απ’ τον ίδιο το συγγραφέα, κατά βάση ρεαλιστικού προσδιορισμού. Πράγματι, η στυλιστική απλότητα, η φαινομενική πλαστική δυσκαμψία και η ματιά που σε άτακτη συχνότητα προσεγγίζει ή απομακρύνεται, σε κάποιες ιστορίες, σοκάρει. Δεν κρύβει τίποτα που να αφορά τους δεσμούς των ανθρώπων και τις ατραπούς που μπορούν να οδηγ��θούν, μέσω των δεσμών ή εξ’ αιτίας τους. Η προηγούμενη απαλή ατμόσφαιρα, δίνει τη θέση της σε μια τραχιά συγκαταβατική, που όμως δεν είναι λιγότερο ανθρώπινη. Εντυπωσιάζει. Αυτές οι ιστορίες έχουν ένα πολύ ιδιαίτερο χαρακτηριστικό: δίνουν αλήθεια και την απαιτούν, είναι διαταγή. Αυτό που μπορείς να κρύψεις απ’ τη μάνα σου, τη γυναίκα σου, το φίλο σου, αποκαλύπτεται. Το βλέπεις απέναντι σου και τ’ αναγνωρίζεις. Αναλαμβάνεις τον ουσιαστικό ρόλο του αναγνώστη, ή αυτόν τουλάχιστον που εννοούσε ο Σοπενάουερ. Αν δεν είχαμε δει τη μαεστρία και την ελαστικότητα ενός Ναμπόκοφ και την ταχύτατη οξυμένη ματιά ενός Μπελ, μερικά διηγήματα θα ήταν εξαιρετικά σκληρά, στις αλήθειες που δίνουν. Πάντως βρίσκεται εκεί, σε αυτή την οικογένεια, του Ναμπόκοφ, του Μπελ και του λογοτεχνικού Σιμενόν

[Fernando · Rating 5 out of 5]

«He intentado, no sé con qué fortuna, la redacción de cuentos directos. No me atrevo a afirmar que son sencillos; no hay en la tierra una sola página, una sola palabra, que lo sea, ya que todas postulan el universo, cuyo más notorio atributo es la complejidad.»

Maravilloso Borges, eterno Borges, infinito Borges, sabio Borges, maestro Borges, Borges único.
Leer a Borges es como ver jugar a Messi. Uno sabe que no existe nada más extraordinario ni superador, que lo que está presenciando es absolutamente único.
Tengo la obra completa de Jorge Luis Borges ya hace ya un tiempo que quería tener todos sus cuentos reunidos en un solo volumen, por lo que decidí comprar este libro.
Aquí se reúnen algunos de sus títulos más importantes. Entre ellos tenemos “Historia universal de la infamia”, “Ficciones”, “El Aleph”, “”El informe de Brodie”, “El libro de arena” y “La memoria de Shakespeare.
Exceptuando a “Historia universal de la infamia”, al que no considero una reunión de cuentos, los demás son inigualables.
“Ficciones” es perfecto. Me atrevería a decir que es el mejor de Borges, aunque cueste seleccionar uno en su extensa y maravillosa obra, y tal vez, a mi humilde entender, le siga “El Aleph”. Los cuentos y relatos aquí son brillantes, redondos y… perfectos. Nuevamente debo utilizar ese término.
Dividido en dos libros menores “El jardín de senderos que se bifurcan” de 1941 y “Artificios” de 1944 este volumen atesora el mejor cuento de Borges, “El sur”, reconocido por él mismo, aunque los demás no le van en zaga por el asombroso trabajo de arquitectura y relojería con que están construidos.
Prácticamente es necesario nombraros a casi todos, pero los más emblemáticos son: “Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius”, una exposición acerca de los libros y la realidad, “Pierre Menard, autor del Quijote”, en donde Menard y Cervantes son un hombre y todos los hombres, “Las ruinas circulares”, con su balanceada mezcla de realidad, irrealidad y saltos temporales, “La lotería de Babilonia”, donde el azar y el destino se enfrentan, “La biblioteca de babel”, un ensayo sobre Dios y el infinito, “El jardín de senderos que se bifurcan”, bellísimo cuento que incluye un relato policial, un laberinto y una metáfora sobre el tiempo, “Funes el memorioso” donde los sueños, el insomnio y la genialidad confluyen en un misma persona, “La forma de la espada” en la que una cicatriz divide dos momentos históricos en Irlanda y Buenos Aires, “La muerte y la brújula”, que es otro genial cuento policial de factura, desarrollo y cierre impecables, “El milagro secreto”, una maravillosa parábola kafkiana, “El fin” en donde Recabarren narra el enfrentamiento entre Martín Fierro y su matador y “El sur”, otro entrevero de cuchilleros tan bien narrado que no necesita mucha explicación sino disfrute.
Naturalmente en Borges, nos encontraremos con lo que lo apasionaba y obsesionaba: laberintos, espejos, libros, metafísica, filosofía, tiempo, espacio, Dios, sus autores predilectos y el infinito.
Todos estos componentes forman el inmenso universo narrativo borgeano y aunque por momentos y con total lógica, nos sintamos desconcertados ante lo que estamos leyendo, por otro lado nos rendimos ante su sabiduría infinita.
Qué más se puede agregar de “El Aleph” que no se haya dicho antes.
Después de “Ficciones”, este es el libro que más me gusta leer y releer del maestro.
Aquí, vuelven a aparecer los temas recurrentes de su obra como la inmortalidad, la muerte, los cuchilleros, la teología, el Martin Fierro, la mitología griega, las parábolas sobre el infinito y las tribulaciones del hombre que es todos los hombres.
Naturalmente, sobresalen algunos de ellos por su perfección literaria, tal es el caso de “Emma Zunz”, una historia de venganza, “Los dos reyes y los dos laberintos”, que es otra forma de venganza, “El inmortal”, que narra la búsqueda de la vida eterna, “El Zahir”, que funciona a modo de adaptación de “El Aleph” y cuya trama está atada al destino y por supuesto, el que muchos consideran su mejor cuento junto a “El Sur” de “Ficciones”: me refiero a “El Aleph”, con su única y particular visión del universo y que al mismo tiempo posee la interpolación del Borges real en el ficcional, algo que no cualquier autor se atreve a poner en práctica.
Terminé de leer este libro ayer y casualmente por la noche tuve un sueño.
En él soñaba que levantaba la vista después de leer un libro de Borges, salía a la calle y escuchaba su voz. Eso me llevaba a caminar unas cuadras para verlo en el techo de una casa, con la cara pintada y usando una túnica griega, mientras declamaba un poema.
El sueño, uno de los temas más preponderantes de su obra me dio la posibilidad de disfrutar de Borges como a él le hubiera gustado que se lo recordara.
Y como en todo libro de Borges, leyendo “El libro de arena”, algunos cuentos me hechizaron verdaderamente.
"El otro" es mi preferido del libro y se trata de una lúcida, distinta y original versión de la temática del doble.
El encuentro ominoso de "There are more things" que Borges le dedica a H. P. Lovecraft y el amor fugaz de "Ulrica", destacan por su mezcla de retruécano y simplicidad.
Como en "El sur", que es uno de los mejores cuentos de Borges, el narrador es testigo de un enfrentamiento emblemático que incluye a Juan Moreira según lo narrado en el cuento "La noche de los dones".
"El libro de arena", que da nombre al libro, es un cuento fantástico que enlaza con concepto de lo infinito de "La biblioteca de Babel" y "El Aleph".
“El informe de Brodie” reúne cuentos y relatos que involucra a malevos, cuchilleros, guapos y tahúres listos para el duelo por el honor o la mujer compartida. En otros nos habla de antiguas señoras de época o gauchos devenidos en soldados; duelos, entreveros y desafíos forman parte de estas historias.
Hay dos cuentos que me sorprendieron por sus finales tan impactantes y son “Juan Muraña” y “El Evangelio según San Marcos”.
La última sección de este libro se compone de los cuatro relatos de “La memoria de Shakespeare” que Borges publicó en 1983, tres años antes de su muerte.
Ricardo Piglia, en el libro “Borges por Piglia” explica que la construcción que Borges utiliza en la creación de sus cuentos cambia radicalmente luego de quedarse ciego. La ceguera es en cierto modo un golpe para Borges pues antes de este suceso Borges lee y lee sin parar, y estas lecturas disparan miles de ideas para sus cuentos.
A partir del momento en que se queda ciego, debe crear indefectiblemente otros esquemas y argumentos que ya dependen de otros métodos y búsquedas en su narrativa. Algo ha cambiado para siempre en la naturaleza de sus cuentos.
Él mismo lo lo advierte cuando dice «La ceguera no es la tiniebla; es una forma de la soledad».
El primer cuento de este último apartado, llamado “Agosto 25, 1983” es una perfecta pieza de relojería en la que la temática del doble oficia de nexo infalible en donde lo onírico prepara un final maravilloso entre dos Borges juntos en una habitación.
En “Tigres azules” nos encontramos con la obsesión de un profesor que viaja al Ganges para buscar tigres de ese color, pero no los encuentra y sí halla unas piedras circulares que también son azules. Adentrándonos en el final del relato irrumpe lo fantástico para teñir de azul la realidad que ese profesor vive.
El cuento “La rosa de Paracelso” es un contrapunto entre el alquimista, filósofo y controversial Paracelso con un irreverente joven que aspira a ser asistente y aprendiz suyo. La rosa, que el muchacho le ofrece trabaja la mente del sabio como si estuviera ante una variante extraña del Gólem.
Finalmente, “La memoria de Shakespeare”, es a mi entender, una magnífica conjunción entre otros dos cuentos suyos: Funes, el memorioso y Pierre Menard, autor del Quijote pues en él, un hombre le ofrece a otro cederle el don de poseer la memoria de Shakespeare que por alguna mágica razón adquirió en su momento para sí. Es un épico y brillante cierre de oro para este volumen de relatos.

Puedo abrir cualquier de Borges y elegir un cuento al azar y sé sin dudarlo que el Maestro nunca me decepcionará, pues es imposible no maravillarse con él.

[Alan · Rating 5 out of 5]

This single book is on par with the Bible.

[Trevor · Rating 5 out of 5]

When I was at university we had to read this guy. Look, to be honest I didn’t really like him at the time. He seemed pompous and too clever by half. I liked some of his stuff – the story that begins this collection ‘Borges and I’ is marvelous and even that younger version of me could see just how great that was as a piece of writing. I’ll see if I can’t attach it to the end of this.

When I tried to read Labyrinths I became increasingly confused and annoyed. He was talking about endless libraries and languages that only had nouns and no verbs, and I gave up.

How strange it is to see younger versions of ourselves in the texts we attempted to read ‘then’ and thereby to see too how we have changed over the years. My opinion of this man changed completely at the start of the year when I read a series of lectures he gave on literature. In those lectures he says something that has stayed with me all year. That he considered himself less of a writer and more a reader. Hard not to like him, then.

Borges only ever wrote short fiction – I guess what you could call short-stories. I hesitate to call them that because you might have an idea of what a writer of short-stories would write. Borges doesn’t quite write that – at least, those are rarely the sorts of stories he writes. His stories are complex and Literary (note the capital L). And he is a reader first – and he seems to have read just about everything. Do you know how T S Eliot will slip bits of other people’s poetry into his work – the odd phrase, or just the feel of the thing perhaps – well, Borges doesn’t do that, at least, not that I noticed. Borges is much more up front. His stories read like Lit Crit and it doesn’t take long before the reader finds themselves in the middle of a hall of mirrors.

There was a time when I felt that part of the function of literature was to help create myths that would help us understand the world we live in. In the hall of mirrors that Borges creates in these fictions some of the mirrors are shattered into large shards that reflect light in dazzling and confusing patterns. Invariably these patterns are beautiful in the way that light being refracted in a diamond is beautiful. His command of the worlds he creates is godlike and stunning. Time and again I found myself either smiling at the sheer audacity of his prose or chuckling at one of his many literary jokes.

You know, the story about the man who has Shakespeare’s memory and offers it up to someone to take off him is just one such fascinating hall of mirrors.

There are also more ‘conventional stories’ in this collection – stories set in Argentina where people tango and fight knife fights – but who is fighting, the men or the knives?

I really liked these stories. But I have a very guilty confession to make – I’ve never read Robert Louis Stevenson. He turns out to be the favourite writer of both Borges and Calvino. What have I been doing all of my life?


http://www.sccs.swarthmore.edu/users/...

"Borges and I"

The other one, the one called Borges, is the one things happen to. I walk through the streets of Buenos Aires and stop for a moment, perhaps mechanically now, to look at the arch of an entrance hall and the grillwork on the gate; I know of Borges from the mail and see his name on a list of professors or in a biographical dictionary. I like hourglasses, maps, eighteenth-century typography, the taste of coffee and the prose of Stevenson; he shares these preferences, but in a vain way that turns them into the attributes of an actor. It would be an exaggeration to say that ours is a hostile relationship; I live, let myself go on living, so that Borges may contrive his literature, and this literature justifies me. It is no effort for me to confess that he has achieved some valid pages, but those pages cannot save me, perhaps because what is good belongs to no one, not even to him, but rather to the language and to tradition. Besides, I am destined to perish, definitively, and only some instant of myself can survive in him. Little by little, I am giving over everything to him, though I am quite aware of his perverse custom of falsifying and magnifying things.

Spinoza knew that all things long to persist in their being; the stone eternally wants to be a stone and the tiger a tiger. I shall remain in Borges, not in myself (if it is true that I am someone), but I recognize myself less in his books than in many others or in the laborious strumming of a guitar. Years ago I tried to free myself from him and went from the mythologies of the suburbs to the games with time and infinity, but those games belong to Borges now and I shall have to imagine other things. Thus my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him.

I do not know which of us has written this page.


I listened to a selection of these printed as a Penguin Audiobook it contained:

Man on Pink Corner
The Lottery in Babylon
The Garden of Forking Paths
Death and the Compass
The Aleph
The Maker
Dreamtigers
Parable of Cervantes and the Quixote
The Story of Rosendo Juarez
Borges and I
The Zahir
August 25, 1983
Shakespeare's Memory
The Circular Ruins
The Library of Babel
The Immortal
The Encounter

and was read so incredibly well by George Guidall.

[Nathan "N.R." Gaddis]

No one wants to get reading=assignments from a Review. But you’ve got one here. If Borges is not Required Reading, he is Highly Recommended Reading. Which amounts to the same thing.

Listen. Borges is one of those masters of the short form, one of those That without which not, as the scholastics may have it. He is pantheonic. Kafka? Beckett? Barthelme? Edgar Allen Poe? Yep. Borges is one of those guys. And you know how you know nothing about the history of English Literature if you don’t know Shakespeare? Yeah. Borges is like that ; what happens to Literature in the Twentieth Century won’t make much sense unless and until you might be familiar with people like Borges ; not to say the likes of Joyce, Sybs, and Company. It’s just the way it is. Borges is where it’s at. No getting around.

Who is Borges? What you’ll want is the four (three?) volume collection of which I have only two. But Viking/Penguin has done a beautiful job with these books:
Collected Fictions
Selected Poems
Selected Non-Fictions
And I swear that I saw a biography which would have been a fourth volume. But that may have been me in one of Borges’ stories. It’s like that. But I do wish I had pick’d up that selection of poems when I pick’d up the essays and the fictions. They are pretty books.

Just for a heads up because I wrongly shook my head when I saw other folks reading Borges and not reading this whole-shebang collection of fictions. The thing is, this volume, the one under consideration, collects only the fiction portion of the volumes originally published. Which is to say, some of Borges’ original books contained both poetry and fiction ; so, yes, why didn’t I? Still, if you can have all of Borges’ fiction in one 565 page volume (a short novel), why wouldn’t you?

Why wouldn’t you indeed? You’ll want all of it. Every last one. Are they all equally good? How could they be. But you’ll want to do this :: every last time you ever hear anyone mention a title of a Borges short story you will and you must and you will find yourself immediately rushing hither to read that story. If a Borges story is mentioned in even the most passing of fashion, you’ll want to be familiar with it. Things like “Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius” ; “Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote” ; “The Library of Babel” ; “Funes, His Memory” ; just to mention the already always mentioned. But too you will find other lovely things that are not spoken of so frequently, right up to Borges’ last days in things like “The Book of Sand” (which I think is about Finnegans Wake) or “Shakespeare’s Memory”. Don’t miss the stories no one talks about.

Your mission, should you find that you have already accepted it is to read Borges and to tell others the Good Word and to perhaps become as familiar with the cliché Borgesian as you are with the cliché Kafkaesque.

[Ian "Marvin" Graye · Rating 5 out of 5]

I've reviewed each segment of this collection separately:

A Universal History of Iniquity

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...

The Garden of Forking Paths

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...

Artifices

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...

The Aleph and Other Stories

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...

In Praise of Darkness

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...

The Maker

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...

Brodie's Report

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...

The Book of Sand

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...

Shakespeare's Memory

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...

[Shuhan Rizwan · Rating 5 out of 5]

প্রতিক্রিয়া, আমারঃ
ছয়মাস ধরে পড়ে শেষ করলাম বইটা, লুই বোর্হেসের সমস্ত গল্পের সংগ্রহ। ভেতরে আছে মোট আটটা সংকলন।

এ এমন এক বই, যেখানে প্রায় প্রত্যেকটা গল্প পড়েই বাধ্য হয়েছি সেটাকে নিয়ে ভাবতে। অন্যদের মতো নিছক কাহিনির জগতে বিচরণ করেন না বোর্হেস, তার কাজ আইডিয়া নিয়ে; আর সেটার ভাণ্ডার লোকটার অনিঃশেষ। অধিকাংশ ক্ষেত্রে তার এক-একটা বাক্যই কয়েকটা ভিন্ন গল্পের চিন্তাবীজ দেয়। খুব সম্প্রতি বাংলাদেশে জনপ্রিয় হয়ে ওঠা শিবব্রত বর্মণের গল্পগুলোয় লক্ষ করা যাবে তার সাথে বোর্হেসের প্রকরণগত সাদৃশ্য। কিন্ত শিবুদা যেখানে প্রায় সরলতম বাক্য, বোর্হেস সেখানে এমন জটিল ও যৌগিক; যার ব্যাকরণ আজও অনাবিষ্কৃত। তার বাক্যগঠন রীতিও তাজ্জব করার মতো, অমন অপ্রচলিত বিশেষণ ব্যবহার করতেও দেখিনি আর কাউকে।

সব মিলিয়ে, মনে হয় না আজতক বোর্হেসের মতো অবিশেষণসম্ভব কাউকে পড়েছি। লোকটা নিজেই নিজের তুলনা।

প্রতিক্রিয়া, সুহান রিজওয়ানেরঃ
মনে হয় না গড়পড়তা এই প্রতিক্রিয়াটা বোর্হেসকে নিয়ে কিছু বলবার আদর্শ রাস্তা। লোকটাকে নিয়ে বলতে হলে আমাদের বরং তৈরি করতে হবে এমন কোনো গল্প, যেখানে চরিত্র হয়ে আসবে মার্টিন ফিয়েরো, বিল হ্যারিগান, আরব্য রজনীর কোনো ঘোড়া, ভারতের কোনো অন্ধ ফকির, শেক্সপিয়ার, বাঘ এবং অবশ্যই, আয়না।

প্রতিক্রিয়া, অনামা কারোঃ
যেহেতু
[০১] “বোর্হেস থেকে যে একটা শব্দও গ্রহণ করেছে, সে-ই হয়ে গেছে বোর্হেস।”
অতএব,
[০২] “আমি জানি না আমাদের মাঝে এই লেখাটা কে লিখেছে; আমি, সুহান, না বোর্হেস?”

[AJ · Rating 5 out of 5]

Very few writers can pull off throwing out the rule book; even fewer can do it with such absolute confidence and success. But there’s another quality that puts Borges (for me) in that uppermost echelon among the greatest of all time: the lack of arrogance and the overwhelming commitment to his ideas, or “the” idea. Sure, some might argue there is a certain arrogance inherent in any writer who so casually throws away convention. Maybe so, but what makes Borges an instant favorite for me is that he wasn’t a show-off. His erudition is certainly on full display in many of his stories, but it is not to rub the reader’s face in his superior knowledge. The breadth of references, settings, languages, etc. were crafted for no other reason than to contribute to the idea(s) he was working to develop and perfect in each of his stories. I come away from reading this not only in awe and forever changed, but inspired by the love and commitment present in every word this man put to paper.

[Nathaniel · Rating 5 out of 5]

My favorite tidbit about Borges is that he has been written into other authors' stories more than just about any other 20th century author. Neil Gaiman's Destiny and his Garden of Forking Paths, Umberto Eco's mad monk Jorge of Burgos, Zampanò from House of Leaves - and those are just the ones I've come across in my own reading. I'm sure the real Borges (should one miraculously manage to find him distinct from all the "false" Borgeses) would be amused to find that he has become an archetype. But it's his own fault, really - nobody asked him to go blind, or to be a librarian, or to become captivated by labyrinths and books (which are of course the same thing). And above all, nobody asked him to write such profound and haunting stories. But he did, and a flood of blind, literary labyrinth-keepers is only to be expected in his wake.

The stories themselves are, in many cases, hardly stories at all in the usual sense; they might better be described as fictional essays. Many are only lightly governed by plot or character, but carry themselves forward through sheer force of ideas. This isn't to say Borges can't write a first-rate character story ("Emma Zunz," off the top of my head) or draw you into the events of the tale ("The Circular Ruins") when he wants to, but he's obviously more interested in engaging the part of you that flips out about infinities and paradoxes. Borges can be difficult, dry, and pretentious, but nobody turns those qualities into virtues as well as he does.

Collected Fictions is itself several of the objects described within its pages. In particular, I suspect it is the Zahir (an object that once glanced at eventually consumes all thought) and the Encyclopedia of Tlön (a book describing a fictional world that our own world is beginning to tranform into). Perhaps behind the book we shall see God.

[Ben Winch]

One of the most famous lines in Spanish literature is this: Nadie lo vio desembarcar an la unanime noche: “No-one saw him slip from the boat in the unanimous night...”

(‘A Note on the Translation’, from Selected Stories, by Andrew Hurley)

‘No-one saw him disembark in the unanimous night...’

(‘The Circular Ruins’, from Labyrinths, translated by James E. Irby)

Now I’ll admit I don’t know much about translation , nor do I read Spanish, but I feel sure that Hurley’s translation is far from literal. Where is ‘the boat’ in the Spanish original? How is Hurley’s version (and yes, as Hurley and Borges both state, there are only ‘versions’) an improvement on Irby’s? Does it help clarify the sense? As the next clause of the sentence states ‘no-one saw the bamboo canoe as it sank into the sacred mud’ (Hurley), I think not. What use that ‘boat’? And ‘slip from’ for ‘desembarcar’? To me, these are adaptations. And while I accept the need for adaptation as an aspect of translation, in this case I don’t see the need. That Hurley then offers this far-from-literal, unhelpful and, to my mind, unpoetic adaptation without comment as an example (a prime example, given how little else he quotes in this brief note) of his work makes me suspicious. Where else has he adapted needlessly, without comment?

Music producer Steve Albini has a term for this: ‘dogballing’. (‘Why does a dog lick its balls?’ ‘Because it can.’) For my part, I don’t want Borges dogballed. I’m happy with the translations in Labyrinths and would prefer present and future translators used them as a benchmark. Can they be improved? Then yes, go ahead. But when I compare all manner of recent translations, of all manner of authors, with their 50-100-200 year counterparts, too often all I see is reshuffling: synonyms, inverted sentence structure, minor changes which may or may not improve readability but which, I presume, must fulfill some clause of copyright law thus inventing a new income stream for their publishers – otherwise, why bother? There’s so much to be translated in all languages – why harp on and on the same few writers?

Sometimes, as with ‘Man on Pink Corner’, Hurley stands for literalness, and I guess in these instances he’s right, in that literalness is needed/useful where none existed before. But me, I’m for ‘Streetcorner Man’; a footnote explaining those rose-coloured sidings in Buenos Aires is enough. And while I know it’s impossible to be ‘objective’, especially having read the earlier versions tens of times, my impression is that ‘Streetcorner Man’ is by far the more poetic/iconic title.

But let’s leave that line of argument: ‘better/worse’. Let’s say it’s possible Hurley’s is the equivalent of the earlier versions. Even if so, Labyrinths is a masterpiece, both of translation and curation, and while I’m reassured it’s still being printed, I think the orange mass-market version is selling it short.

Why did I buy Hurley’s tome after waiting so long? Knowing that after El Aleph (whose title-story, absent from Labyrinths, I still maintain is inessential) the master so rarely hit his mark? (Or let’s say he did, but he never aimed so high.) Sad to say, it was duty – I felt I owed it to the old man, though The Book of Sand had disgusted me (a pale imitation, I thought) and every other slim volume I’d picked up I’d abandoned; I would have been stunned to feel the old spirit-shock.

So I read Doctor Brodie’s Report, again, dutifully, in the Hurley translation, not dipping in this time, holding on. It’s good, workmanlike, steady, unsurprising. It reaffirms my conviction: Borges burned briefly and brightly, like Poe, like Whitman. This – Hurley’s tome – is a reference book, to be taken down from year to year in a spirit of study, when my tattered copy of Labyrinths, the potboiler, raises too many questions it can’t answer. Those questions aren’t answered here – or rarely. But a brief survey of the landscape around the crater puts the bomb in perspective. Then we crawl back in and sift the ashes.

[Junta · Rating 4 out of 5]

May 13, 2015

I saw by the digital panel on the microwave that it was past eleven. I began walking back towards my room with my glass of water. I experienced, as I had at other times in the past, the resignation and relief we are made to feel several weeks before final exams, and final paper due dates of the semester. For a procrastinator, the rational mind knows that the most important thing is to get some study done each day - however, his natural, or shall we say primal instincts are unmatched in their versatility and wit, so the same things happen every time there is still a double-digit number of days between the present and the moment of submission (in every sense of the word). Resignation, that one cannot really change who they are once they have passed their late teens; and relief, that for an undetermined number of days yet, one can wallow in some hours of sheer chillaxing, which will, without exception, be followed by self-loathing and frustration at the world and self.
Another evening had passed without a single line typed up in the document titled Final Essay - Essay Proposal and Annotated Bibliography. I reached out to open my room door, and then, as I stepped inside and let my gaze shift from the glass in my hand to the desk, there occurred the first of the many surprises the night would have in store for me - I was already sitting there, with a book in hand. Then I heard the voice. It was not exactly my own; it was the one I occasionally hear in recordings, unpleasant and without modulation.
"How odd," it was saying, "we are two yet we are one. But then nothing is odd in dreams."
"Then..." I asked fearfully, "all this is a dream?"
"It is, I am sure, the last night I will get enough sleep to dream before I finish the last exam in two-and-a-half weeks' time." He gestured towards the empty bottle next to the Kleenex tissue box. "You, however, shall have some dreams before you come to this night. What date is it for you?"
"I'm not sure," I said, rattled. "But today was Wednesday of Week 11."
"When in your waking state you reach this night again, yesterday will have been Friday of Week 12. Today is May 23, 2015."
"Not that long to wait," I murmured.
"Not for me," he said shortly. "For me, there's almost no time left. At any moment I may logically deduce that it's too late, at any moment I may feel cold sweat trickle down my back - that this time, I may have really gone too far."
I sensed that the theatrical statements were a genuine outburst of self-hate, not some empty stroke of pathos.
"Who is dreaming whom? I know I am dreaming you - I do not know whether you are dreaming me."
"I am the dreamer", I replied, with a touch of defiance.
"Don't you realise that the first thing to find out is whether there is only one man dreaming, or two men dreaming each other?"
"I am Junta. I was thirsty and went to get a glass of water."
"But I am Junta, and I just finished the bottle of Yamazaki Single Malt Whisky."
"But that was supposed to be for when I'd finished the two papers and two exams!"
There was a silence, and then he said to me:
"Let's try a test. What was the most socially awkward moment this semester?"
We stared at each other, and the two of us spoke at once. I know that neither of us spoke the truth.
A faint smile lit up the slightly tipsy face. I felt that the smile somehow reflected my own.
"We've lied to each other," he said, "because we feel that we are two, not one. The truth is that we are two yet we are one."
I was beginning to be irritated by this conversation, and I told him so. Then I added: "And you, there going towards Week 13 - are you not going to tell me anything about the ten days between us?"
"What can I tell you, poor Junta? The misfortunes you are already accustomed to will repeat themselves. You will be left alone to cram. You will pick up a certain book from your to-read-and-owned pile, surf Goodreads every night and try to stay up all night, every night, to reset your sleeping patterns - only to fail in the early morning and end up sleeping until noon, again and again. Night owls are not predators; they are a kind of prey. You will write a book review."
"A book review! But I told myself not to until June 10, the day after my last exam!"
"In Week 12, you will once more skip an important tutorial due to the unbearable sleepiness in the mornings from your currently abominable body clock."
"I'm not surprised," I said. "Every procrastinator has a couple of courses where he neglects attendance."
"That morning was one of the roads that led me to this night. The others...the humiliation of going through readings from earlier in the semester in the computer lab, the conviction of knowing that it would probably be best to give up reading fiction altogether until after finals, yet reading more and more every day..."
"I will not be absorbed in a book until the holidays."
"You will, though. My words, which are now your present, will one day be but the vaguest memory of a dream."
I found myself annoyed by his dogmatic tone, the tone that I myself no doubt used in my group discussions. I was annoyed by the fact that we resembled each other so much and that he was taking advantage of the impunity lent him by the nearness of finals.
"Are you so sure," I said, to get back at him a bit, "that you might actually fail these courses?"
"Yes," he replied. "I feel a sort of sweetness and relief I've never felt before. I can't describe it; all words require a shared experience. Why do you seem so annoyed at what I'm saying?"
"Because we're too much like each other. I loathe your face, which is a caricature of mine, I loathe your voice, which is a mockery of mine, I loathe your pathetic syntax, which is my own."
"So do I," he smiled. "Which is why I decided to procrastinate for another ten days."
My cat meowed from the corridor.
"It's the last stretch of the semester," the other man said.
He motioned me towards him. His hand sought mine. I stepped back; I was afraid the two hands would merge.
"The last book I read," he said to me, "was an interesting one - 101 short stories! The first book of nearly a dozen featured in the collection, A Universal History of Iniquity, was rather average, but the works from the next, Ficciones, were impressive. There were such ups and downs throughout, but his unique style has left an indelible impression on me. I think I got a little tired of reading the same prose, the same story structure, the recurring plot elements and the persistently apocryphal anachronisms for 500 pages - I must say that at some moments, I wasn't enjoying it. I suppose this is a necessary evil with short story collections - with some of them, you have some great pieces or ones which stay in your memory, but if you read them all in a short space of time it degrades the enjoyment a little. Perhaps I should have saved it up for the holidays, but maybe it had to be this book that I read before I really grit my teeth and get down to cramming? This book..."
He stopped talking; I realised that his time had come. In a way, I disappeared with him - in agitation I reached out towards the hand, but there was no one there anymore.
In my future self's hand minutes ago, on the desk lay a pristine copy of Collected Fictions by Jorge Luis Borges.





Based on the story August 25, 1983, the opening piece of the last book featured in the collection, Shakespeare's Memory.

[Sebastián · Rating 5 out of 5]

El libro de los libros 5/5 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟
💎
¿Qué se puede decir de este libro tan libro? Definitivamente recomiendo leer a Borges se sea fan o no de la literatura fantástica. Cuando empecé este libro, por allá en 2019, solo quería leer el cuento del que se puede entender la idea de algoritmo (El Jardín de los Senderos que se Bifurcan). Luego leí Funes el Memorioso y luego El otro. Cuento en su momento maravillosos y que me dejaban reflexionando por días.
🪐
Cuando el tiempo pasó, seguí leyendo a Borges con una mayor satisfacción, comprendiendo y aprendiendo que la literatura fantástica sucede en cualquier parte y a veces a unos pocos. Empecé a ver a Borges en todas partes, y a su vez, no lo entendía. Sentía que para apreciar la obra había que leer dos o tres veces cada cuento, y a veces al dormir, leía "para relajarme" para luego desvelarme buscando el significado de cada palabra o el final tan abierto que parecía más el fragmento de un libro mucho más grande.
🎍
Este libro contiene todos los cuentos de Borges. Me arriesgo a decir que todos y a la vez contiene todas las temáticas que se puedan pensar en cuanto a literatura. Hay terror, amor, fantasía, extraterrestres, viajes en el tiempo, identidad duplicada, sueños que se vuelven reales y muchos otros temas como la búsqueda de aquello que no existe.
🐉
Mi top de todos los cuentos sería llevar una tarea larga que haría muestra de la obra del autor, así que prefiero un top de los libros y elegir 3 cuentos de cada uno que recomiende, sin ninguna razón en concreto:
1) Ficciones
- La lotería de Babilonia
- La biblioteca de Babilonia
- Tres Versiones de Judas

2) El Aleph
- El Inmortal
- La casa de Asterión
- El Zahir

3) El informe de Brodie
- La señora mayor
- El informe de Brodie
- El otro duelo

4) El libro de la arena
- El otro
- Utopía de un hombre que está cansado
- La Secta de los Treinta

5) La Memoria de Shakespeare
- Tigres Azules
- La memoria de Shakespeare
- La Rosa de Paracelso

6) Historia Universal de la Infamia
- La viuda Ching, pirata
- El proveedor de iniquidades Monk Eastman
- El tintorero enmascarado Hákim de Merv
🗡️
Es un libro que entra directo en mi top de favoritos de autores latinoamericanos. Sobre todo por el tema de los cuentos, los cuales adoro por ser formas de narración cortas pero entretenidas. Hay muchos cuentos que de seguro volveré a leer cuando lo mencionen.
📖
Es momento de soltar el libro de los libros para volver a la realidad para estar en la búsqueda de Borges. Quizás esté en el laberinto, en el espejo y en el tigre, quizás esté en todo y en nada. En el Aleph que todos tenemos en casa y quizá no exista. Quizás lean esto y nunca conozcan a Borges de la manera en el que yo lo hice, sino con una mirada fractal que contiene todos los universos en los que somos uno y muchos.
☀️
Gracias Jorge Luis Borges.

[Jorge Zuluaga · Rating 5 out of 5]

¿Habrá alguna manera de escribir una reseña aquí que sea mínimamente digna de los cuentos de Jorge Luis Borges? ¿algo que reseñar sobre este libro de arena que aunque tiene el grosor de un libro convencional de 500 páginas, en la imaginación es infinito y se reproduce con cada relectura? ¿podría escribir en este espacio algo que sea relevante para una sola persona distinta de mi mismo, o para ser más preciso, del Jorge del año 2022, el único que puede dar testimonio de esta nueva relectura?.

Soy escéptico y el lector o la lectora debería serlo también. Esta reseña no vale la pena al lado de la obra eterna de Borges que debería empezar, si no lo ha hecho, a leer ya, y si ya lo hizo, a releer sin demora.

Aún así, lo intentare. Aquí va.

Leí por primera vez algunos de los cuentos de Borges durante mi adolescencia y el principio de la vida adulta, ese período de la vida en el que hace uno el viaje definitivo a sí mismo. Quede muy impresionado por la peculiaridad de los cuentos de Borges, unas historias que no se parecían a muchos otros cuentos que había leído (Poe, Stevenson, Kafka). Quede aún más impactado por la casi imposibilidad de entender, como creo nos pasa a casi todos, la mayor parte de lo que leía por primera vez en ellos.

Aún así persistí en leer a Borges en aquel entonces, no sé si impulsado por la intuición de que debía hacerlo así no entendiera un comino, o simplemente inspirado por amistades de la universidad que lo habían leído y lo veneraban casi religiosamente.

Con mis exiguos recursos de joven estudiante conseguí los libros que pude y los guarde en mi biblioteca por muchos años. Muchos libros entraron, otros libros salieron - se perdieron, los presté, pero siempre los libros de Borges conservaron un lugar especial en ella, incluso aunque no los volviera a leer.

Ahora, casi 30 años después, y en lo que podría llamar un arrebato literario, porque confieso que me gusta mucho más el ensayo - que no es menos literario - al punto de considerar casi un tiempo perdido leer historias de ficción, decidí releer a Borges.

El comienzo fue difícil. Borges es difícil. En este compendio de todos sus cuentos, que abarcan el dilatado período creativo que va de 1933 a 1983, las obras se organizan cronológicamente. Como resultado, el libro comienza por el primer Borges, el Borges de los años 30, el Borges que aprecia la novela policíaca, las historias de los arrabales, de la gente común - común a la Borges. En esas primeras obras esta ausente el Borges de los espejos, de las espadas, el Borges del infinito, de los doppelgänger, de los laberintos y de la palabra mágica. En una frase, el Borges que todos conocemos o intuimos conocer.

Si van a leer esta compilación, y si van a leer a Borges por primera vez, les sugiero tener paciencia al principio. O mejor aún, pueden comenzar en un orden distinto a aquel en el que se organiza la obra. Trasponer a "Ficciones" para convertirlo en el primer "capítulo" y dejar "La historia universal de la infamia" en segundo lugar. De allí continuar como sigue, o si quieren seguir cambiando el orden.

Eso sí, mi recomendación es dejar, tal cual está en esta compilación, la lectura de "El libro de arena" para el final. Después de leer todos los cuentos juntos, no hay mejor final para la obra eterna de este genio de la literatura que el cuento "La memoria de Shakespeare" que cierra este, su último libro.

Estuve a punto de abandonar la lectura (me ha pasado ya un par de veces con algunos "clásicos", Asimov y Yourcenar, para ser exactos) . Pero ¿cómo se puede abandonar a Borges?, me pregunté. En esos momentos de flaqueza me traicionaron la impaciencia, el deseo casi pueril de leer solamente cuentos de la estatura de "La Biblioteca de Babel", "Funés el memorioso", "La escritura del dios", "El libro de arena" o "El Zahir".

Y es que Borges, el Borges de esta colección total de cuentos, es mucho más que sus historias fantásticas. En esta colección descubres también al Borges que soñaba con ser un cuchillero de arrabal, hablar Lunfardo o vivir la vida nómada de los gauchos. Descubres al Borges romántico, al que amo a Ulrica, el Borges germanófilo y el Borges impostor. Conoces también al Borges que no se cree digno de la literatura y que confiesa que toda su obra, tan admirada por todos, es solo una colección de borradores. Al Borges ciego, al Borges que conoce a Borges.

A muchos amantes superficiales de la obra de este grande, yo soy (¿o era?) uno de ellos, no nos gusta ese Borges. No tenemos paciencia para leer algunos de esos cuentos, casi o más incomprensibles que sus más eruditos relatos, algunos incluso escritos en un impenetrable lunfardo o en el código demasiado local de su originaria Argentina. Tampoco nos gustan los cuentos en los que te pierdes en una madeja de personajes y lugares, que no por fantásticos ni por intemporales, porque son todos muy reales, sino porque tejen historias relativamente convencionales para los estándares del Borges que amamos. Pero así es el Borges de los cuentos completos.

El otro Borges, el Borges de la literatura fantástica no es menos difícil. Y es que el gran problema que tiene leer a este autor - otros y otras lo verán como lo mejor que tiene su obra - es que para entender sus más eruditas referencias, hay que saber mucho más de historia que de literatura. Treinta años después de mis primeros intentos fallidos de leer, o mejor, de entender a "Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius", la "La lotería de Babilonia", "El inmortal" o "Undr", he comprobado que para apreciar siquiera la superficie de algunos de estos cuentos, hace falta recorrer muchas otras páginas de Historia, de geografía y por supuesto de literatura.

Como sucede con El Quijote, la obra de Borges debe leerse, o puede entenderse, cuando las huellas de muchas otras lecturas han horadado tu memoria. Solo así las referencias Borgianas adquieren un sentido nuevo, transitan con más facilidad por los caminos ya usados de la memoria.

Miro hacia atrás y pienso en el Jorge Zuluaga de 18 años que no había leído casi nada - aunque el de ahora solo tiene unas horas de lecturas más pero, por su edad aprecia más las amargas aceitunas y los dilatados libros de historia - y no comprendo cómo pude siquiera soportar leer dos o tres páginas de un cuento como "Pierre Menard, autor del Quijote". Tal vez fue ese idealismo juvenil, el que nos hace emprender misiones imposibles pero que nos prepara para resolver los problemas posibles, el que me llevo a comprar libros que no entendía y a conservarlos en mi biblioteca. Le agradezco a ese joven haberme dado mi primera aproximación, así fuera borrosa, a esta obra fantástica.

Soy físico de profesión y no puedo pensar en una obra más científica que la obra de Borges. Creo que ahí está la clave de lo que atrae a muchas personas de mi área hacia la obra de este grande. Mucho se habla de las referencias científicas en las obras de otros grandes de la literatura, Cervantes, García Márquez, para citar solo a dos. Pero esos ejercicios, los de buscar la astronomía del Quijote o la biogeografía de 100 años de soledad, me parecen más bien forzados, al menos al compararlo con las matemáticas, la física, la topología en los cuentos de Borges. Sus continuas y acertadísimas referencias al concepto de infinito, para citar un ejemplo, son simplemente alucinantes. Borges no escribió ciencia ficción pero si podríamos catalogar algunos de sus cuentos como matemáticas ficción. Sus fantasías, hiladas alrededor del tiempo en "El milagro secreto", "El otro", "El inmortal", pero también del espacio, "La biblioteca de Babel", "El aleph", son propias de una mente que intuía los secretos matemáticos y físicos revelados por las mentes de los Einstein, los Cantor o los Riemann. Para quiénes estamos familiarizados con las ciencias y las matemáticas, estos cuentos son poesía científica pura escrita con la mejor prosa posible.

Esta no será, seguramente, mi última lectura de los cuentos de Borges. Como Borges señala en algún aparte (recomiendo muy especialmente los prólogos y los epílogos que acompañan a las colecciones contenida en este compendio) su obra esta escrita para que con cada lectura se encuentren cosas nuevas. Allí reside precisamente, como alcance a entender en esta nueva visita a su obra la razón de que sus cuentos parezcan en una primera lectura casi impenetrables: están escritos, como casi ninguna otra obra, para ser leídos muchas veces.

Termino esta reseña que, como señale al principio, escribo especialmente para mi propio yo, el yo futuro que esperó viva muchos años para leer nuevamente a Borges, la termino con una lista de los que hoy en 2022 son mis cuentos preferidos. Pero más allá de un interés muy personal por hacer esta lista, espero que quiénes me conocen, sepan apreciar esta selección. Si no se atreven o no les interesa leer todo Borges, tal vez podrían dar una oportunidad al menos a estos cuentos.

Los he clasificado en dos categorías, muy personales, nada académicas. Espero agregar otros a la lista a medida que los vaya entendiendo mejor.

Cuentos que se pueden entender sin mayores dificultades:

La Biblioteca de Babel.
Funes el memorioso.
El milagro secreto.
La escritura del dios.
El Aleph.
Ulrica.
El otro.
El libro de arena.
Tigres azules.
La rosa de Paracelso.
La memoria de Shakespeare.

Cuentos más difíciles pero muy profundos:

Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius.
Pierre Menard, autor del Quijote.
La lotería de Babilonia.
Las ruinas circulares (gracias a Kata Sandoval por recordarme este).
Tres versiones de Judas.
El inmortal.
Deutsches Requiem.
El Zahir.
Undr.
El disco.

[Szplug · Rating 5 out of 5]

There are few other writers whose work has lingered in my mind to the same degree as has Borges. His short stories are a metaphysical perfume whose aroma, so startling and heady upon the first inhalation, arises, unbidden, at certain points of thought or recollection, working its peculiar and powerful transformative and transfigurative memes upon the seemingly stolid principles that order our universe. The Library of Babel wrenches the brain like a sudden stop upon a dreamy hexagonal rollercoaster; The Immortal, with its revoltingly abnormal architecture and gibbon men of Homeric lineage, an inky nightmare asleep in the vast, scorched wastes of the desert, haunts tessellated thoughts and turns them to dusty interludes.

They exist to be read and reread, magical literary beans that invite whatever Jack dares them to clamber up the stalk their taut text weaves. Andrew Hurley's translations are simply pitch perfect - Yates and Irby would be proud - and to have the entire compendium of icy and precise Escherian sorcery at hand in one tome is a godsend. The highest recommendation.

[Caroline · Rating 1 out of 5]

I was hesitant to post anything about this book. Given the stature of Borges it would have been easier just to pretend that I'd never read it. Well, the truth is I hardly did read it. I found his style impenetrable. For me there was no way into these stories, I was just stuck on the outside, with a book full of words on my lap.

[Biswajit Chakraborty]

“বোর্হেসের প্রতি আমার প্রবল অনুরাগ, প্রতি রাতে তাঁর লেখা পড়ি। বুয়েনোস আইরেস থেকে একটিমাত্র জিনিসই কিনেছি আমি আর তা হল বোর্হেসের রচনাসমগ্র। আমি যেখানেই যাই আমার স্যুটকেসের ভেতর খন্ডগুলি থাকে, প্রতিদিন পড়ি, এবং তিনি এমন একজন লেখক যাকে অপছন্দ করি; কিন্তু পাশাপাশি, তাঁর গল্পগুলি ফাঁদতে গিয়ে তিনি যে সুর আর স্বর বাঁধেন সেটা আমার ভীষণ পছন্দ।”-গ্যাব্রিয়েল গার্সিয়া মার্কেজ

এই বই সেই বই নানা বই পড়ার ফাঁকে অনেক সাহস করে একদিন ধরে ফেললাম হোর্হে লুইস বোর্হেসের “Collected Fictions” বা সমগ্র কথাসাহিত্য। আর পড়ে গেলাম এক গোলকধাঁধায়। প্রায় তিনমাস সেই গোলকধাঁধায় আটকে থেকে আমার অনুভূতিও মার্কেজের ওই উক্তির মতই। অসংখ্যবার ছুঁড়ে ফেলে দিয়েছি মাথা খারাপ হয়ে যাচ্ছে ভেবে, অপছন্দের সাথে, বিরক্তির সাথে, গোলকধাঁধায় পথ হারিয়ে; আবার পরদিনই নতুন আগ্রহে সেই পথে পা বাড়িয়েছি আবার পথ হারাতে। কেননা বোর্হেস হচ্ছেন সেই ধরনের লেখক যারা মুলত লেখালেখি করেন নিজের জন্য, যারা বই ছাপেন বইটা থেকে মুক্তি পাওয়ার জন্য, বইটা ভুলে যাওয়ার জন্য; যারা পাঠকের সাথে এক হওয়ার জন্য না, বরং পাঠককে ধন্দে ফেলে দেওয়ার জন্য, ধাঁধায় ফেলে দেওয়ার জন্য লেখেন। তাই এই ধরনের লেখককে অপছন্দ না করে উপায় নেই, ঠিক যেমন উপায় নেই তাঁকে ভালো না বাসার কিংবা শ্রদ্ধা না করার।

দুই মলাটের মধ্যে বোর্হেসের সমস্ত ফিকশন একসাথে পেয়ে পড়া শুরু করলাম একদম প্রথম থেকেই। প্রথম গল্প সংকলনটার নাম “A Universal History of Iniquity.” ১৯৩৩-৩৪ সালের দিকে লেখা বোর্হেসের একদম শুরুর দিকের কিছু ফিকশনের সংকলন। এই সংকলন পড়তে গেলে খুব স্বাভাবিকভাবেই মনে হয় যেন গল্প না, ইতিহাস পড়ছি। তা যে শুধু আমেরিকা বা লাতিন আমেরিকার ইত��হাস তা নয়, সুদূর চীন-জাপান এমনকি মধ্য এশিয়ার ইতিহাসের পাতা থেকেও ছেঁকে আনা হয়েছে কাহিনীগুলো। ৭-৮টা কাহিনী; এর সবগুলোই কোন কুখ্যাত কিংবা কলঙ্কজনক অধ্যায়ের। বেশ কিছু পাতার নিচে ফুটনোট দেওয়া, শেষে আবার সবগুলো গল্পের উৎসের একটা লিস্ট দেওয়া। প্রথম দেখায় মোটের উপর বলতে গেলে আহামরি কিছু নয়, উপরন্তু বোর্হেস তার যেসকল ‘সিগনেচার’ উপাদানের কারণে বোর্হেস, তার কিছুই বলতে গেলে নেই। কিন্তু বোর্হেসের গোলকধাঁধায় প্রবেশের ছোট একটা রাস্তা যে এইখানে দেওয়া তা বোঝা যায় যখন দেখি যে ওই ফুটনোটগুলো আর সোর্সলিস্টের সোর্সগুলোও সব হয় ফিকশনাল, আর নাহয় লেখক সত্যিকার কোন সোর্সকে খেয়ালখুশিমত পরিবর্তন করে ফেলেছেন নিজের উদ্দেশ্য চরিতার্থ করতে। অতএব, যাত্রা হল শুরু।

এরপরেই আসে “The Garden of Forking Paths” আর “Artifices”, যে দুটো সংকলনকে একত্রিত করে ১৯৪৪-এ বের হয় “Fictions” নামে একটা সংকলন। আর এটাই সেই সংকলন যা আর্জেন্টিনার নিভৃতচারী লেখক বোর্হেসকে রাতারাতি এনে দেয় বিশ্বখ্যাতি, দান করে সের্বান্তেসের পরে স্প্যানিশ সাহিত্যে সবচেয়ে গুরুত্বপূর্ণ আসন, আর পরিণত করে বিংশ শতকের অন্যতম সবচেয়ে প্রভাবশালী লেখকে। এই সংকলনেই বোর্হেসের আসল পরিচয় পাওয়া যায়, একই সাথে বোঝা যায় তিনি কেন বোর্হেস।

তো কি আছে এই সংকলনে? ১৫-১৬টা গল্প, কোনটাই ৭-৮ পাতার চেয়ে বেশি নয়। এত ছোট ছোট সব ফিকশন লেখার পেছনে যুক্তিটা বোর্হেস নিজেই দিয়েছেন “The Garden of Forking Paths” সংকলনের মুখবন্ধেঃ
“It is a laborious madness and an impoverishing one, the madness of composing vast books - setting out in five hundred pages an idea that can be perfectly related orally in five minutes. The better way to go about it is to pretend that those books already exist, and offer a summary, a commentary on them. That was Carlyle’s procedure in ‘Sartor Resartus’, Butler’s in ‘The Fair Haven’- though those works suffer under the imperfection that they themselves are books, and not a whit less tautological than the others. A more reasonable, more inept, and more lazy man, I have chosen to write notes on ‘imaginary’ books.”
এই যুক্তি পড়ে মনে হল এটা হয়ত লেখকের বিনয়মাত্র, কিংবা উত্তরাধিকার সূত্রে পাওয়া দৃষ্টির যে স্বল্পতা লেখালেখির ক্ষেত্রে তাঁকে আজীবন ভুগিয়েছে তা লুকানোর একটা উপায়মাত্র। সে যাই হোক, শুরু করলাম পড়া “Fictions” আর পরিচয় হল বোর্হেসের গোলকধাঁধা আর ছলচাতুরির নানা উপাদানের সাথে। অবাক হয়ে ভাবলাম, কি আছে বলার চেয়ে কি নেই এই সংকলনে তা নিয়েই মনে হয় মাথা ঘামানো সহজ হতো। পরিচয় হল ডিকশনারি আর এনসাইক্লোপিডিয়াতে নাম না থাকা আশ্চর্য এক জগতের সাথে, এক ভাষার সাথে; কাল্পনিক সব বইয়ের সাথে; নিবিষ্ট এক পাঠক বা লেখকের সাথে যিনি ‘দন কিহোতে’ কে নতুন করে লেখায় ব্যস্ত; ধ্বংসস্তূপে দাঁড়ানো এক অপিরিচিত লোকের সাথে যে কিনা স্বপ্নে এক কাল্পনিক চরিত্র নির্মাণ করতে করতে নিজেই কখন যেন সেই স্বপ্নের অংশ হয়ে ওঠে; এক কাল্পনিক ব্যাবিলনের সাথে যেখানে সমস্ত কর্মযজ্ঞ নিয়ন্ত্রিত হয় লটারির সাহায্যে; এক মহাবিশ্বের সাথে যা কিনা প্রকারান্তরে অসীম পর্যন্ত বিস্তৃত এক লাইব্রেরী; এক বালকের অত্যাশ্চর্য স্মৃতিশক্তির সাথে; ‘কাব্বালিস্টিক’ প্যাটার্নের কিছু খুনের সাথে; মাত্র এক মুহূর্ত সময়ের এক বছর পর্যন্ত বিস্তৃতির সাথে; এক সিক্রেট সোসাইটির সাথে যা কিনা আবার গোটা মানবজাতিকেই তুলে ধরে; পরিচয় হল লাতিন আমেরিকার অতি পরিচিত ‘গাউচো’(Gaucho) আর ‘নাইফ-ফাইট’ এর সাথেও।

মোটামুটি বোর্হেসের ‘সিগনেচার’ বা নিজস্ব সবগুলো উপাদানের সাথেই এই সংকলনে পরিচয় ঘটে; তাঁর অতি পরিচিত ল্যাবিরিন্থ আর গল্পের ‘ল্যাবিরিন্থাইন’ প্লট, ‘দন কিহোতে’ এবং ‘১০০১ আরব্য রজনী’ এর মত বইয়ের প্রতি তাঁর অদ্ভুত মোহগ্রস্ততা, সময়ের সংকোচন বা প্রসারণ, লাতিন আমেরিকার ইতিহাস আর গাউচোদের জীবন, অমরত্ব, মিথোলজি, আর সর্বোপরি লাইব্রেরীর প্রতি তাঁর যে তীব্র আকর্ষণ আর ভালোবাসা। বস্তুত লাইব্রেরীর প্রতি এই আকর্ষণও তাঁর পাওয়া খানিকটা উত্তরাধিকার সূত্রে, আর মূলত দৃষ্টির স্বল্পতার কারণে যা তাঁর পরিপার্শ্বকে মোটামুটি বই আর নিজের লাইব্রেরীর মধ্যেই সীমাবদ্ধ করে রেখেছিল। লাইব্রেরীর প্রতি তাঁর ভাবাবেগ একটি বাক্যেই প্রকাশ পেয়েছেঃ “I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.”

বোর্হেসের বহুল ব্যবহৃত এসকল উপাদানের সাথে পরিচিতি ঘটলেও তাঁর লেখাগুলোকে আসলে ঠিক কি ঘরানায় ফেলা যায় তা রীতিমত চিন্তার বিষয়। লাতিন আমেরিকার সাহিত্যে জাদুবাস্তবধর্মী লেখালেখির অন্যতম পুরোধা হিসেবে তাঁর নাম আসলেও তিনি যে কেবল তা নিয়েই কাজ করেছেন সেটা ভাবলে কিন্তু বিশাল ভুল হবে। কেননা বাস্তব, জাদুবাস্তব আর কল্পনার জগত থেকে বিভিন্ন উপাদান নিয়ে তিনি এমনভাবে সাজিয়েছেন যে কোনটাকেই আলাদা করার উপায় নেই। এজন্যই হয়তোবা তাঁকে “Genre-Blender” হিসেবেও আখ্যা দেওয়া হয়ে থাকে। বোর্হেস নিজেও সম্ভবত তাঁর গল্পের এই দুর্বোধ্যতা সম্পর্কে ওয়াকিবহাল ছিলেন। “The Library of Babel” গল্পে সরাসরি তাই পাঠককে ছুঁড়ে দিয়েছেন চ্যালেঞ্জঃ “You who read me-are you certain you understand my language?”

নানা বিষয়ের সাথে সাথে ‘সময়’ বোর্হেসের লেখায় বার বার এসেছে ঘুরে ফিরে। সময় নিয়ে মানবজাতির যে চিরায়ত দার্শনিক সমস্যা, তিনিও এর থেকে মুক্ত ছিলেন না। তাই একটা মাত্র মুহূর্তের মাঝে সমস্ত সময়কে সংকুচিত করা কিংবা ছোট একটা মুহূর্তকে অসীম পর্যন্ত বিস্তৃতিতে চিন্তা করা; এরূপ বিষয় তাঁর লেখায় বার বার দেখা যায়। মূলত দৃষ্টির স্বল্পতার কারণে স্থান (space) বিহীন এক জগত তিনি কল্পনা করতে পারতেন যার মূল উপাদান শব্দ এবং সঙ্গীত; এবং অবশ্যই সময় তার একটা অবিচ্ছেদ্য অংশ। স্থান বা স্পেসের এই সংকোচন বা অসারতা সম্পর্কে তিনি পুরোপুরি সজাগ ছিলেন। এর উদাহরণ দেখতে পাওয়া যায় ‘The Zahir’ গল্পে যেখানে সামান্য একটা বস্তু এক সময় একজন মানুষের সমস্ত চিন্তাকে গ্রাস করে ফেলে, দখল করে ফেলে তার সমস্ত পৃথিবীকে। আবার দেখতে পাওয়া যায় ‘The Aleph’ গল্পে, যেখানে অতি ক্ষুদ্র এক বিন্দুকণার মধ্যে তিনি পর্যবেক্ষণ করেন সমস্ত বিশ্বজগতকে। একই রকম বিষয় দেখতে পাওয়া যায় ‘The Book of Sand’ গল্পে, যেখানে বোর্হেস নিজে এমন এক বইয়ের মুখোমুখি হন যা কিনা অসীম এবং যা এক সময় তাঁর মাথা ব্যথার কারণ হয়ে দাঁড়ায়, অথবা ‘Blue Tigers’ গল্পে যেখানে নীল রঙের কিছু বস্তু যা কিনা গাণিতিক কোন নিয়মের তোয়াক্কা না করেই সংখ্যাগতভাবে বৃদ্ধি বা হ্রাস পায়। কিংবা বোর্হেসের বিভিন্ন লেখায় আয়নার ব্যবহার লক্ষণীয়। আয়নার সাথেও তিনি অসীমতার কিংবা সংখ্যা বৃদ্ধির সংশ্লিষ্টতা দেখিয়েছেন। আয়নাকে যেমন তিনি এক হিসেবে তুলনা করেছেন যৌন সংসর্গের সাথে কেননা দুটোই মানবজাতির সংখ্যা বৃদ্ধি করে।

কেবলমাত্র দার্শনিক সমস্যাবলীই নয়, ইতিহাসও বোর্হেসের লেখার এক অনন্য উপাদান হিসেবে বার বার উঠে এসেছে। লাতিন আমেরিকার চিরায়ত এবং সমসাময়িক ইতিহাস, সেখানের মানুষের জীবনযাত্রা, ‘গাউচো’ এবং অন্যান্য সাধারণ গুণ্ডাপাণ্ডাদের অবস্থা, রাস্তার কোণের খাবারের দোকান ও পাব এবং সেগুলোকে ঘিরে গড়ে ওঠা আড্ডা, নাইফ-ফাইট এইসমস্তই বোর্হেস সাহিত্যের এক অবিচ্ছেদ্য অংশ। তেমনি জন্মস্থান বুয়েনোস আইরেসকে ঘিরেও তাঁর উচ্ছ্বাস যথেষ্ট পরিমাণে পাওয়া যায়। তবে এসব থেকে তাঁকে আর্জেন্টাইন বা লাতিন আমেরিকান গণ্ডিভুক্ত করে ফেলাটা মোটেই সমীচীন হবেনা। কেননা বোর্হেস ছিলেন আক্ষরিক অর্থেই একজন বিশ্বনাগরিক।

লেখক হিসেবে সামাজিক দায়বদ্ধতার জায়গাটা বোর্হেস কখনই ত্যাগ করেননি। যে কারণে আর্জেন্টিনার স্বৈরশাসক Juan Manuel de Rosas এবং Juan Perón এর তীব্র সমালোচনা এবং তাদের শাসনকালের দুঃসহ চিত্র তুলে ধরতে পিছপা হননি। একইরকম ঘৃণা দেখিয়েছেন গৃহযুদ্ধের প্রতি যা বিভিন্ন সময়ে লাতিন আমেরিকাকে বারবার রক্তাক্ত করেছে। ব্যক্তিগতভাবে ধর্ম এবং ঈশ্বরে অবিশ্বাসী বোর্হেস আবার তাঁর ��েখায় বারবার এমন এক ঈশ্বরের খোঁজ করেন যিনি প্রকৃতপক্ষে এখনও নির্মীয়মাণ, যে ঈশ্বর আমাদের সবার মধ্যেই আছেন, যেকোন সৌন্দর্য অর্জনের সাথে সাথে যে ঈশ্বরকে আমরা ক্রমাগত জন্ম দিয়ে যাই।

একজন লেখকের রচনাসমগ্র একসাথে পুরোটা পড়ার একটা বিশেষ ব্যাপার হল সাহিত্যিক হিসেবে তার ক্রমপরিবর্তন আর বিষয়বস্তুর বিন্যাসের বিচিত্রতা বেশ ভালভাবে লক্ষ্য করা যায়। বোর্হেসের “Collected Fictions” পড়ে এই ব্যাপারটা নতুন করে আবার মাথায় আসল। যদিও বোর্হেসের নিজস্ব কিছু পরিচিত উপাদান আর তাঁর লেখার অদ্ভুত প্যাটার্ন কমবেশি সব গল্পেই ছিল, তবু বিভিন্ন সংকলনে তাঁর চিন্তাভাবনার পরিবর্তন খেয়াল করা যায়। যেমন “The Maker” এবং “In Praise of Darkness” এ দুটো সংকলনের গল্পগুলো যতটা না গল্প, তার চেয়েও বেশি প্রবন্ধ বলেই মনে হয়। একথা অবশ্য বোর্হেসের অন্যান্য আরও অনেক গল্পের ক্ষেত্রেই প্রযোজ্য। আর বোর্হেস নিজেই আসলে গল্প ও প্রবন্ধের মধ্যে বিশেষ ফারাক দেখতেন না। তিনি চেয়েছিলেন সাহিত্য রচনা করতে, আর সেদিকেই ছিল তাঁর মনোনিবেশ। আরেকটি পরিবর্তন খেয়াল করা যায় “Brodie’s Report” সংকলনের গল্পগুলোতে। এই সংকলনের গল্পগুলো জাদুবাস্তব কিংবা কাল্পনিক উপাদানের চাইতেও বাস্তব ঘটনা ও উপাদানকে ঘিরেই মূলত আবর্তিত হয়েছে। বোর্হেস নিজেই এর জন্য অবশ্য তাঁর উপর কিপলিং-এর শুরুর দিকের গল্পগুলোর অনুপ্রেরণার কথা স্বীকার করেছেন।

এর পাশাপাশি আরেকটি বিষয় চোখে পড়ে শেষ দুটো সংকলন “The Book of Sand” এবং “Shakespeare’s Memory” এর গল্পগুলোতে। এগুলো তাঁর একদম শেষ বয়সের লেখা। হয়ত একারণেই অন্যান্য বিষয়ের সাথে সাথে বয়স এবং স্মৃতি- এ দুটো বিষয় গল্পগুলোতে বেশ প্রাধান্য পেয়েছে। একটা গল্পের কথা এই মুহূর্তে মনে হচ্ছে। এর নাম “The Other.” “The Book of Sand” সংকলনটির একদম প্রথম গল্প। বোস্টনের চার্লস নদীর তীরে এক মনোরম সকাল বেলায় বৃদ্ধ বোর্হেসের সাথে তরুণ বয়সের বোর্হেসের দেখা হয়ে যায়। মজার ব্যাপার হচ্ছে তরুণ বোর্হেস আবার দাবী করেন সেই সময়ে তিনি আছেন জেনেভায়, রোন নদীর তীরে। অর্থাৎ, একই সময়ে দুই বয়সের এবং দুইটি ভিন্ন স্থানে বাসরত বোর্হেসের দেখা হয় এবং শুরু হয় কথোপকথন। দুই বোর্হেসই আবার পৃথকভাবে মনে করতে থাকেন যে পুরো ব্যাপারটাই হচ্ছে স্বপ্নে এবং তিনি নিজেই কেবল সেই স্বপ্ন দেখছেন। সে যাই হোক, বৃদ্ধ বোর্হেস তরুণ বোর্হেসকে তাঁর জীবনের নানা ঘটনার আগাম সংবাদ দিতে থাকেন। জানান পিতা এবং পিতামহীর মৃত্যুর খবর, শিক্ষকতার পেশায় নিয়োজিত হবার খবর, জানান অসংখ্য বই ও কবিতা লেখার খবর। তরুণ বোর্হেসও নানা বিষয়ে সন্দেহ প্রকাশ করে ও প্রশ্ন করে ব্যাতিব্যস্ত করে তুলতে থাকেন তাঁর বৃদ্ধ সত্ত্বাকে। বেশ উপভোগ্য একটি আড্ডা। আড্ডার শেষ পর্যায়ে এসে বৃদ্ধ বোর্হেস ঘনায়মান অন্ধত্ব নিয়ে আগাম সংকেত দেন তরুণজনকেঃ
“When you reach my age, you’ll have almost totally lost your eyesight. You’ll be able to see the color yellow, and light and shadow. But don’t worry. Gradual blindness is not tragic. It’s like the slowly growing darkness of a summer evening.”
যদিও এই কথায় বোর্হেসের স্বভাবসিদ্ধ হাস্যরসিকতা দেখা যায়, তবুও পড়ে কেমন যেন একটু বিষণ্ণ হয়ে গেলাম। অমরত্ব, সময়ের অসীম প্রসারণ এই বিষয়গুলো নিয়ে সারাজীবন কাজ করা বোর্হেসকেও যেন শেষ বয়সে এসে বার্ধক্য আর জরা আস্তে আস্তে গ্রাস করে ফেলে।

“The Garden of Forking Paths” সংকলনের মুখবন্ধে বিশাল বড় উপন্যাস লেখাকে নিছক পাগলামি আখ্যা দিয়ে ছোট গল্প লেখার পেছনে যে যুক্তি বোর্হেস দিয়েছেন, সমগ্র “Collected Fictions” শেষ করার পর তার সাথে একমত না হয়ে পারলাম না। আসলে আমার মনে হয় ছোট গল্প লিখে তিনি এক হিসেবে পাঠকের জন্য মঙ্গলই করেছেন; কেননা তাঁর ৪-৫ পাতার একটা গল্পই যথেষ্ট ঘুম হারাম করার জন্য, মাথা খারাপ করে দেওয়ার জন্য। সে জায়গায় বিশাল উপন্যাস লিখলে কি হত তা আর কল্পনাও করতে চাই না।

বোর্হেসের “Collected Fictions” যে কেবলমাত্র একজন লেখকের সমগ্র কথাসাহিত্যের সংকলন তা নয়, পুরো ব্যাপারটাই আমার কাছে ছিল এক ধরনের স্বপ্নযাত্রার মত। যে বোর্হেসীয় গোলকধাঁধায় আটকে ছিলাম গত তিনমাস, তা থেকে সম্ভবত মুক্তি নেই, নেই বের হবার রাস্তা। কেননা বোর্হেসের মত লেখকদের গল্প আসলে একবার পড়ে চলে যাওয়ার জন্য নয়, বার বার পড়ার জন্য। আবার হয়ত কোন একদিন ইচ্ছা করেই ঢুকে পড়ব সেই গোলকধাঁধায়, আবার রাস্তা হারাব, আবার ছুঁড়ে ফেলব, দিনশেষে আবার ফিরে আসব অদ্ভুত সেই জগতে।

অযথা আর কথা না বাড়িয়ে মারিও বার্গাস য়োসার একটা উক্তি দিয়েই শেষ করিঃ
“স্প্যানিশ হচ্ছে এমন এক ভাষা যার ঝোঁকটা উচ্ছ্বাস, আতিশয্য ও অত্যুক্তির দিকে। আমাদের মহান লেখকরা সকলেই ছিলেন বাগাড়ম্বরপূর্ণ। সের্বান্তেস থেকে অর্তেগা ই গাসেত, বাইয়ে ইনক্লান কিংবা আলফনসো রেইয়েস পর্যন্ত। বোর্হেসই এর বিপরীতে পুরোপুরি মিতভাষী, সংক্ষিপ্ত এবং যথাযথ। স্প্যানিশ ভাষায় তিনিই একমাত্র লেখক যিনি অসংখ্য শব্দের মতই অসংখ্য ধারণার (Ideas) অধিকারী। তিনি আমাদের কালের এক মহান লেখক।”

পুনঃ বইটার কোন রেটিং না দেওয়ার একটা ব্যাখ্যা দাঁড় করতে চেষ্টা করি। বোর্হেস যখন বিশ্বখ্যাতি লাভ করেন এবং তাঁর বইয়ের হাজার হাজার কপি বিক্রি হতে থাকে, তখন এব্যাপারে তাঁর অনুভূতি জানতে চাওয়া হলে বিপুল আনন্দ ও বিস্ময়ের সাথে বলেন, “একটা বই যখন এক হাজার বা দুই হাজার কপি বিক্রি হয়ে যায়, তখন সংখ্যাটা এতই বিমূর্ত হয়ে পড়ে যেন একটি কপিও বিক্রি না হওয়ার মতই ব্যাপার।” বোর্হেসের গল্প পড়ার পরে আমারও এত ধরনের অনুভূতি হয় যে তা খানিকটা অনুভূতিশুণ্য হয়ে যাওয়ার মতই। তাই রেটিং দেওয়া আর কোন রেটিং না দেওয়ার মধ্যে আমি বিশেষ পার্থক্য করতে পারিনা।

[Santiago Llach · Rating 5 out of 5]

El puto amo.