Argentine Short-Story Writer, Essayist, Poet
Argentine Short-Story Writer, Essayist, Poet
Time, which despoils castles, enriches verses.
Today, one of the churches of Tl”n Platonically maintains that a certain pain, a certain greenish tint of yellow, a certain temperature, a certain sound, are the only reality. All men, in the vertiginous moment of coitus, are the same man. All men who repeat a line from Shakespeare are William Shakespeare.
Music, feelings of happiness, mythology, faces worn by time, certain twilights and certain places, want to tell us something, or they told us something that we should not have missed, or they are about to tell us something; this imminence of a revelation that is not produced is, perhaps, 'the aesthetic event'.
My undertaking is not difficult, essentially. I should only have to be immortal to carry it out.
Of all the instruments of man, the most striking is undoubtedly the book. Others are extensions of your body. The microscope, the telescope, are extensions of sight; the phone is extension of the voice; then we have the plow and the sword arm extensions. But the book is something else. The book is an extension of memory and imagination
One is not what is for what he writes, but for what you have read.
Our twentieth century had transformed the fable of Mohammed and the mountain; mountains now converging on the modern Mohammed.
Poets, like the blind, can see in the dark.
So plant your own gardens and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
Ten years ago any symmetry with appearance of order-dialectical materialism, anti - Semitism, Nazism to fascinate the men. How not submit to Tl”n, to the minute and vast evidence of an ordered planet? Useless answer that reality is also orderly. Maybe it is, but divine laws-I translate: inhuman laws to that just never perceive. Tl”n be a labyrinth, but a labyrinth contrived by men, a labyrinth destined to be deciphered by men.
The book is not an entity closed to communication: it is a relationship, it is an axis of innumerable relationships.
The end of history is referable only in metaphors, as happens in the kingdom of heaven, where no time. Perhaps one might say that Aurelian spoke with God and that He cares so little religious differences that took him by John of Pannonia. This, however, would suggest a confusion of the divine mind. More correct to say that in paradise, Aureliano knew that for the unfathomable deity, he and John of Pannonia (the orthodox and the heretic, the hater and the hated, the accuser and the victim) were one person. In the Runic crosses the two emblems enemies live, intertwined.
The future is as irrevocable as an inflexible yesterday.
The Library is a sphere whose exact centre is any one of its hexagons and whose circumference is inaccessible.
The original is unfaithful to the translation.
The system was elementary, as you can see. Naturally these lotteries failed. Their moral virtue was nil. They were not directed at all of man's faculties, but only at hope.
The voice of the Lord answered from a whirlwind: Neither am I anyone; I have dreamt the world as you dreamt your work, my Shakespeare, and among the forms in my dream are you, who like myself are many and no one.
There are objects made up of two sense elements, one visual, the other auditory?the color of a sunrise and the distant call of a bird. Other objects are made up of many elements?the sun, the water against the swimmer's chest, the vague quivering pink which one sees when the eyes are closed, the feeling of being swept away by a river or by sleep. These second degree objects can be combined with others; using certain abbreviations, the process is practically an infinite one. There are famous poems made up of one enormous word, a word which in truth forms a poetic object, the creation of the writer. The fact that no one believes that nouns refer to an actual reality means, paradoxically enough, that there is no limit to the numbers of them.
There is an hour of the afternoon when the plain is on the verge of saying something. It never says, or perhaps it says it infinitely, or perhaps we do not understand it, or we understand it and it is untranslatable as music.
They say I'm a great writer. I appreciate this curious opinion, but I do not share. Tomorrow, some lucid and easily refute me tildar n impostor or tinker or both at once.
This was the first time Remington rifles were used in the Argentine, and it tickles my fancy to think that the firm that shaves me every morning bears the same name as the one that killed my grandfather.
Tl”n be a labyrinth, but a labyrinth contrived by men a labyrinth destined to be deciphered by men.
Tomorrow is too insecure for plans and dreams always find a way to collapse halfway. After a while you learn. How even the heat of the sun can hurt you, so you make the garden your you. Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers, and you learn that truth, you can endure it. And that, really, you have power and that, true, deserve, and learn. learn, with every goodbye you learn.
My advanced age has taught me the resignation of being Borges.
My whole life changed the book I'm reading.