borges unadorned

7/27/2019 Borges Unadorned

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borges unadornedBY AXEL HORNOS

A reviewof Borges's work is not my purpose here, nor even a briefbiography. Neither would tell much about the man himself andhis particulargenius. What Borges has written in his short prefaceto his recent Obras completas (Complete Works) serves better:"Like De Quincy and many others, I knew, before writing onesingle line, that my fate would be a literary one. My first bookappeared in 1923; my Complete Works, now, bring together thelabors of half a century. I don't know what their merit is, butthe variety of subjects they encompass pleases me. The homeland,the fortunes of ourforefathers, the literatures that do honor toman's languages, the philosophies I strived to unravel, the sun-sets, the idle hours, the raggedfringes of my city, my strange lifewhosepossiblejustification is in these pages, the dreamsforgottenand recovered, the passing of time . .. Prose hand in hand withverse; perhaps both are the same to the imagination."Luckilywe are not tied to one tradition alone; we can aspireto all. My personal limitations and my curiosity leave here theirevidence."

7Iheixth-floorapartmenton MaipuStreet n BuenosAires iselegant in an old-fashioned way. One sees everywhere he imprintsof people set in their habits. In the pearly-greendrawing room thecarpet is comfortably worn, the bookcase choked with leisurelydigested volumes; long use has mellowed the armchairs and sofa.

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JorgeLuisBorges advances tep bycautiousstep alonga nar-rowhallway,armshalfoutstretched s thetactilefingers indtheirbearings. The unseeing eyes accentuatethe gauntness of hisslightlyupturned ace. He gropesabout forhis cane, finallyfindsit. He restsan armon mine, and we head for the door.Whilewewait for the elevator remindhim of ourlast meetingsomefortyyearsago. Askedwhatmeans he had usedto reachmysuburbanBuenos Aires home-my wife and I were throwingasmall party-he repliedthat he had walkedall the wayfrom hisdowntownapartment o TriunviratoStreet, a four-milestretch,and then haileda cab, unaware hat TriunviratoStreetwasonlyfour blocksawayfrommyhome.

He smiles,sayingthat he had forgotten hat episode an oddadmission roma man whoseuncannymemory s legend. I men-tion a still earlieroccasionwhenwe raninto each otheron FloridaStreet, a fashionabledowntown horoughfare.After I had toldhimaboutsomenow-forgottenheoryof mineconcerningdreams,his face lit up. "Let'sgo to a cafe, andtell me moreaboutit," hehad saideagerly.Urgentbusinessforcedmeto declinethe invita-tion.He wasaboutthirty-five hen, with discolored yes andstubbynose on a broadboyishface. His interest n dreamsand the work-ings of the mind, incyclical ime, in symbols,prophecies,mirrors,andeternityhad alreadybeenreflected n some of his earlypoemsandInquisiciones,hisfirstcollectionof shortstories.Althoughhisnamehad transcended he literarycoteries, by and largehe waslittle known. He was too absorbed in his own private world tonotice it, let aloneto care.

Twopeople movingabreaston the narrow idewalksof down-townBuenos Aires are boundto disruptthe pedestrians' raffic,evenmoreso at noontime.Thedisruption s furtheraggravatednour case by Borges'ssnail-likepace. Althoughhe is safely an-choredto my arm, his feet literally"feel" theirwayon the oftenunevensurface. In stretcheswherecars are parkedalongside hecurbsmallgroups of people gatherpatientlyat our rear,waiting'The nearest phonetic equivalent in English is Hoar '-hay Loo-eese Bor' -hays,with a slightly guttural h.

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for an openingthat will allow them to bypassus. Others n frontstep down ntoavailable pacesandlet us go by. Most haverecog-nizedBorges;hencetheir unaccustomedorbearance.Somegreethim with a deferentialBuenos dias, seniorBorges.A few point himout to theircompanions.Others ust smile.He nodsgravelyat his greeters, he vocalas well as the silent.I'm remindedof a book in whichthe author, a sightlessHindu,explainshow he hasdevelopeda mentalradarwhichallowshimtodetectstreet-signpostsandother ixed obstructions headof him.I wonder f Borgeshas acquireda similarabilityin regard o ad-miringpassersby.Duringpausesin the trafficclangorI tell him that, noticingthe absenceof his booksin the Spanishsection of the Rochester(NewYork)PublicLibrary, had donated everaln my possession."I've neverbeen in Rochester,"he comments,"but I under-standit's a city with a warmspot for foreign men of letters." Hegoeson explaining hat amongthe Americancitieshe has visited,Austin, Texas, impressedhim as particularlyhospitable.As aguestof the Universityof Texas he had dictateda course on Ar-gentinian iteratureand learnedthat many studentsused his lit-eraryworkas the subjectof theirdoctoral heses. "Imagine,theytook me seriously!"he sayswith awe.Is he planninga tripto the U.S.? He sighs. "That'sout of thequestion.Beingblind makestraveloverlystrenuous." Besides,his mother sn'taroundanymore.Until shortlybefore her deathshe had read to himthe bookshe needed to preparehis lectures,taken downhis dictation,answeredhis mail, dealtwithhis pub-lishers;she had been his travelingcompanion,nurse, and confi-dante and kept house for him, indefatigableand loving.Hisfacedarkens."Inthe lastweeksshesuffereda greatdeal,"hesaysslowly."EverydaysheaskedGod to put an end to her tor-ment."An avowed keptic, he confides hat in order o please herhe recitedthe Lord'sPrayeronce daily.Wetalkaboutcoincidences,a subjectof particularascinationto him. A namesakeof minein Honolulu he is of Filipinoances-try)whomI met recentlyhas a granddaughter amedKimberlyAnnHornos,exactly ike one of myowngranddaughtersn Roch-ester, 5,500 miles away. I add that after extensive nquiriesI'vefoundthat thereareno more han half a dozenHornos amilies n*Borges has since visited the U.S., as recently as 1976.

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the entire U.S. Keeping in mind that my Hawaiian counterpartmay be a descendant, like myself, of Hornoses from a small Span-ish town who, late in the sixteenth century, settled in the Philip-pines and in Argentina-the lattermyformerhomeland-wouldn'textrasensoryperception, aided in this case by consanguinity, be apossible, perhaps the only, rational explanation?

Borges pondersthe question. "I'd conjecture," he says finally,"that coincidences can be explained through the cyclical nature ofthe universe. As night and day, the seasons, the tides, and othersuch phenomena recur eternally, so also in other realms similarcycles may take place. Among the infinite numbers of things thathappen, two identical or verysimilar ones will possibly intersect atcertain times, along patterns we know nothing about. A coinci-dence is the result."

He relates a personal experience. One day, while working on atranslation into Spanish by Sir Thomas Browne, he came upon thesentence "defie'ndemeDios de mi" ("God, defend me from my-self.") But Browne had mistakenly written "de me."A few days later Borges, as he was browsing through theshelves in a Buenos Aires bookstore, found a translation of Mon-taigne's Essays into English. He opened one of the volumes atrandom, and there was the sentence "defiendeme Dios de mi,"with the same error, "de me." No doubt Browne, a devoted readerof Montaigne, had taken the quotation from the latter, mistakeand all.

That same evening Borges went to the home of his friendAdolfo Bioy Casareswith whom he was preparing an anthology ofSpanish verses. Bioy Casares opened one of the many volumes ofthe Rivadeneyracollection on Spanish poetry and began to reada poem by Cristobal de Castillejo. One of the lines happened tolbe "'defiendemeDios de ml"

A woman shakes Borges's hand warmly. The previous Sundayshe had awakenedfeeling low until she read his poem "El Oriente"in La Nacion, one of Argentina's leading newspapers. "It gaveme a spiritual uplift," she says. "I thank you for this from thebottom of my heart."Borges presses her with questions. Where does she live? Whatdoes she do? When he learns that she teaches oriental philosophythere is a sharpened keenness on his face. They discuss one of hisstories involving Hindu mysticism. All the time he keeps the189


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woman'shand betweenbothhis while the cane danglesfromonearm.Duringour walkthatdayhe'llrepeat hat samegesturewithseveralother people. It seems to reflect gratitudeblendedwitha childlike need for reassurance.Whenwe resumeour walk a gray-hairedman followsus fromadistance.Nodoubtheyearns o talk withBorgesbutshynessholdshimback.Witha nodI encouragehim. Themanmoves orwardafewsteps, hesitates,againdrawsback, paralyzedby tongue-tyingreverence.He trails behind us for severalmoreblocks.Borges alkswithfervorabouthisenduringove-affairwith theAnglo-Saxon ongue.Despitea busyintellectual ifehe finds timeto meetoccasionallywitha groupof youngmen and womenforthepurposeof studying hatcomplex anguage.He recitesseveralversesaloud, one arm slowlysweeping the air, and the bizarresounds rise abovethe city's din like a triumphantpaean.According o rumorshe is at present writing a book on Spi-noza'sphilosophy.Is this true?Well no, he replies. He had done some preliminary esearchwiththat idea in mindbut gave it up. "The fact is, I just don'tunderstandwhat Spinozameans,"he sayswitha touchof regret.He is nowdeeply mmersed n Swedenborg,heeighteenth-centurySwedishscientistwho ended up claiming that through experi-mentsonecouldprove he existenceof the soul. Anethical eacher,religiousphilosopher,and mystic, an illuminatewho communi-cated directlywithGod and hadintercoursewiththe deadand theangels (he learned rom the latterthat in heaven he chosenenjoythe physicalas wellas the spiritualdelightsof love), Swedenborgseemsmadeto orderfor Borges's abyrinthine,paradox-attunedmind. In a shortpoem he hasdistilledhis thoughtsregarding heenigmaticSwede:

Taller than the others, this manWalked among them, at a distance,Now and then calling the angelsBy their secret names. He would seeThat which earthly eyesdo not see:The fierce geometry, the crystalLabyrinthof God and the sordidMilling of infernaldelights.He knew that Glory and Hell tooAre in our soul, with all their myths;He knew, like the Greek, that the days

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Of time are Eternity'smirrors.In dry Latin he went on listingThe unconditional Last Things.2

Meanwhile Borges has put together a book of poems entitled Larosa prof:unda(The Profound Rose). A collection of stories calledEl libro de arena (The Book of Sand) has also just seen the light.He is also planning a book on miracles. Although he doesn'telaborate-he alwaysrefuses to advance any information on worksin progress-one can foresee his approach. He delights in religiousbeliefs for what he calls their esthetic as well as magical contents.To a mind like his, given to metaphor, the marvelous with all itsintriguing possibilities takes precedence over any spiritual truthsit might convey.

We enter a bookstore on Corrientes Street and the manageroffers Borges a chair into which he sinks heavily. He rests his chinon the cane, conscious of the admiring semicirclethat forms beforehim. He looks like a benign, slightly uncomfortable patriarch.The manager brings the copy of Julius Caesar's Gallic WarsBorges had ordered ("I want to brush up on some data I'm hazy

about," is his explanation when later I ask him about the book).rhen the manager hands him two different editions of his recentComplete Works, one thicker and heavier than the other. Borgescompares their weight, fussily fingers one page in each. "Thispaper is much thinner than the other," he remarks. "It's becausethe book was printed on lighter stock for economy's sake," repliesthe manager. Borges thinks for a while, shaking his head. "Thiswill affect the sale of the book," he grumbles. Then, sadly, in aglaring non sequitur, "Both editions have a number of errata,too." On this note we leave the bookstore.His comment about the loss of sales hasn't sounded likeBorges, who has always been notoriously indifferent to money andmislays paper currency all over his apartment. Once he asked thatthe fee paid him for a lecture be reduced because he considered itmuch too high. He must consistently be reminded who he is.Year after year in late autumn people wonder: Will Borges befinally awarded the Nobel prize he so richly deserves? I ask himpoint blank what he believes his chances are. He scoffs. "Neruda2Jorge Luis Borges. Selected Poems 1923-1967. Ed. by Norman Thomas diGiovanni. Translation, copyright? 1972 by Emece Editores, S.A., and NormanThomas di Giovanni. Reprintedbypermission of the publishers, Delacorte Press'Seymour Lawrence.

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gotit a fewyearsago. I doubtthatanotherLatinAmericanwillbeso honored ora long time."We turn into Florida Street, now made into a permanentpromenade.Borges'sstepson the smoothpavementare brisker,his awarenessof surging ife aroundhim sharper.As we pass bythe tea roomsthatdot the street,heads around he tables turn inourdirection.Several choolgirlsapproachBorgeswithnotebookin hand, timidlyaskingfor an autograph;he obliges. A youngmantapshisshoulder,exclaiming,"Maestro, hey oughtto makeyou president of the Republic!"He answers with a grin. "Iwouldn't astoneday.""Ofcourse,allthesepeoplewerehiredbymeto carryout theirlittle acts," heconfides,pleasedwithhimselfathisprivate oke.In a reminiscingmoodhe recalls hedaysof his youthwhenhehauntedthe city'soutlyingslums, the settingof some of his beststoriesand poems. A long-forgotten ango with salaciouslyricscomes backto him. He sings it lustily, to the glee and scandalofpassersby.In a raredisclosureabouthimself,the man walkingby my sidewrote hat oncehe hadtriedto rid himselfof the otherBorges, heweaverof tales and poems, and so "went from myths of theoutlyingslums of the city to games with time and infinity;butthose games are now part of Borges, and I will have to turn toother things. And so, my life is a running away, and I loseeverything ndeverythings left to oblivionor to theotherman."We are back at the MaiputStreet addressand the elevatortakes usto the sixth floor.Aftertalkingbrieflyon the landingandshakinghands,I reenter he conveyance.Somebodyhasanticipat-ed me, however; he elevatorclimbs up to the next floor. As thedooropensan anguishedcry comesrumblingup the shaft: "Mybook!Giveback mybook!"

I've forgotten o return The Gallic Wars o its owner. On thewaydownI stop at the sixth floor and put the book in the waitinghands. Before the elevator resumes its descent I have a lastglimpseof Borgesgroping his way toward the apartmentdoor,book in onehand,cane in the other.

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