Labyrinths

By William Gibson

28,335 ratings - 4.46* vote

The groundbreaking trans-genre work of Argentinian writer Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986) has been insinuating itself into the structure, stance, and very breath of world literature for well over half a century. Multi-layered, self-referential, elusive, and allusive writing is now frequently labeled Borgesian. Umberto Eco's international bestseller, The Name of the Rose, is, The groundbreaking trans-genre work of Argentinian writer Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986) has been insinuating itself

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Book details

ebook, 240 pages
May 17th 2007 by New Directions

(first published 1962)

Original Title
Labyrinths: Selected Stories and Other Writings
ISBN
0811227235 (ISBN13: 9780811227230)

Community Reviews

Ahmad Sharabiani

441. Labyrinths, Jorge Luis Borges

Labyrinths (1962) is a collection of short stories and essays by Jorge Luis Borges.
It includes "Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius", "The Garden of Forking Paths", and "The Library of Babel", three of Borges' most famous stories. Many of the stories are from the collections Ficciones (1944) and El Aleph (1949).

هزارتوهای بورخس - خورخه لوئیس بورخس (کتاب زمان) ادبیات؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش سال 2006میلادی

عنوان: هزارتوهای بورخس؛ نویسنده: خورخه لوئیس بورخس؛ مترجم احمد میرعلایی؛ تهران، کتاب زمان، 1356، در 259ص؛ چاپ دیگر سوئد، افسانه، 1369؛ چاپ دیگر تهران، کتاب زمان، 1380، در 296ص؛ شابک 9646380166؛ چاپ دیگر با حروفچینی متفاوت 1381؛ در 296ص، شابک ایکس - 964638028؛ موضوع داستانهای کوتاه و نوشته ها و شعر شاعران آرژانتینی - امریکای لاتین - سده 20م

نقل از بورخس: حکمت وداع: «کم کم تفاوتِ ظریفِ میان نگه‌ داشتن یک دست، و زنجیرکردن یک روح را، یاد خواهی گرفت، اینکه عشق تکیه کردن نیست، و رفاقت اطمینان خاطر، و یاد می‌گیری که بوسه‌ ها قرارداد نیستند، و هدیه‌ ها، عهد و پیمان معنی نمی‌دهند، و شکست‌هایت را خواهی پذیرفت، و سرت را بالا خواهی گرفت، با چشمان باز، با ظرافتی زنانه، و نه اندوهی کودکانه، و یاد می‌گیری که همه راه‌هایت را هم ‌امروز بسازی، که خاک فردا برای خیال‌ها مطمئن نیست، و آینده، امکانی برای سقوط به میانه ی نزاع، در خود دارد.؛ کم‌ کم یاد می‌گیری، که حتی نور خورشید می‌سوزاند، اگر زیاد آفتاب بگیری. پس باغ خود را می‌کاری، و روحت را زینت می‌دهی، به جای اینکه منتظر کسی باشی، تا برایت گل بیاورد، و یاد می‌گیری، که می‌توانی تحمل کنی، که محکم هستی، که خیلی می‌ارزی، و می‌آموزی و می‌آموزی، با هر خداحافظی، یاد می‌گیری».؛ پایان نقل از خورخه لوییس بورخس

به برهان ناآشنائیم به فرهنگی که، «بورخس» از آن مینالد، و ساز خویش نیز، هماره خوش مینوازند، استعاره های ایشان را کمتر درمییابم، برای همین است شاید، با اینکه از خوانش و خواندن چندباره اش، لذتها برده ام، نمیدانم چرا؟ میخواهم بازهم کتاب را بخوانم.؛ شاید بفهمم چه میگویند.؛ روانشاد «گلشیری: (1316 - 1379هجری خورشیدی)» که آخرین افزوده را بر کتاب بنوشته است، از خود میپرسند: «راستی نکند که بورخس، محصول رویای پدر کور خود باشد»؟ شاید هم به شیوه ی بورخس، بشود گفت: «آنکه در باره ی بورخس مینویسد، بیشتر در مورد خود، یا آثار خود مینویسد»؛

پس بگذارید دیدگاه خویش را بنگارم، در باره ی متن نوشتارهای خورخه: چه احساس زیبائی، وابستگی هماره، هماورد آزادی ست.؛ عشق در برابر رهایی ست.؛ اما گویا، تنها گنجشککان اینگونه اند، هم را دوست میدارند، ولی طرف را هرگزی بندی نمیکنند.؛ برهانش اینکه، آنگاه که از چیزی خوشت آمد، دلت میخواهد از آن تو باشد.؛ دیگر او آزاد نیست.؛ وقتی آزاد نیست، برایتان ارزشی ندارد، کس، برای به دست آوردنش، با شما نمیجنگد.؛ معادن را برای یافتنش نمیکاود.؛ دریاها را در جستجوی او، درنمینوردد.؛ از برای صیدش، به ژرفای آبهای شور و شیرین، و گرم و سرد، سرک نمیکشد.؛ مرواریدی که در موزه ای به تماشای دیگران گذاشته شده، هرگزی ارزش واقعی خود را، نمینمایاند.؛ اما آنگاه که درون صدف خویش است، و در قعر دریا تنها، آزاد است، و از آن خود است، و مالکی ندارد، چندین غواص، برایش، نفس در سینه حبس میکنند، جانها بهای اوست.؛

کلام «خورخه»، اوج شناخت حق دیگریست.؛ باید، سدی نبست، حتی به رود خشک نیز.؛ وگرنه دیگر، چشمه های زلال، جاری، نیلگون، و فیروزه ای نخواهد ماند و بود.؛ آسمان را گویا از ایشان گرفته باشید، دیگر درخت بید، موی خود را با تماشا در آب جاری، شانه نمیکند.؛ از پا خواهد افتاد، و برکه ای خواهد شد، تا سمور آبی، شاید در آن به گشت و گذار بپردازد، و لانه بنا کند.؛ واژه ی دوست، شاید از «دو تا است» گزیده شده باشد، یعنی دو متفاوت، و وابسته در بعضی خواهشها به هم، البته که به دلخواه هردو.؛ آیا ما نیز چنینیم؟ «خورخه» بسیار ظریف اندیشیده، و دیده است.؛ عشق را همراهی دیده؛ اگر هدیه ای هم باشد، باید بدون مناسبت و دلخواه هدیه دهنده و گیرنده، باشد.؛ البته که بدون انتظار پرسش و پاسخ.؛ نه آن بندی که با آن هدیه گوئیا ناخواسته شاید به پای دیگری میبندیم.؛ باید باغ خویشتن را خود بکاریم، و روحمان را زینت همان باغ خویش کنیم، تا گردشگران، چون خرده های آهن به سوی آهن ربا، به سوی زیبائی چنان و چنین روحی گرد آیند.؛ تهران ا. شربیانی
Apr 26, 2008

تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 27/05/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی

Lisa

"You who read me, are You sure of understanding my language?"

Borges would have been the first to point out that an answer in the affirmative to his own question would be a likely sign that the reader indeed had understood nothing of any importance. So I won't make any claims. I did however experience something approaching perfect reading pleasure, - fully aware that perfection is unlikely to be approved by Borges - being too static, unchangeable, and definitive.

Halfway through the essay collection, I became acutely conscious of knowing the stories already, but I was not able to recall whether I had read them before, or just heard about them in other essay collections. It left me in the dreamlike, surreal state of mind that Borges enjoys evoking - blurring the lines between reality and literature, proving over and over again that storytelling is the origin of humankind as a thinking species.

Are we real? Or are we just part of a giant narrative, told in infinite volumes of books in a labyrinthine library which contains us, the universe and all our imagination, including our deities?

Moving from one fictional character to the next (Don Quixote, Hamlet, Dante in his fictional self) and questioning our right to claim more authenticity than these immortal characters, Borges involves his own identity as a person and as a writer in the narrative process, and makes a distinction between what Borges - the person - and Borges - the writer of mythical dimensions - represents, without being sure where one identity ends and the other begins:

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

Why are readers confused when they realise that characters in books turn into readers of the same book, like Don Quixote in the second part of the Cervantes' masterpiece? - Borges claims it disturbs our sense of reality. We might be part of a story ourselves, a story about a character reading about reading, and reflecting on how to establish an objective identity.

If our universe is a great labyrinthine library containing all the stories of the world, then time and space are meaningless measurements of life. We can be in different stories at the same time, and change pattern, plot and character in case we are not happy with the thread we are following at the moment:

"Next time I kill you", replied Scharlach, "I promise you that labyrinth, consisting of a single line which is invisible and unceasing."

Why did I like this collection so much? Why did it give me such a deep, deep sense of satisfaction, despite being obscure, incoherent, and slightly surreal?

I think the answer is that to me, the world is a library, and Borges gave me the narrative to prove that my reading and dreaming self is just as real as the self that is busy with everyday chores. I have always felt at home in books in a way that I rarely feel at home in the world.

Within Borges' labyrinth, I found my true home address.

Moving from Dante and Kafka over Shakespeare to Cervantes feels natural and logical to me, and I gather that I am among old friends. I identify strongly with the idea of seeing the world as an infinite number of story fragments, all available to be reinterpreted by me, the reader. I am part of the story as well, changing the narrative with my existence in time, just like Borges himself:

"Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire. The world, unfortunately, is real; I, unfortunately, am Borges."

I was Borges too, for a short time, while I read his words. And it swept me away!

Glenn Russell



The stories, essays and parables in this Borges collection, with all their esoteric references to multiple histories, cultures and literatures, are no more likely to appeal to a casual reader then a textbook on cognitive psychology. To extract literary gold from highly intricate, complex works like The Garden of Forking Paths, Emma Zunz, The Library of Babel or The Zahir requires careful multiple readings as well as a willingness to occasionally investigate terms and references, for example here are several from The Zahir: The Book of Rites, Isaac Laquendem, The Nibelungen, the novel Confessions of a Thug, The Book of Things Unknown.

And, speaking of The Zahir, if I were to move from referring to the tale itself to the ideas which lie behind it, how would my review read? What does it mean for a narrator to dissolve the universe into a single coin? Why does Borges describe, right at the outset, how at different times in the past the Zahir, a coin he was handed in a bar, morphed into a tiger, a blind man, a small compass, a vein in the marble of a pillar, the bottom of a well? How does one compress all time into this one sentence I am now writing? And what of the philosophical and cultural context in which Borges wrote this tale? Could a first-person short-story like The Zahir have been written in Ancient China? Medieval Persia? Colonial America? These are questions that lie outside the framework of this Borges tale. Or do they?

Philosophical musing on the reality of the Zahir propels Borges (and us as readers) to multiple worlds: of a woman who seeks to makes every one of her actions correct to the point where she desires the absolute in the momentary; the dark light of the Gnostics; a dream where he, Borges the narrarator, becomes a pile of coins guarded by a gryphon. Then, after Borges’ fascination with the Zahir slides into obsession, driving him to seek out a psychiatrist, he writes, “Time, which softens memories, only makes the memory of the Zahir sharper. First I could see the face of it, then the reverse; now I can see both sides at once. It is not as though the Zahir were made of glass, since one side is not superimposed upon the other; rather it is as though the vision were spherical and the Zahir flutters in the center.”

Such refection bring to mind Hesse’s The Glass Bead Game, where the beads are, in fact, made of glass and can represent, in turn, cosmic topology, a fugue of celestial spheres, variations on relational placement as in the colors and lines of a Mondrian or circles with plasticity in Vasarely; only the Zahir has about it more unity then plurality, and thus one Möbius strip, one musical note, one painting, one print. Toward the very end we read: “Others will dream that I am mad, while I dream of the Zahir. When every person on earth thinks, day and night of the Zahir, which will be dream and which reality, the earth or the Zahir?”

Regarding the essays, Partial Magic in the Quixote opens us to a least a dozen unique angles in our approach to this Spanish classic; Kafka and His Precursors explores the connection of writers like Kierkegaard and Browning along with Zeno’s paradox to the famous author of The Metamorphosis; The Mirror of Enigmas delves into conundrums such as the symbolic significance of Sacred Scriptures and various forms of metaphysical writings as reflected on by, among others, Philo of Alexandria. Seven more essays will bend and stretch you mind in ways you never thought possible.

In the parable, Borges and I, the author conducts a dialogue with himself as well as, take your pick - author, public persona, alter ego, younger self, older self, second self – and is uncertain as he concludes his parable who exactly is the author of the lines he has just written. Everything and Nothing is a parable featuring Shakespeare with a multiple identity crisis; another parable, The Witness, has the narrator brooding over memory and death and yet in another parable, Inferno 1,32, we encounter a leopard, Dante, and God in what could be viewed as a dreamscape.

Reading Labyrinths years ago, I was inspired to write this micro-fiction as a tribute to Jorge Luis Borges:

LIFE STORY

The bold letters on the cover read: Harold Blackman – Life Story. The book looks quite ordinary. One is required to make a special inspection to see a queer spring-like device along the spine. Harold Blackman opens the book before him. The title page is completely blank as are all the pages. He runs gnarled fingers, tips calloused and slightly trembling, lightly over this ghost of a title page and reflects on the long agonizing nights when he tried to pen the fire of his youth and the spume of his manhood without success. What he saw when the ink dried always left him feeling flat, unsettled. Closing his eyes, he repeats an incantation learned from a half-crazed Argentine, then opens them slowly, very slowly. Harold Blackman, weary adventurer, is now standing on the writing table, shrunken to the size of the book. Lying down on the title page, the back of his legs, buttocks and backbone relax to the paper’s slight give. He released a catch on the spine, the leather cover snapping shut with the vengeance of a mousetrap. But for a muffled groan all is silence. Over time, the blood seeps through the pages, forming, words, sentences, paragraphs.

karen

why haven't i read borges before?? no one knows. and he was always pushed upon me - "how can you like marquez if you haven't read borges??" "you like donoso - you should read borges." "machado is good, but you should read borges." so - fine - i did. and i am utterly underwhelmed. so there. i am learning during my "summer of classix" that most of the books i have for some reason or another overlooked were probably overlooked for a reason. i naturally gravitate towards what i like - and i seem to have a filter that prevents me from picking up too many books i don't. when i force it, this happens. and i liked some of the stories. but borges isn't for everyone (although scrolling down my "friends who have read" list, it looks as though all my friends gave it five stars.) and i'm not accusing you bitches of inflating your ratings, but i have the sense with borges that some people are guilted into liking him. or pretending that they like him more than they do because he's borges. but i won't be. because i am not ashamed of my intellectual shortcomings. i embrace them. i am incapable of abstract thought. fact. as hard as i try, that whole achilles/tortoise thing? does not compute. so all of this hexagon spiraling into hexagon on top of hexagon... i feel like i am back in college (where every single person i ever knew had a copy of this book. and was a stoner.)but this is classic stoner thinking-chains. reflections, labyrinths, it's perfect for that kind of mindset. "dooood, imagine we were in a hexagon right now??" and i know this makes sense to some people with philosophical and theological mindbents, but for me its almost pain. there were about 6 stories i liked, but the first few almost made me weep with trying to find the value in them. sorry, borges. we were never meant to be.

mmmmkay - it seems that there are those who think it would be valuable "in a book review" to list the stories i did like. so: the shape of the sword, theme of the traitor and the hero, death and the compass, the secret miracle, three versions of judas, story of the warrior and the captive, emma zunz, the house of asterion, and the waiting. more than i thought i liked, but still - a sad minority.

come to my blog!

Samadrita

A university professor had once expounded on the supposed conflict between history and literature, the former bemoaning the irrelevance of the latter when it comes to tracing the contours of reality while the latter countering this accusation by deploying the well-known defense of 'there's no one way of looking at the truth'.

Indeed. Why restrict ourselves to just the one way and the one reality? Why overlook the truth of infinite permutations and combinations of each eventuality and each one of them, in turn, forking off into myriad possibilities ad infinitum? Why seek neat compartmentalization of two disparate disciplines and prevent their intermingling to create new streams of thought? Why believe mathematics and literature to be so fundamentally apart that there can be no blending together of both without the results being distorted beyond intelligibility?

The very fact that the known limits of what's considered intelligible are being breached every moment, has its roots in the reluctance of labyrinthine minds like Borges' to follow linear pathways.

Mysticism, mathematics, arcana, philosophy, and literary criticism. A perfect blurring of the boundaries between fact and fiction leading to the creation of an entirely new entity which challenges the normative narrative form. And a moment of perfect lucidity arising out of a churning of all these elements. Where our imaginations come to a staggering halt, Borges' begins.

I do not wish to squeeze out every last drop of meaning from these complex interpolations of a known truth into discrete bits of hitherto unknown logical conclusions by googling every reference I did not get. Instead I delight in Borges' perfectly synchronized demolition of all and any conventions associated with writing with an authorial preeminence, I gaze enthralled at the vision of clarity being birthed out of pure chaos.
"In a birdless dawn the magician saw the concentric blaze close round the walls. For a moment, he thought of taking refuge in the river, but then he knew that death was coming to crown his old age and absolve him of labors. He walked into the shreds of flame. But they did not bite into his flesh, they caressed him and engulfed him without heat or combustion. With relief, with humiliation, with terror, he understood that he too was a mere appearance, dreamt by another."

I let my mind latch onto his even if for a little while and let it guide me into realms where only the divinity of thought reigns supreme in its many manifestations.

And, for now, that is enough.
__

P.S.:-It's good to know where DFW acquired his irksome yet awe-inspiring footnoting habit from.

Rakhi Dalal

On his religious views, Borges declared himself as an agnostic, clarifying: "Being an agnostic means all things are possible, even God, even the Holy Trinity. This world is so strange that anything may happen, or may not happen"*

It feels kind of strange to quote this after my initial brush with “The God Delusion” by Richard Dawkins where he refutes an agnostic stance vis-à-vis an atheist one. But I find myself adhering here with Borges. Why to rob an already incomprehensible world of its myriad probabilities?

Perhaps it is not relevant to quote this here with regard to “Labyrinths” which is a distinct work in itself and can be taken as “fantastical literature” encompassing the unimagined. However there also appear to be an underline theme running discreetly for most of the stories in this collection.

Attracted by metaphysics, but accepting no system as true, Borges makes out of all of them a game for the mind. He discovers two tendencies in himself: "one to esteem religious and philosophical ideas for their aesthetic value, and even for what is magical or marvelous in their content. That is perhaps the indication of an essential skepticism. The other is to suppose in advance that the quantity of fables or metaphors of which man's imagination is capable is limited, but that this small number of inventions can be everything to everyone."

These lines from the preface to the work by André Maurois elaborates Borges’ agnostic stand and present to us a glimpse into the author’s mind which seemingly wants to exhaust all the possibilities available to him by using them in different combinations to come to the point that anything is possible. Working with the concept of time and space, myths and dreams Borges continuously constructs labyrinthine worlds whose contemplation is left to the imagination of the reader.

He seems to be postulating that man (also mind, the world or Universe) exists as an infinite entity whose centre is everywhere (an individual), whose circumference is nowhere (existing in infinite series of time). There are numerous references in the work which propose this.

According to André Maurois, Borges sets out to hunt the following metaphor, regarding infinity, through the centuries:

Pascal wrote: "Nature is an infinite sphere whose center is everywhere, whose circumference is nowhere."

And so from an enchanted mind, inspired by the possibility of fiction as reality and vice-versa, is created an array of dreamlike worlds for the readers where readers continuously keep drifting from the boundaries of one to another dazed by the magical images appearing infinitely.

No one is anyone, one single immortal man is all men. Like Cornelius Agrippa, I am god, I am hero, I am philosopher, I am demon and I am world, which is a tedious way of saying that I do not exist.



------------------------------------------------------

* Source: Wikipedia

Jr Bacdayan

‘Tlön is surely a labyrinth, but it is a labyrinth devised by men, a labyrinth destined to be deciphered by men.’

Labyrinths is a collection of short stories, essays, and other literary works. It is my first experience with Borges, but it shall not be the last.

Borges writes but he does more than that. He’s a chimaera, part philosopher, part academic, part historian, and part bibliognost. His vast accumulated knowledge penetrates his work to create meta fiction that feels truly authentic, thus one has constantly remind oneself that Borges pens works of fiction and not treatises. He bends thought, axioms, and orthodoxy in his readers. He asks that you submit to his mind. As a reward he elicits a delicious reverberation from his work and the beauty and wisdom of his stories that might appear vastly spread in theme and scope create a cohesive chef-d'oeuvre. It spotlights the mind, a labyrinth, of those before us, those that have been, might have been, those that have etched their names in the annals of history. They create the maze of thought that Borges, like Ariadne leading Theseus out of the Minotaur’s labyrinth, leads us through.

After a taste of a small portion of his body of work, I have realized something vastly significant that I have missed. Fiction relies as much on the accumulation of knowledge as it is an art form, that words are not only chosen and arranged, that you don’t merely tell a story. But you create a world out of all the information you’ve learned, all the systems you’ve mastered, and all the theories you’ve dissected, all the things you’ve read. Maybe a writer is not like a divine creator who creates something out of nothing, but rather a modest chef who crafts something from the ingredients he has available to him. These ingredients we get from our experiences, our studies, our reading. Not only of fiction, but of philosophy, of different disciplines, of the ancients and of the myths. People say that the best chefs are the gastronomists. Might I presume to say the same thing for writers, that the best writers are those most widely read. And Jorge Luis Borges is as well read a writer as any other. He references both trendy works and works which no one reads anymore. He creates haunting phantasms full of familiarity and novelty, unmatched works unique in sentiment. He echoes the Cabbalists, the Greeks, the European philosophers, even Twain, yet his voice is unassumingly original. In the works of others he finds his reflection staring back at him. His pen is both an enigma and a revelation.

‘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 have walked the winding path inside the mind of Borges, and the walls of his words enchant me. If to be lost in his labyrinth is to be engulfed in silent brilliance, then I pray never to find my way again.

Aubrey

Reading. No, thought. No, reality. Or, fiction? Fiction. But also time, and faith, and metonymy.

How close is the instantaneous you to the you in context with time, space, and the integration over the infinite?

What? What.

The what is the period of time wherein I grew fed up with the knowing and began to contemplate the thinking, unknown and yet rather persistent seeing as it continues to niggle at me. Knowing helps, of course, in the foundations of common thought from which propagates communication, an inherently faulty condition in an endless number of ways which we will not delve into now but would have you keep it in mind. The hypothesis, thesis, maxim and crux of touching upon the streaming moment, the schizophrenic past, the hallucinatory future, and everything in between.

You read a story, and you enjoy it. You read a story, and you hate it. You read a story, and think, well, it wasn't a complete waste of time. Now, that last part, that was interesting. For you've just delineated a breaking up of time as corresponding to certain parts of a piece of work, and a differential behavior over time just begs for a formula for explicatory purposes. Wouldn't you say?

Or not. You're not here for math, or maths, or numbers and their rote maneuverings. You're here for ethos, pathos, and logos, on a determined length of instants inside a mind completely reliant on rather inexplicit senses, sailing upon a calibrated fortification of personal/historical/sociocultural context spreading its tendrils into a reality that, for whatever reason, exists. You enter this minute form of visual and linguistic maneuvers with the hope (There are some unfortunates who enter with assurance and/or expectations. Poor souls.) that your time will not be 'wasted'. The variable enters the formula and comes out a solution.

Context? Context. Jorge Luis Borges, for a fortuitous and perhaps godly (Till another word comes along that is as ripe with contextual glory and more suitable for my atheist tendencies, this will have to suffice.) reason, favored a honing of literature over development of mathematica. For an even better reason, he danced along the boundary between the two, and was not troubled in the slightest when the tenuous strands dividing the two sagged and snapped beneath his fearless weight, as there were always other webs upon which to stand and stretch and view from line to point, from word to number, from thought to full bloom with the aid of paper and pen. Always another labyrinth to enter and decorate with riotous abandon and the benefit of his own supreme erudition, with the foresight of penning down the experience so as to not have a single tale of Theseus and the Minotaur, but many. Countless. You tread the labyrinth, as do I, and the measure of our game is how badly each of us wants to get out, and what assumptions we make concerning the proper way of escaping.
It may be that universal history is the history of the different intonations given a handful of metaphors.
Here is the mystery/conspiracy/faith of the world and its sidelong lapses of recognition between fellow souls of humanity, saved now and again by the flow of common themes whose limited number is not a matter to fear, but to enjoy. Here is immortality in the flight of thought and the falling of form, for what is the assurance of death if not an instigation of the limited soul towards a mark in the infinite? Here is a question of theology going hand in hand with the philosophy, and how the two often differ only in the matter of a single variable, accorded by either side with the relative values of everything and nothing. Here is the West, and the East, and Man, and all those time-stamped frames of thought riddling Borges' brain, who as such stands accused but can be excused only by the fact that at least he had the gumption to realize that there were other worlds and frames of (Postmodernism, the particle of you as a function of the wave of you as an answer and a question for, what? Reality, perhaps.) thought that he would never live to see. Or, he would never live to see, in that moment of personal reflection. Just as I will never live to see the reception of this review. Future I will, obviously. But not I.
Words, displaced and mutilated words, words of others, were the poor pittance left him by the hours and the centuries.
Tell me, Borges, why do I read?
And why wander in these labyrinths? Once more, for aesthetic reasons; because this present infinity, these "vertiginous symmetries," have their tragic beauty. The form is more important than the content.

-André Maurois, 'Preface'
Tell me, Borges, why do I write?
There is no pleasure more complex than that of thought and we surrendered ourselves to it.
There we go.

Sidharth Vardhan

Doctor Who visits Argentina

The TARDIS appears in a wheat Farm. Doctor Who and his hot assistant come out of it. "But what are doing in Argentina?"

Doctor replies"I lost my Sonic screwdriver was lost in labyrinths of time." and becomes quit as if the explanation is enough.

Impatient she tries again, "So, how do you know it is to be found in Argentina of 70s?"

"I don't where my screwdriver is. I can't find a thing in labyrinths of time, it is labyrinths of time for goodness sake. Only one person is genius enough to be able to find his way through them."

"Who?"

"What do you mean by 'Who'? I said labrynths!"

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