"...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 Maraña, the voice of Macedonio Fernandez, 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."
"Did you publish it?"
"I toyed, without conviction, with the melodramatic possibility of destroying the book, perhaps by fire. But I wound up publishing it in Madrid, under a pseudonym. I was taken for a clumsy imitator of Borges -- a person who had the defect of not actually being Borges yet of mirroring all the outward appearances of the original."
« Older Real USSR is a blog containing commentaries on eve... | The Chickening... Newer »
This thread has been archived and is closed to new comments
posted by nosila at 4:20 PM on August 5, 2009