And each night, she would begin a new narrative which she left quite unfinished. As you know, Scheherazade sought to save her companions by telling the king a story each night. “You ask a fine question,” Borges says, a demure smile playing about his lips. “I don’t understand,” you reply, “How can a story trap the infinite?”
“Perhaps to trap the power of the infinite in words may be the only goal of literature.” They have one purpose, to hide and yet reveal the infinite.” He ruminates a moment. You must surely know that this labyrinth and my stories are one. The finite has become infinite, and the infinite finite. Each turning in the path is a single place, and yet the permutations of your path are endless.
This labyrinth, like a story, guides your steps according to the architect’s design. Whether we conceive of infinite time, that is to say, eternity, or the endlessness of space, the infinite is the gravest peril that the human mind may face. We are drawn to its boundless abyss, and yet we fear it. “Since the days of Anaximenes, men have hated and loved the infinite. “Why have you built this labyrinth of words?” You ask.īorges coughs again, for it is he, as you have known for some time. They are very bad since the accident.“ He coughs, and as you approach, he resumes, “You may ask three questions, but I will only answer two.” “Come closer I cannot see you very well over there. A lion, the color of the sun, rests near his feet. His face is long and somehow reminds you of an ancient Egyptian statue. Toward the center of the maze, you come to a courtyard where an elegantly dressed old man sits beside a tossing fountain. The walls rise high around you and guide your steps, no longer earth, but stone on which are inscribed the words of poets and philosophers, of sages, saints, and kings. “To understand my labyrinth, you must traverse it.” And, as you follow with your eyes the forking paths of this figure, it seems that you are no longer looking at it but treading out a path through its curves and complex convolutions. “I have almost finished it,” he says, “Come and see.” He as inscribed a labyrinth in the dry earth. A young boy by a silent fountain stoops to trace something in the dust. You picture yourself strolling down a street in Buenos Aires under a limitless sky. But as you progress through the article’s opening sentences, you find your mind wandering. You note with some wry amusement that he once published a review of a book that did not exist. You see that he was an Argentine writer born in 1899. You begin to read this essay of the work of Jorge Luis Borges with the best intentions.
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