Beyond my anxiety, beyond this writing, the universe waits, inexhaustible, inviting. ― Jorge Luis Borges, A Personal Anthology. (Grove Press, January 14, 1994) Originally published 1961. Advertisements
What man of us has never felt, walking through the twilight or writing down a date from his past, that he has lost something infinite? ― Jorge Luis Borges, Dreamtigers. (University of Texas Press; 13th ed. Edition, January 1, 1985) Originally published 1960.
When writers die they become books, which is, after all, not too bad an incarnation. ― Jorge Luis Borges [As attributed by Alastair Reid in “Neruda and Borges,” The New Yorker, June 24, 1996; as well as in “The Talk of the Town,” The New Yorker, July 7, 1986]
I always imagine them at nightfall, in the dusk of a slum or a vacant lot, in that long, quiet moment when things are gradually left alone, with their backs to the sunset, and when colours are like memories or premonitions of other colours. We must not be too prodigal with our angels; they are… Continue reading Jorge Luis Borges
Sunset is always disturbing whether theatrical or muted, but still more disturbing is that last desperate glow that turns the plain to rust when on the horizon nothing is left of the pomp and clamor of the setting sun. How hard holding on to that light, so tautly drawn and different, that hallucination which the… Continue reading Jorge Luis Borges
Don’t talk unless you can improve the silence. ― Jorge Luis Borges
This web of time–the strands of which approach one another, bifurcate, intersect or ignore each other through the centuries–embraces every possibility. We do not exist in most of them. In some you exist and not I, while in others I do, and you do not, and yet in others both of us exist. In this… Continue reading Jorge Luis Borges