Joy (cithra) wrote,

why I love Borges

What is the Leonard Cohen lyric: "With one hand on my suicide, one hand on the rose"... If I had to cast my life in terms of a quest, it would be to somehow catch a true glimpse of mystery, or Mystery, or the mystery - which I can only define as that which makes sense but which I cannot explain. Something that can not be expressed in words, that truly exists but which cannot be described. Borges seems to have seen this thing - what's more, to have it to hand to call upon at will, multifoliate and ill-clothed in the fabric of reality: an angel in sackcloth, the rarefied and adamantine bones of the universe visible under the ragged skin. "With one hand on the hexagram and one hand on the girl" - it is reflected in the Zahir, in the mirror which opened into Uqbar, in Borges who is-and-is-not Borges, speaking himself to himself, speaking to empty air.

I pretend that should we meet, we would have long conversations in silence about this. It seems arrogant to feel kinship with someone so accomplished, but even in a second language I keep turning corners to find him speaking the unsaid words in my mouth, the unformed desires in my heart.

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