blasphemy

I came to Buenos Aires knowing that it was tragically impossible to work without a visa, assuming that classes would be effortless, and under the general impression that I would be overrun with free time to dispose with as I pleased. I figured that this burdenless respite from actual school would be a great opportunity to tackle my daunting stockpile of books to-be-read. I came to the city with a few novels, a few wild cards, The Communist Manifesto—things I had been meaning to get around to, but had put off reading till I had ample time to spare. After leafing through a little Cormac McCarthy, and oddly, Moore’s Utopia, I decided that while in Argentina, I should shift my focus southward. I picked up 100 Years of Solitude, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Chronicle of A Death Foretold, and of course Borges.

As I picturesquely carted my Latin American authors around with me—sprawled out in the Bosque Palermo, smoking a cigarette on the granite steps of the Malba, basking in the sun near the Recoleta market, and sipping café con leche in various corner bistros—I almost always encountered the very same, very strange, reaction from onlookers nearby.

“What are you reading?” they might say as they asked for a light, or handed me my coffee over the counter. “Marquez, Diaz, Borges…” I’d reply with a satisfied little smirk, showing them the books’ façade. “En Ingles!” they’d shriek back with terror, as though I were holding something incendiary, something mutinous or blasphemous. I’d have to justify myself to the barista, the Porteno, the stranger—explain to them that my Spanish is embarrassingly poor, and that it would be far too difficult to read these books in their native Castallano. I’d plead my case of how I still wanted to enjoy the masterpiece, and how truly amazing I thought it was—always to an unyielding look of disapproval.

book cover: Labyrinths by Jorge Luis Borges

I took to reading in my room, or isolated in the middle of a large grassy park, to avoid these awkward confrontations, and so settled in comfortably as I delved into Borges’ Labyrinths. Labyrinths could not be a more appropriate title for this collection of short stories. Not only do many of them relate to real or figurative “labyrinths,” but the individual tales are so profuse and loaded with mysteries and puzzles that the act of reading them feels much like being in a labyrinth. I had to reread the stories several times in order to grasp even some of the metaphysical mystery, layered paradoxes, literary and historical allusions. Still I’m certain there is much that has gone over my head.

Two stories I liked in particular for the twist delivered at the end, and the poignancy of their final lines were, “The Garden of Forking Paths” and “The Shape of the Sword.”

“He knew my problem was to indicate (through the uproar of the war) the city called Albert, and that I had found no other means to do so than to
kill a man of that name. He does not know (no one can know) my innumerable contrition and weariness.” –Garden of Forking Paths, Borges

Call me a blasphemer if you will for reading Borges in English, but I felt closer to the culture as I became familiar with such a central figure in Argentine literature. And if I could make the choice again, I’d still read it in English, because it was difficult enough to understand in my native language, let alone in Spanish for which nuance does not yet exist to me.