A l other, Borges, was to whom things happened. I takes me at bookstores in the cities I visit, trying to discover, perhaps mechanically now, a title that still does not know him. The other imagined a library consisting of books of four hundred ten pages, forty lines per page and eighty letters in each line that allowed all possible combinations twenty-five punctuation marks. To me it has given me endless pages of exhausting mission reports from the Network (which others call Text), in languages \u200b\u200bI do not know, for spaces with links that branch, to find a new reference, a letter recovered the definitive list of all your reviews, every word he wrote and only chance, or what we call deceptively random, can redeem the neglect. Convinced that there is always a way to circumvent the game, try to amend that jest Kabbalistic call that led him to complete a few of his works, perhaps waiting for someone like me to write a prologue that contains not only the work, but the spirit of the work, the comments of his writings, the refutation of these comments, criticism of these rebuttals, so that the work itself was unnecessary and definitely fall into oblivion. So maybe I like the perfection of the labyrinths and stripes of the tiger, the certainty of the mirrors and the edge of the sword, the accuracy of Kipling's prose, and not the other, who shared with me those preferences, but in a vain way that made him a character in itself. Ever wanted to write like him and stop having this vicarious life that I canceled and marginalize me, but I did not fall into the temptation to read their own stories. For this purpose in many sleepless nights that only work obsessive writing could relieve margin notes, studied in detail certain key works: the complete poetry of Lugones, a novel almost cryptic Macedonio Fernandez, the Milton's Paradise Lost, in a English edition in 1693, some passages of the work who wrote the immortal men who call Homer's translation of Sir Richard Burton did Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night , the first English version of Pliny, that of Philemon Holland, a comparative study of the Eclogues of Jacopo Sannazaro and War of the Worlds Wells , two apocryphal notes on poetic rhythm analysis of Völsunga Saga (1796), the correspondence between Mosco of Sicarusa and Thales, with a brief preface to Coleridge, a pamphlet entitled Cyrilus Osseo Ausdrucksform Die Negation als mit Berücksichtigung Besonderer , some aphorisms of Chesterton about the conventions and cats. I do not want to tire the patient reader to other works of minor importance which finally took me to when I started to write my first story, or think it should be noted that despite the pledge all my efforts I could not start it with this sentence: "On January 14, 1922, Emma Zunz, returning from the textile mill Tarbusch and Loewenthal, found at the bottom of the porch a letter dated in Brazil, which he learned that his father had died. " Nothing cost me confess that pages could have done better than the other, but not the same , which he saved me and I just left this vain custom of being sad. I'm destined to lose, definitely, and just a few of my pages will survive in the other and perfect in its glory. I am slowly rebuilding his life through the vast and memory mirror, I become a man worked for the time, a man who has learned to acknowledge the modest handouts destination: an old parable about butterflies and warriors, reading Cosmogony of Snorri Sturluson, a description the battle of Chacabuco, metaphor "And miles to go Before I Sleep" the soldier whose love for Matilda fainted Urbach, understand that waking is another dream that dreams do not dream. Angelus Silesius understood that to keep reading, it would be one book and also the essence of the book. I shall faint in Borges, not remain in me (if anyone's me), and each time I recognize more in the milongas and the suburbs, I was slowly changing the sweet sound of the rugged Italian Saxon poetry Machado by Evaristo Carriego clumsy verses, the accuracy of the clocks for the games with time and infinity, these shadows rise the relentless galloping of my diopters, the mirrors that just because I glimpse these glasses useless that I lost the habit of wear. I can no longer read Shakespeare and Spinoza, but these authors were of Borges, that distorted and magnified, and I have to get to do otherwise. But there will be no memories, afternoons earned the penalty, nights will be the same night. No one loses but what does not and has never had, and I just had the faithful memory, which is the other. I can only hope that death will match, not forgetting.
I do not know which one dreamed this page.
