A Conversation with Jorge Luis Borges
by Habitus · 02/14/08
MARÍ: Mr. Borges, you mentioned something very interesting about philosophy, and that is its enigmatic character. Among the important philosophical enigmas, in spite of the fact that there are many, there is one…
I would say there’s nothing else…
MARTÍ: Among these important enigmas one is the enigma of truth, the other is the enigma of death.
For me death is a hope, the irrational certitude of being abolished, erased and forgotten. When I’m sad, I think, what does it matter what happens to a twentieth-century South American writer; what do I have to do with all of this? You think it matters what happens to me now, if tomorrow I will have disappeared? I hope to be totally forgotten, I believe that this is death. But perhaps I’m wrong and what follows is another life on another plane, with distinct conditions, no less interesting than this one, and I will accept that life, too, just as I have accepted this one. But I would prefer not to remember this one in the other, being younger. [laughter]
STUDENT: You say that you accept and resign yourself to what life gives you, but are you not constructing this life through your actions?
I don’t believe in free will. In this case, I’m not constructing.
Now, if you believe in free will, free will is a necessary illusion. But regarding my past, I can accept that everything that I have done has been conditional upon world history, upon the entire cosmic process that came before. But if I’m told in this moment that I’m not free, I give myself away. Here are my two hands, and I say, I can choose which I’m going to drop onto the table, and in this moment I’m sure, but, now that I’ve let fall the left hand, how can I accept that this was determined and letting the right fall would have been impossible?
But in what we refer to as the past, on the contrary, you can think, if I acted badly, I have no reason to repent, as it was already determined, and the ideas of punishment and reward both would be false, since everything has been predetermined; that free will doesn’t exist, that everything has been conditional. But this depends on the temperament of the individual. Perhaps those of you who are young feel free will more easily. As for me, it happens that it’s very difficult to believe in it.
STUDENT: You wrote that the theme of time is one of the most important. Could you tell me why you believe this?
I have found it essential. For example, you can conceive of the universe without space since space is a creation that owes itself to touch and sight. But we are going to eliminate touch and sight, and we’re going to suppose simply a conscience. This conscience, or these consciences—they could be infinite—must communicate through words of our own sound or through music, that would be more beautiful still. So we would have a purely temporal universe, without space. But a universe without time is for me inconceivable.
STUDENT: If you were a critic of your work, how would you explain certain symbols, such as labyrinths, mirrors?
The answer is easy in the case of the labyrinth: it’s the most evident symbol of perplexity. I feel completely lost, and the labyrinth is an obvious symbol of being lost. Now, the mirror is not so easy. It’s the idea of “I,” for example, what one has been, and later one will be a third person, it’s an aspect of the mirror.
I haven’t chosen these themes, the themes chose me. I don’t believe that any writer should search for themes or choose them, it’s convenient that the themes look for him and find him…
In the case of a story, the beginning and the end always reveal themselves to me, but not what happens between the starting point and the finish line. There are writers who say that they don’t work this way, that for them the beginning is sufficient, later they look for the best ending, the best solution. I know the beginning and the end, and I have to figure out what happens between them for the story itself, and I can be wrong. So I have to start again when I realize this.
One has to see what truth there is in this whole process; if not, it would be very tedious. At my age, one doesn’t have contemporaries. They have died. I pass a good part of my time alone, but I don’t complain about this. I am populating the time with plans for the future, a future that can conclude at any moment, of course. I have many young friends but they can’t give me their time, it’s natural.
STUDENT: Carlos Fuentes said of Buenos Aires that it would be lovely to put it into words, and he said that Borges had done it. Do you consider yourself a Buenos Aires writer?
First, I don’t know if it’s just, but I thank him. Of course, I am from Buenos Aires. I was born in the center, it’s something I know very well, but it was a different place then. I was born in Maipú, between Esmeralda and Suipacha. The whole block was low houses, with a door to the street, with a knocker—there were no doorbells—the hallway, the inner door, patio, well, very tall ceilings. Buenos Aires was very distinct. Actually, there are many parts that I don’t know. For example, a year ago I went for the first time in my life to the Teatro Colón; I have never been in Villa del Parque, in La Boca del Riachuelo, they are places I don’t know; apart from Barracas, el Sur, el Centro, Palermo, I don’t know, but the Palermo that I imagine is something that has disappeared, that of Evaristo Carriego.
