jorge-luis-borges

I do not know which of us has written this page.

I'm alone and nobody is in the mirror

One day or one night__etween my days and nights, what difference can there be?__ dreamed that there was a grain of sand on the floor of my cell. Unconcerned, I went back to sleep; I dreamed that I woke up and there were two grains of sand. Again I slept; I dreamed that now there were three. Thus the grains of sand multiplied, little by little, until they filled the cell and I was dying beneath that hemisphere of sand. I realized that I was dreaming; with a vast effort I woke myself. But waking up was useless__ was suffocated by the countless sand. Someone said to me:You have wakened not out of sleep, but into a prior dream, and that dream lies within another, and so on, to infinity, which is the number of the grains of sand. The path that you are to take is endless, and you will die before you have truly awakened.I felt lost. The sand crushed my mouth, but I cried out: I cannot be killed by sand that I dream __or is there any such thing as a dream within a dream._ Jorge Luis Borges, The Writing of the God

The three of them knew it. She was Kafka__ mistress. Kafka had dreamt her. The three of them knew it. He was Kafka__ friend. Kafka had dreamt him. The three of them knew it. The woman said to the friend, Tonight I want you to have me. The three of them knew it. The man replied: If we sin, Kafka will stop dreaming us. One of them knew it. There was no longer anyone on earth. Kafka said to himself Now the two of them have gone, I__ left alone. I__l stop dreaming myself.

If you have feelings about reading, you feel the rhythm of prose or of a poem like music. It awakens something in your soul and then of course you study, read, you grow up and you begin to understand the message and that is the first step towards understanding life.

And yet, and yet_ Denying temporal succession, denying the self, denying the astronomical universe, are apparent desperations and secret consolations. Our destiny _ is not frightful by being unreal; it is frightful because it is irreversible and iron-clad. Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire. The world, unfortunately, is real; I, unfortunately, am Borges.

I think__he hero observes that nothing is so frightening as a labyrinth with no center.

At a certain point talk about 'essence' and 'oneness' and the universal becomes more tautological than inquisitive.

But let no one imagine that we were mere ascetics. There is no more complex pleasure than thought, and it was to thought that we delivered ourselves over.