I know not much about 'the one called Borges’, the one that ‘like(s) hourglasses, maps, eighteenth-century typography, the taste of coffee and the prose of Stevenson’. I let it stay that way. Nor shall I try to write about the other one, the Borges on book covers and on lists of literary magazines.
I shall rather make an attempt to seize the effect of our meeting: Borges strikes.
A staggering choice of verb, fringing at the scandalous for a writer known for his humility. It must be a strike, though, the proper way to describe the encounter. A lighting strike. To continue with the analogy; a certain charge must have been building up in one, calling for its matching charge.
Then, one picks up a book. On occasion, the book lends itself to one: loose ends folds endless, a solitude spirals out. His narration, rushing forwards, stalls cognition. It hums. Or it buzzes. When a lightning flash expands the air around it, thunder. When Borges expands the possibilities of imaginable, a buzzing hum.
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