To the Ends of the Earth

The books were a mixed lot. One corner was mostly Everyman editions, the classics in English translation—Homer, Dante, Virgil. There were shelves of poetry in no particular order—Tennyson and e. e. cummings, Byron, Poe, Wordsworth, Hardy. There were reference books, Harvey’s English Literature, The Oxford Book of Quotations, various dictionaries—including Doctor Johnson’s—and an old leatherbound encyclopedia. They were not fine editions; the spines were worn, the cloth had faded; but they had the look of having been read. They were well thumbed, they sprouted paper page markers. Reading alters the appearance of a book. Once it has been read, it never looks the same again, and people leave their individual imprint on a book they have read. One of the pleasures of reading is seeing this alteration of the pages, and the way, by reading it, you have made the book yours.

There was a sound of scuffing in the corridor, and a distinct grunt. Borges emerged from the dimly lighted foyer, feeling his way along the wall. He was dressed formally, in a dark blue suit and dark tie; his black shoes were loosely tied, and a watch chain depended from his pocket. He was taller than I had expected, and there was an English cast to his face, a pale seriousness in his jaw and forehead. His eyes were swollen, staring, and sightless. But for his faltering, and the slight tremble in his hands, he was in excellent health. He had the fussy precision of a chemist. His skin was clear—there were no age blotches on his hands—and there was a firmness in his face. People had told me he was “about eighty.” He was then in his seventy-ninth year, but he looked ten years younger. “When you get to my age,” he tells his double in the story “The Other,” “you will have lost your eyesight almost completely. You’ll still make out the color yellow and lights and shadows. Don’t worry. Gradual blindness is not a tragedy. It’s like a slow summer dusk.”

“Yes,” he said, groping for my hand. Squeezing it, he guided me to a chair. “Please sit down. There’s a chair here somewhere. Please make yourself at home.”

He spoke so rapidly that I was not aware of an accent until he had finished speaking. He seemed breathless. He spoke in bursts, but without hesitation, except when starting a new subject. Then, stuttering, he raised his trembling hands and seemed to claw the subject out of the air and shake ideas from it as he went on.

“You’re from New England,” he said. “That’s wonderful. That’s the best place to be from. It all began there—Emerson, Thoreau, Melville, Hawthorne, Longfellow. They started it. If it weren’t for them there would be nothing. I was there—it was beautiful.”

“I’ve read your poem about it,” I said. Borges’s “New England 1967” begins, They have changed the shapes of my dream …

“Yes, yes,” he said. He moved his hands impatiently, like a man shaking dice. He would not talk about his work; he was almost dismissive. “I was lecturing at Harvard. I hate lecturing—I love teaching. I enjoyed the States—New England. And Texas is something special. I was there with my mother. She was old, over eighty. We went to see the Alamo.” Borges’s mother had died not long before, at the great age of ninety-nine. Her room is as she left it in death. “Do you know Austin?”

I said I had taken the train from Boston to Fort Worth and that I had not thought much of Fort Worth.

“You should have gone to Austin,” said Borges. “The rest of it is nothing to me—the Midwest, Ohio, Chicago. Sandburg is the poet of Chicago, but what is he? He’s just noisy—he got it all from Whitman. Whitman was great, Sandburg is nothing. And the rest of it,” he said, shaking his fingers at an imaginary map of North America. “Canada? Tell me, what has Canada produced? Nothing. But the South is interesting. What a pity they lost the Civil War—don’t you think it is a pity, eh?”

I said I thought defeat had been inevitable for the South. They had been backward-looking and complacent, and now they were the only people in the States who ever talked about the Civil War. People in the North never spoke of it. If the South had won, we might have been spared some of these Confederate reminiscences.

“Of course they talk about it,” said Borges. “It was a terrible defeat for them. Yet they had to lose. They were agrarian. But I wonder—is defeat so bad? In The Seven Pillars of Wisdom, doesn’t Lawrence say something about ‘the shamefulness of victory’? The Southerners were courageous, but perhaps a man of courage does not make a good soldier. What do you think?”

Courage alone could not make you a good soldier, I said, not any more than patience alone could make you a good fisherman. Courage might make a man blind to risk, and an excess of courage, without caution, could be fatal.