Scribd Logo
Upload

Welcome to Scribd!

  • 946 views

    Borges - The Garden of Forking Paths PDF

    Uploaded by

    sanjay

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as PDF or read online from Scribd
    Flag for inappropriate content

    You might also like

    Borges - The Garden of Forking Paths PDF

    Uploaded by

    sanjay
    946 views7 pages

    Original Title

    Borges - The Garden of Forking Paths.pdf

    Copyright

    © © All Rights Reserved

    Available Formats

    PDF or read online from Scribd

    Did you find this document useful?

    Is this content inappropriate?

    Report this Document

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as PDF or read online from Scribd
    Flag for inappropriate content
    Download as pdf
    946 views7 pages

    Borges - The Garden of Forking Paths PDF

    Uploaded by

    sanjay

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as PDF or read online from Scribd
    Flag for inappropriate content
    Download as pdf
    of 7
    88 / Jorge Luis Borges disorder (which, repeated, would constitate an order: Order itself). My solitude rejoices in this elegant hope.* ‘Mar dal Plata 1941 —Transleted by Axeuon Kxmsr04% Talis Aare de Tle as obrved at te vst Lay ite Say pag ou ene Sd i 8 ie Solano ed frm pain be o x pe bed ad ome eg a aay pe (een S18 serneeth cary, Cased at af any ed ol oe SSveouten can fst? ower of pace) Tob ally vole mec ‘Toll rly be bani nch apart le of the beak weld le Tie cer seungo le The ococvale eal al wool Ee THE GARDEN OF FORKING PATHS ToVictorie Ocampo In his A Bisory of the World War (gage 212), Captain ‘Liddell Hart reports that a planned offensive by thirteen British divisions, supported by fourteen hundved artillery pisces, against ‘the German line at Serre-Montauban, ‘scheduled for July 24, 1916, had to be postponed ttl the ‘morning of the 29th, He comments that torentil rain eased this delay—which lacked any special significance. ‘The {ollowing deposition, dictated by, read over, and thea signed by Dr. Yu Tsun, former teacher of English at the Tsingieo Hocksckale, casts unsuspected light upon this event. ‘The first two pages are missing serneeneee - -nd T hung up the phone, Immediately T recollected the voice that had spoken in German. It was that of Captain Richard Madden. Madden, in Viktor Runeberg’s otic, meant the end of all our work and—ibough this seemed a secondary matter, or should have seemed 50 40 me—of cur lives also. His being there meant that Runeberg had beea arrested or murdered,* Before the sun ect on this same day, Tran the same risk. Madden was implacable, Rather, to be ‘more accurate, he was obliged to be implacable, An Trishe san io the secvice of England, a man suspected of equivocal. A salou and ctntih suemet. In plat of fat, Capa ichrd Baden fd een atc by the Praan 9y Hane Baten, tas Vitor Rete, who tive an sulci psc! nen Medeed ‘peal wh ones fr the spy ave. Made elf dt, bak leited wounds of wich te yy ltr Gel-—ote by he monet 9 90 / Jorge Lats Borges feelings if not of actual treachery, how could he fail (> weleeme and seize upon this extraordinary piece of luck: the discovery, capture and pethape the deaths of two agents of Imperial Germany? rent up to my bedroom, Absurd though the gesture was, T closed and locked the door. ¥thtew myself dawn oa my ‘nacrow iroa bed, and waited on my back. The never chang- Ing rooftops filled the window, and the hazy six o'clock sun hnung ia the chy. It seemed incredible that this day, a day without warnings or omens, might be that of my implacable death.'Io despite of my dead father, in despite of having ‘been a child in one of the symmetrical gardens of Ha Feng, ras I to die now? ‘Then 1 reflected that all things happen, bappen to oae, precisely now. Century follows century, and things bappea aly in the present, There are countless men in the alt, 02 land and at sea, and all that really happens happens to me. = -- The almost unbearable memory of Madden's long, hhorseface put an end to these wandering thoughts. In the midst of my hatred and terror (now that It no longer matters to me to speak of terror, now that I have outwitted Richard Madden, now that my neck hankers for the hangman's noose), I knew that the fast-moving and Aoadtless happy soldier did not suspect that T possessed the Seere!—the name of the exact site of the new British artillery park cn the Ancre. A bird streaked across the misty sky and, absendly, I turned it into an aliplane and then that Airplane into many in the'skies of France, shatering the artillery park under a rain of bombs. If enly my mouth, before ft should be silenced by a ballet, could sbout this name in such way that it could be beard in Germany, ++ My voice, my human voice, was weak. How could it reach the ear of the Chief? The ear of that sick and hateful ‘man who knew nothing of Runeberg or of me except that wo ‘were in Staffordshire. A man who, sitting in his arid Berlin Ficciones 1 1 ‘lice, leafed infinitely through newspapers, ooking in vain for news from us, T suid aloud,“ must fe.” T sat up on the bed, in senseless and perfect sence, a8 if ‘Madden was already'peering at me. Something—perhaps merely a desire 9 prove my total penury to myselt—made me empty ont my pockets I found jast what I knew T was fing to ind. The American watch, the nicks! plated chain snd the square coin, the key ring with the useless but com promising keys to Runcberg’s office, the notebook, a etier which T decided to destroy at once (and which T did not destroy), a five shilling piece, two single shillings and some pennies, n red and bhie pencl, a handkerchie—and a revolver with a single bullet. Absurcly T held it and weighed it in my hand, to give myself courage, Vaguely I thought that a pistol shot can be heard for a great distance Tn ten minutes I had developed my plan. ‘The telephone directory gave me the name of the one person capable of passing on the information, He lived in a suburb of Feoton, Jes than half an hour away by tran, Tam a timorous man. T ean sty it now, now that T have brought my incredibly risky plan to an end. I was not te ag slow ed ioe att etn wa ee did not doit for Germany-—nol Such barbarous country {s of no importance to me, particularly since it had degraded re by making me become a spy. Furthermore, I knew an Englishan—a modest man—who, for me, is as great as Goethe dd not speak wich him for more than an hour, but during that time, be wes Goethe T carried cut my plan because I felt the Chief had some fear of thoce of my race, of thoce uncountable forebears ‘whose culmination lis in me, T wished to prove to him that 4 yellow man could save his armies. Besides, T had to escape the Captain, His hands and voice could, at any moment, knock and beckon at my door, Silently, T dressed, took leave of myself in the mirrr, ‘went down the stairs, sneaked a look at the quiet stret, 92 / Jorge Luis Borges ‘and went ont. The statlon was not far from my house, but thought it more prudent to take a cab. I told myself that I thus can loss chance of being recognized. The truth is that, in the deserted street, T felt infinitely visible and vulnerable. I recall that I told the driver to stop short of the main entrance. T got out with a painful and deliberate slowness. T was going t0 the village of Ashgrove, but took a ticket for a station further on. ‘The train would leave in a few ‘minutes at eight fty. I hurvied for the next would not go ‘until half past nive, ‘There was almest no one on the plai- form. I walked through the cartlages. I remember some farmers, a woman dressed in mouraing, a youth deep in ‘Tacitus! Annals and a wounded, happy soldier. ‘At last the (rain polled oat. A man I recognized ran fuciously, but vaialy, the length of the platform. It was ‘Ceptain Richard Madden, Shattered, trembling, I buddied in the distant cocner of the seat, as far as possible from the fearful window. ‘From utter terror I passed into a state of almost abject Doppiness. I told myself that the duel had already started and that 1 had won the fist encounter by besting my ad- versury in his first attack—even if it was only for forty minutes—by an accident of fate. I argued that so small a Drefigured a total vietory. I argued that it was not , that were it not for the precious accident of the ‘train schedule, I-would be in prison or dead. 1 argued, with 1 less sophism, that my timorous happiness was proof that Twas man enough to Dring this adventure to a successful conclusicn, From my weakness I drew strength that never leit me, T foresee that man will resign bimeelf each day to new abominations, that soon only soldiers and bandits will be left. To them I offer this advice: Whosoever would under- take some atrocious enterfrise should act as if ét were al- Ficciones | 93 ready eccomplished, should toypore upon himself a future 1s irreoocable a8 the pest. ‘Thus I proceeded, while with the eyes of a man already dead, T contemplated the fuetuations of the day which would probably be my last and waiched the difuse coming of night ‘The train crept ong gently, amid ash trees. It slowed own and stopped, almost in the middle of a field. No ane called the name of a station. “Ashgrove?” T asked some childven on the platform. “Ashgrove,” they replied. T got cut. ‘ lamp lit the platform, but the children's faces remained fn a shadow. Ove of them asked me: “Are you going to Dr. Stephen Albert's howe?” Without waiting for my answer, another sald: “The house is x good distance away ‘but yout won't get lot if you take the road to the left and beat to the left at every eroestoedi” I threw ther s coin (ay last), went down Some stone steps and started along a deserted road. At a slight incline, the road ran downhill, 1k was a plain dict way, and overkcad the branches of trees| {ntermngled, while a round mooa hung low in the sky as if to keep me company. For a moment I thought that Richard Madden might in some way have divined my desperate intent. At once 1 realized that this would be impossible, ‘The advice about turning always to the left reminded me that such was the ‘common formula for finding the central courtyard of cer- {in labyrinths. I koow something about labyrinths, Not for nothing am T the greatrandson of Tsui Péa, THe was Goveraor of Yunnan and gave up temporal power to write sx novel with more characters than there are in the Tang. Low Sténg, and to creste 2 maze in which all men would lose themselves. He spent thirteen years en these oddly assorted tasks belore be was assassinated by a stranger. His novel Jbad no sence to it and nobody ever found his labyrinth. ‘Under the trees of England T meditated on this lost and 94 / Jorge Luis Borger perhaps mythical labyrinth. T imagined it untoached and perfect on the secret summit of some mountain; I imagined ft drowned under rie paddies or beneath the sea; Limagined it infinite, made not only of eight-sided pavilions and of twisting paths but aleo of rivers, provinces and kingdoms. c++ thoaght of 2 maze of mazes, ofa sinnous, ever growing {naze which would take ia both past and future and would somehow involve the stars. Lost in these lnaglaary Musions forgot my destiny-—that ‘of the hunted, For an undetermined period of tine T fet ‘myself cut off (rom the world, an abstract spectator. The hazy and murmuring countryside, the moon, the decline of the evening, sired within me. Going down the gently slop- ing road T could not feel fatigue. ‘The evening was at once {intimate and infinite. ‘The road kept descending and branching off, through rmeadoms misty in the twilight. high-pitched and almost syllabic music Kept coming and going, moving with the ‘breeze, blurred by the leaves and by distance. ‘thought that a man might be an enemy of other men, of the difering moments of otber men, but never an enemy of a country: not of fireflies, words, gardens, streams, or the West wind. Meditating thus I arrived at a high, rasty iron gute. ‘Through the railings T could see an avenue bordered with poplar trees and also a kind of summer house or pavilion. ‘Two things dawned on me at once, the Bist trivial and the second almost increcble: the musie came from the pavilion and that music was Chinese, That was why I had accepted 4t fully, without paying it any attention. I do not remember ‘whether there was a bell, a push-button, or whether T at tracted atteation by clapping my hands. ‘The stuttering sparks of the music hept on. ‘But from the end of the avenue, from the mala bouse, a lantern approached; a tantem which alternately, from moment 10 moment, was crisscrossed or put out by the Ficciones | 95 trunks ofthe trees; a poper lantern shaped like a drum and colored like the moon. & (all man carried it T could uot see his face forthe light blinded me. Hee opened the gaie and spoke slonly in my language “1 see that the worthy Hsi Peng has troubled himself to see to relieving my solitude, No doubt you want to see the arden?” ‘Recognising the name of one of our consuls, replied, somewhat taken shock. “The garden?” “The garden of forking paths?” Something stirred in my memory and 1 sai, with ine ‘comprehensible assurance: “The garden of my ancestor, Tsui Pt” “Your ancestor? Your illustrious ancestor? Come fn.” ‘The damp path sigzagged like those of my childhood, ‘When we reached the house, we went into @ library filled with books from both East and West. T recognized some large volumes bound in yellow siIk—manuscripts of the Lost Encyclopedia which was edited by the Third Emperor of the Luminous Dynasty. They had never been priated. A Phonograph record was spinning near a bronze phoenis. I remember alo a rose-glazed jar and yet another, older by ‘any centuries, ofthat blue calor which our poters cop from the Persians... « oe Stephen Albert was watching me with a smile on his face. He was, as Thave sai, remarkably tall. His face was deeply ined and he ha gray eyes and a gray beard. There was about him something of the priest, and something of the sailor. Later, he told me he ad been misslonary in Tieatsin before le “had aspired to become a Sinolepis.” We sat dom, I upon a lage, low divan, be with bis back to the window and toa large circular clock calculated that ay pursuer, Richard Madden, could not arive In less than an boat. My irrevocable decison could vei “A strange destiny” said Stephen Albert, “that of Te 96 / Jorge Lait Borger ‘Pén—Gavernor of his native province, learned in astranomy, fn astrology and tireless in the interpretation of the canal cl books, a chess player, a famous poet and a calligrapiet. Yet he abandoned all to make a book and a labyrinth. He gave up all the pleasures of oppression, justice, of a well stocked bed, of banquets, and even of erudition, and shut himself up in the Pavilion of the Limpid Sun for thicteen years. At his death his heirs found only a mess of man. Seripts. The family, as you doubtless know, wished to consign them to the fire, but the executor of the estate—a ‘Taoist or a Buddhist monk—insisted on their publication.” “Those of the blood of tui Pen,” I replied, “sll curse the memory of that monk. Such a publication was madness. ‘The book isa shapeless mass of contradictory rough drafts. 1 examined it once upon m time: the hero dies in the third chapter, while in the fourth he is alive. As for that other ‘enterprise of Ts'ui Pén . .. his Labyrinth...” ‘Hore ig the Labyrinth,” Albert said, pointing to a tal, laquered writing cabinet. snot ory break” X exdained “A ty tbycank A symbolic labyrinth,” he corrected me. “An favisible Jnbyrinth of time. T, a barbarous Englishman, have been aiven the key to this transparent mystery. After more than 4 unvred years most of the details are irrecoverable, lst beyond al recall, but it is’t hard to image what must have ‘happened. At one time, ‘Tul Pén must have sald; ‘T am ‘ing into secusion to write a book,’ and at another, Tam Tetiring to construct a maze.’ Everyene assumed these were separate activities. No one realized that the book and the labyrinth were one and the same. The Pavilion of the Limpid Sun was set in the middle of an intecate gatden, This may Ihave suggrsted the idea of a physical maze, “Tsiul Pén died. In all the vast lands wbich once belonged to your family, ro one could find the labycinth. ‘The novel's confusion suggested that i was the labyrinth, Ficciones | 91 ‘Two cicumstmoes showed me the dit sltion to the problem. Fit te covets legend that Tsu Pén ad pro- posed to create an infiite mz, second, mfragment of & Teter which T desovered” ‘Albert rte, Fora fe momeais he ted bis back to me, Te opel the top érmer ithe igh lack aod gilded writing cabinet. He ret holng in bis land a pece Of psper whic had once ben crnson but which had fed trth the pastge of ime: wat rose colored, tmoet, {hadranglar, Tod Pee’ ealigrapy was uty famous, Eager, bt witost understanding Pred the words which aman of my own Bled bad wots witha smal brass * Teave to various fore dines, ut otto all my garden of forking pais T handed back the sheet of popes ence, Albert went "Wefoe X covered this eter, 1 hat aking myself oa ook could be Infinite, Load aot iagine aay tae than syste volume, crcl. A volume mame as onl be the same as theft and 0 have te peslty ot cotiing nde. I resale too te nigh inthe i is of Ble Tlrssend and One Nichi when Queen Schebercoade, dough a magia mistake onthe pt of het copys, satel toll te story of The Thowion end One (Whe, with thee of aga ariving atthe night upon Wich she wil rate If, ad thus ot to ltt, T abo Ingined x Platonic heretary wort pase on from other (0 on, to which each odvidtal woud add e new chapter er comet with pus cae the nok of his elders Tear conectures gave me anusemect, bul oooe sete to bave the remot application t the contradictory chap ters of Teh Pen. At hs point, 1 ms eet fom Oxford the maneripe you have Jus seen “Natural, ry tention wa chght by the setence, leave to vais fate tt, but oat to ly my geen of forking paths T had wo scoer red ts, tha Ttadestod. 98 / Jorge Luis Borges Tie Gorden of Foring Patt was the chaotic wovel itself ‘The phrase “o varions future tines, but not to all” sug: sted the image of bifercatng in tine, not in space. Re reading the whole work cnfrited this theory. In a tion, when & man is faced with alternatives he chooses one atthe ‘expense of the others. In the almost unfathemable Tsui én, be chooser—sirultsneouslyall of thom, He this creces various futures, vatious tines which stat otbers that wil in their turn branch out and bifwrate ia other ‘times. This i the cause ofthe contradictions fa the novel, “Pang, let us say, bas a seeret. A stranger knocks at bis oor, Fang makes op bis rind 4 4 bim, Naturally there ate various possible cutcomes. Fang can kil the intruer, the intruder can kill Fang, both can be saved, otk can dle and so on and so on. In Ts‘ Pén's wor, all th possible solutions occur, each ono being the point of departure for ‘other bifurcations. Sometimes the pathways ofthis Ibyriach ‘converge, For example, you come to this hows; but fn other possible pasts you are ay eacuy; fa others my (lend. “you will put up with my strocous pronunlaton, 1 ‘would lke to real you a few pages of your areestoes wor.” Tis countenance, in the Bright citle of Inplight, was ‘certainly that of an ancient, But it sbone with something ‘unyielding, even immortal ‘With slow precision he read two version of the same epic chapter, In th frst, an amy marches fto batle over a esolnie mountain pass. The Beak and somber aspect of the rocky landscape made the soles fed that life fst was of lite valu, and so they woa the baile easly. Tn the second, the same army passes through 2 palace here & Iaanquet is in progress. The speador ofthe feast remained ‘8 memory throughout the glorious battle, and 9 victory followed. With proper veneration 1 listened to these old tales, al- though peebaps with les adaiation for them in themselves than for the fact that dhey had been thought out by one of Fcciones | 99 ‘ny own Blood, and that a man ofa distant empire had given ‘hem back to me, inthe last stage of a desperate adventure, oa. Westemn island. I remember the final words, repented atthe ead of each version like a secret command: Thus the heroes fought, with tranquil heart and Bloody nord. ‘They were resigued to killing and to éying?” At that moment I felt within me and around me some- thing Sovieible and intangible pullulating, Tt was not the pallulatoa of two divergent, patalle), ane finally converging armies, but an agitation more inaccessible, more intimate, prefigured by them In some way. Stephen Albert continued: “T do not think that your illustrious ancestor toyed fly vith varltions. T do not find it believable that he would ‘waste thirteen years laboring over a never ending experi ‘ment in thetric. In your eountry the novel is an inferior ‘genre; In Tel Pén's period, it was a despised one. Ts'ul ‘én was a fine novelist but be was also a man of eters who, doubtless, considered himself more than a mere novelist. The ‘testimony of hls contemporaries attests to this, and certainly the known facts of his Wife confirm bia leanings toward the ‘metaphiysical and the mystical. Philosophical conjectures fake up the greater part of bis novel. T know that of all problems, none disquicted him more, and none concerned ‘im tore than the profound one of time. Now them, ths fs the only problem that does not figure in the pages of The Gerden, ie does not even use the word which means time. How can these voluntary omissions be explained?” T proposed various solutions, all of them inadequate, We

    You might also like