Stories in Stories in Stories in Stories

The Aleph and Other Stories. Jorge Luis Borges. 1949.

Borges is, genuinely, a great writer. One of the greatest to ever live probably. A genius who elevated and reshaped the form of the short story in the 20th century - so many short story writers owe a debt to him even if they don’t know it.

I’m sure you can sense a “but” coming.

I’ve tried. I’ve tried so hard to love Borges and I’ve never succeeded. There’s something missing, for me, and what’s more is that I’ve had the hardest time putting my finger on what that something is. Reading Borges, for me, is a little like reading somebody else’s dream. I can sense a great meaning, even see it, but all the context for meaning is missing. Nothing is ever as resonant as I know it’s supposed to be. One’s own dreams can become blurrier and less evocative the further away one gets from them, and someone else’s doubly so. Everything seems to be in soft focus, hazy around the edges, suggestive of meaning but not meaningful. It’s like putting together a puzzle with half the pieces missing, or maybe more appropriately, walking through a labyrinth with no map, but also with no particular goal in mind. The stories blend together, all part of a piece, but a piece of what?

I’m sure it’s me! I’m sure it is. I wish my Spanish was good enough to read Borges’ works that way, instead of in English. Then I’d get the beauty, more context for the meaning, more grandeur. I don’t truly believe you’ve read something if you’ve only read it in translation. You should at least have an original language version with you and a dictionary, and you’ll still be missing what’s obvious to a fluent speaker.

That’s a project for another day, or another year, maybe when my children are grown up: improving my Spanish to the point where I can read Borges. For now, Borges in English will have to do. And Borges in English is not for me.