MrMary Reads: Delia San Marco by Jorge Luis Borges from his book “El Haceador”

Borges with cat

We said goodbye on a corner in Once. From the other sidewalk I turned to look back; you too had turned, and you waved goodbye to me.

A river of vehicles and people were flowing between us. It was five o’clock on an ordinary afternoon. How was I to know that the river was Acheron the doleful, the insuperable?

We did not see each other again, and a year later you were dead.

And now I seek out that memory and look at it, and I think it was false, and that behind that trivial farewell was infinite separation.

Last night I stayed in after dinner and reread, in order to understand these things, the last teaching Plato put in his master’s mouth. I read that the soul may escape when the flesh dies.

And now I do not know whether the truth is in the ominous subsequent interpretation, or in the unsuspecting farewell.

To say goodbye to each other is to deny separation. It is like saying “today we play at separating, but we will see each other tomorrow.” Man invented farewells because he somehow knows he is immortal, even though he may seem gratuitous and ephemeral.

Delia, we will take up again–beside what river?–this uncertain dialogue, and we will ask each other if ever, in a city lost on a plain, we were Borges and Delia.

Some thoughts from MrMary

I love the phrase ” the fabric of reality”. it show to me the fragility of what is  considered ‘real’. The image of fabric is evocative of a weave together of separate, disparate strands  into a pattern that while may not be visible up close, takes flight or comes into being once  we have put some distance between ourselves and ‘it’.  Fabric also brings to mind  other things one of which is again. Whatever grip we have on reality is tenuous. Yes of course the smallest fibers can weave together a rope of unbelievable strength, but that rope can be cut, can be eroded over time

Borges lost a close friend and things were never the same for him. I feel that loss rodes away the temerity we walk around our lives with. This is the same temerity that doesn’t let us think about our own mortality. This is the same temerity that down plays the power that choice has in our lives. And finally this is the same temerity that makes us as Cormac McCarthy has said: “forget what you want to remember, and you remember what you want to forget.”There are many people who I wont see and who wont see me and that it. If they remember me I am a phantom, a faceless incurious ephemerality that wanders the spaces of their daydreams and thoughts.

if you think we step constantly in the river Acheron. Ironically enough the river Acheron was known as the river of pain, but also  it was describes as  “a place of healing, not a place of punishment, cleansing and purging the sins of humans.”  Maybe there is a purge in this, maybe the fabric of reality needs to be constantly unraveled and laced back together again which in effects creates something much more complex. I imagine that complexity is such that distance from “it” would still not be enough to perceive it.

ehhh just some random thoughts




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