Jorge Luis Borges The Book of Sand (1978)
These short stories apparently number amongst Borges' last writings, and I gather the collection is regarded as being amongst his lesser works. Personally, although I didn't find much which packed quite the same punch as any of the stories collected in Labyrinths, it may simply be that I had a better idea of what to expect with this one, and it seems simply a quieter, less demonstrative work. A couple of the tales simply pass beneath one's gaze, like watching a stream from a bridge, leaving only a vague impression; and yet even in such cases, Borges' voice remains gripping, pulling the reader into the narrative regardless of how well the story appears to be shaping up. It's quite difficult to work out how he does this, but he does it very well, and the effect is slightly eerie, underscoring the notion that maybe we're reading something which is more than just fiction.
These short stories apparently number amongst Borges' last writings, and I gather the collection is regarded as being amongst his lesser works. Personally, although I didn't find much which packed quite the same punch as any of the stories collected in Labyrinths, it may simply be that I had a better idea of what to expect with this one, and it seems simply a quieter, less demonstrative work. A couple of the tales simply pass beneath one's gaze, like watching a stream from a bridge, leaving only a vague impression; and yet even in such cases, Borges' voice remains gripping, pulling the reader into the narrative regardless of how well the story appears to be shaping up. It's quite difficult to work out how he does this, but he does it very well, and the effect is slightly eerie, underscoring the notion that maybe we're reading something which is more than just fiction.
The years pass and I've told this story so many times I no longer know whether I remember it as it was or whether it's only my words I'm remembering.
As a writer who appears to speak directly from within his own pages, Borges writes books within books, implying layers of reality which blur the distinction between the reader and that which is read. These tales are short and evoke the mystery and serenity of de Chirico's art, fleeting presences half seen around a corner. In this one we have forgotten languages, a book which reads differently each time one opens it up, and even a tribute to those forbidden texts so pivotal to the fiction of H.P. Lovecraft - who, for all of his qualities, probably doesn't quite deserve such a tribute. This collection leaves the reader with the impression of having said a great deal, even though it's just a whisper, and the words seem to be different each time.
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