"At my age (I was born in 1899), I cannot promise - I cannot
promise even myself - more than these few variations on favorite
themes." Borges need not be so apologetic, for these thirteen
pinwheels of fable, philosophy, and autobiography spin brightly
enough to stand apart from the shadow of The Aleph. Nor should he
feel the need to explicate them, as he does in an afterword of
"hasty notes." If anything, too many of these stories are crystal
clarities rather than crystal clouds, transparencies instead of
highly buffed but stubbornly opaque mirrors. An amusing sliver of
academia rather too neatly spots the common denominator - vanity -
that links an ambitious scholar with an ivory-towered one. A
doppelganger encounter with a younger self at Harvard is saved from
obviousness by its testy sang-froid and wry self-deprecation: "We
have not changed in the least, I thought to myself. Ever the
bookish reference." Similarly, Borgesian cool redeems a
future-voyager's familiar, pessimistic forecast, while a
metaphysical point is too clearly made out an old man's memory of
first exposure to love and death, and a wisp of Borges-in-Love
(with feminist "Ulrike" in York) is more precious for its rarity
than for any lingering effect. Not that this is a see-through
collection. Make what you will of a murky homage to H. P. Lovecraft
or imaginary fragments from theological history (a sect that
worshipped Jesus and Judas equally) and medieval tale-telling (a
harp-singer's single word, "wonder," imparts total understanding).
But five are prime, if not sug generis, Borges. "The Disk" and "The
Book of Sand" present paradoxes - the one-sided object, the
infinite-paged book - with dazzling economy, a blessed refusal to
comment, and precisely the right quiver of a smile. A court poet's
enforced quest for honesty moves from irony ("I have made myself
skilled in satire, which causes infirmities of the skin, including
leprosy") to true fairy-tale terror. "Avelino Arredondo" is most
atypical, entering the mind of a Uruguayan political assassin as he
numbs himself into action. And "The Congress" is a marvel, the rare
Borges story that makes direct human contact while toying with
fantasy - here, the doomed turn-of-the-century Congress of the
World (one poor man, one beautiful woman, etc.) in Buenos Aires. A
book full of stories like "The Congress" would be for everyone;
like The Book of Sand, alas, no such book exists, and this
see-sawing assortment reflects the cool-warm strengths and ice-cold
limitations of an elusive master. (Kirkus Reviews)
The Book Of Sand was the last of Borges' major collections to be published. The stories are, in his words, 'variations on favourite themes... combining a plain and at times almost colloquial style with a fantastic plot'. It includes such marvellous tales as 'The Congress', 'Undr' and 'The Mirror and the Mask'. Also included are the handful of stories written right at the end of Borges' life - 'August 25, 1983', 'Blue Tigers', 'The Rose of Paracelsus' and 'Shakespeare's Memory.'
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