I went to the library recently, and as I was walking towards the fiction section, something caught my eye. It was an old, beaten up encyclopedia with a faded orange cover consisting of 26 volumes, one for each letter of the alphabet. Randomly I selected the “U” volume, but when I opened it up a few folded, crinkled papers fell out onto the floor. I picked them up and rearranged them, and realized they were a pair of letters. I felt slightly guilty reading them, but I decided that I would immediately dispose of them if they contained any private or sensitive material. Having now read both letters, I feel compelled to share them, but I should note that I have changed or obscured names and other identifying information in order to protect the parties involved. The letters are copied below completely and faithfully, save for the changes I’ve just noted.
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March 14, 195—
L—, my dear friend,
I apologize for being brusque — of course I want to know about your time in the Peruvian jungle, and if you’ve finally been able to track down that flower whose petals supposedly cure yellow fever, but unfortunately I have some terrible news to share with you that cannot wait. Our mutual friend Marcel, whom I know you love as a brother, like I do, is lost. He is not dead! He is alive, he has suffered no bodily injury, some who visit him (particularly those of an artistic sensibility) even claim that he is perfectly fine. But I, and others who know and love him, as well as the doctors at the facility that he now calls home, know the painful truth: he has gone completely and irrevocably insane.
As you know, Marcel has for some time been increasingly preoccupied with the works of that Argentine writer Borges. At Marcel’s insistence, I have multiple times skimmed Borges’ work, but only that — I’ve found his stories to be silly and fantastical, fit for precocious children with large vocabularies, not adults with any sense of self-respect. I shared these thoughts with Marcel (honesty, even in its brutality, being a foundation of our friendship), and he, as the sycophant that he has become, was of course horrified. He contended that I was only floating in the waves at the surface of Borges’ work, that there was an undertow that would pull me down to the hidden layers of the art of writing, if only I would let it. I responded that I’d prefer not to drown, which finally made him laugh. We agreed to disagree, and though he continued to delve deeper into the study of Borges, he mostly kept the matter to himself.
However, one day, while we were sipping coffee at our usual table at the Cafe D—, he brought up Borges again, or rather, he brought up his resolution regarding Borges. “I have decided,” he said, “to write the most Borgesian story.” I told him this was ridiculous, hadn’t Borges already written the perfect Borgesian story (whatever that meant). “Oh yes,” he replied. “He certainly has. All of his writing is by definition Borgesian, of course, and a few of his works can truthfully be described as achieving a state of perfection. As I’ve told you, there is not a word, thought, or phrase that should be added or subtracted from works like The Garden of Forking Paths or The Library of Babel. But I am after something different. I don’t aim to write the perfect Borgesian story, I aim to write the most Borgesian story. Something that completely encapsulates the essence, the true core of his work. He has of course hinted at it, even exposed pieces of it throughout his writing (that’s what makes it his), but I want to reveal this core as its whole, pure self, untainted by human concerns (that even Borges falls prey to) like style, meaning, or reason.”
I was silent for a few seconds, and then involuntarily I burst out laughing. Even in the moment I felt guilty — Marcel was, is, my friend, and despite our disagreement over the merits of Borges’ work, I knew that this was important to Marcel. Also, though I have no such talents of my own, I like to think of myself as someone who appreciates the arts, and thus artists as well, and I try to keep in mind that many, perhaps most of the great works were borne of something, whatever it is, that cannot be described as reasonable. Given all that has occurred, I feel even worse about it now. “Where would Marcel be, if I had just had a bit more restraint?” I can’t help but think such thoughts now. Nevertheless, I did laugh, and he stormed off without saying another word.
As I said, I felt bad about my reaction, and I sent him a note of apology that same evening, but several days went by without a response. I didn’t think too much of it — you know how Marcel can get when his moods overtake him. Finally, after another week and a half, I walked to his flat to apologize in person. He was home — the light was on in his study, and I could see the shadow of his profile on the window shade. However, he didn’t answer the door, even when I called out loud. After several such attempts, and feeling completely ridiculous, I went home as angry at him as I thought he was at me. A few more weeks passed, by which time my anger had faded and I was truly concerned. Not for Marcel or his health — I had no reason to suspect the sickness that would consume him, but for our friendship. We’d had fights before, but nothing as long-lasting as this, and nothing for which he cared so deeply (he certainly loved Borges more then he’d ever loved J—). I went back to his flat, with the same result. I started asking after him with some of our mutual acquaintances, mostly friends of his whom I did not particularly care for, that I had met at dinner parties and the like at Marcel’s (I would have gone to you first, but you’d left for South America before any of this had started). They all shared the same experience with me: none of them had been in contact with Marcel in some time, and I eventually determined that “some time” went back to the day he had told me of his resolution at the cafe. A few had gone to his flat and had the same luck as myself. Marcel seemed to be ignoring all of us, working on that story of his. To be perfectly honest, I felt a bit relieved to hear that he was ignoring everyone, not just me, but this feeling quickly passed as I realized that this was simply not like him. I called back up a few of his friends I had spoken to, those I knew were closest to him, and discussed the situation further. I explained to them everything I could remember about what Marcel had told me at the cafe and previously about Borges. The general consensus among us was that Marcel had simply gotten lost in his writing, more than he ever had before, but we decided to go to his flat together the next afternoon to get reassurance from him directly.
The next day we met outside Marcel’s at the agreed time. We knocked on his door, then shouted, with no effect. We stood there for a few moments, confused and out of ideas, when one of Marcel’s friends, a certain Mr. J—, pulled out a pair of tools from his inside coat pocket. I’d met Mr. J— only once, at Marcel’s many years ago, but I do distinctly remember being quite unclear about what exactly he did for a living. After he used the tools to break the lock on Marcel’s front door (and turned to us with a sheepish smile that became a wide grin) I had my answer. In any case, we followed Mr. J— in and went directly to Marcel’s study. We found him there, hunched over his desk writing. He was thin and sunken, sickly, but he was writing ferociously. I couldn’t tell if he’d even noticed us or not, but when I said hello, he stopped and looked up at us. “Hello,” he said, then went back to writing. Our attention had initially been captured by the sight of our friend, but we now looked around the room. Papers were scattered everywhere. It looked as if some piles of paper had fallen from Marcel’s desk onto the floor and he hadn’t bothered to pick them up, let alone organize them. I picked one sheet up from the floor and read it. “What is this?” I asked. “It’s the story, of course,” said Marcel. I picked up another sheet and read it. I stood there dumbstruck for a moment before another of Marcel’s friends asked me to share what I’d read. I handed her the piece of paper, then picked up another, and then another. They were all the same. As we read what Marcel had written we grew frantic. We started going through all of his papers, the piles stacked on his desk, the mess covering the floor. It was all the same. Meanwhile, Marcel continued to write. He finished the sheet that he’d been working on, set it aside, and pulled an empty sheet in front of him and began writing again. In desperation, we seized at the newly finished paper and examined it, but our last gasp of hope faded instantly. Its contents were identical to every other sheet of paper in that damned study:
“Marcel, in his delusion, his madness, and his genius, succeeded in writing the most Borgesian story. It went:
"Marcel, in his delusion, his madness, and his genius, succeeded in writing the most
Borgesian story. It went:
"Marcel, in his delusion, his madness, and his genius, succeeded in writing the most
Borgesian story. It went:
And so on. Every page consisted of those words, and those words only.
I’ll spare you the details of what happened immediately afterwards, how we pleaded with him, how terrible it was when he was taken to the facility. Fortunately, the doctors managed to convince him that he needed to eat properly, but only after he realized that this was necessary for him to continue his work (he in turn convinced the doctors that he would not eat until he was provided a continuous supply of pen and paper). At this point I still held the belief that his sanity would return, and I visited him regularly trying to show him the way back to his life. His other friends did the same, but one by one, we gave up. We told him that this goal of his was a delusion, a trick he’d played on himself, and that even if his goal was noble, the story he was writing was not what he was striving for. He gave each of us the same answer: we simply didn’t understand Borges. If we just read Borges with our eyes open, truly open, we would understand as he did. This made me furious. I will admit, my anger got the better of me several times, and I lashed out at a man, my friend (whatever was left of him) who was clearly mentally ill.
Finally, it being the last thing I could think to try, I resolved to take up Marcel’s challenge. I read everything that Borges has written, all of it, and then I re-read it. Over and over I read, trying to get to the heart of his writing, with the goal of refuting Marcel. I’d show him that Borges was getting at something else, whatever it was, and that something would allow Marcel to have his life back.
But I was wrong, and Marcel, in his insanity, was right. He’s gotten to the core of Borges, the object that Borges uses incessantly, the labyrinth, of course. But Borges only writes about it, while Marcel has arrived, he is there, he lives it. Marcel’s story, if it can be called that, really does capture what Borges is getting at, because what Borges is getting at has captured Marcel. He is stuck in a labyrinth: it consists of one room, with one door. When Marcel does the only thing he can do, when he opens the door and exits the room, he finds himself in the same room with the same door. There is only one way out for him, which is no way out.
But I’m going to get him out.
-H—
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March 16, 195—
L—,
Oh my love, I have awful news for you, I want to tell you in person but it can’t wait. Marcel had a mental breakdown and was institutionalized, but H—, oh I’m sorry to tell you this way, but H— must have had some kind of breakdown himself, because he’s broken into the institution and killed Marcel and himself. I’m so sorry. Please call me as soon as you get to a phone, I know we’ll have to take out a loan to pay for the bill but I need to hear your voice and know you’re alright.
All of my love,
B—
I find the way you captured not only the themes of Borges, but, at least in places, also his cadence and style very impressive. The work of Borges does indeed inspire a certain temptation to recreate it. I myself have long aspired to assemble an Orbis Tertius of sorts, to write the encyclopedia of our own Tlön. However, by Marcel's example, my failure so far might be for the better.
Hmmm, a good story, though the ending is perhaps purposefully, very un-Borgesian. An alternative way of ending it, that I thought of while reading, would have been if the first letter itself was actually the story, written by M- (Marcel), the second letter describing how he spends his time in a sanatorium, writing ever more intricate variations on the same letter. And then you might find out that the second letter is actually.... at which point there is a note showing that the frame story is actually a story written by ... etc.
On the other hand, with the spirit of Borges, I agree it hinges a lot on labyrinths and recursion, but there is one built in escape route in his philosophy: The rejection of identity. All Borge's stories to some extent revolves around this rejection that there exist such thing as an 'identity' of a writer, there is only the story, which is an object on its own, which the writer will not understand any better than the reader. Realizing this, the poor Marcel will see that he is no more Marcel than he is Shakespeare (even should he accidentally get Shakespeare's memory handed to him).