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385 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1953
I suppose life, I suppose the world is a nightmare, but I can't escape from it and am still dreaming it, And I cannot reach salvation. It's shielded from us. Yet I do my best and I find my salvation to be the act of writing, of going in for writing in a rather hopeless way, What can I do? I'm over 80. I am blind. I am very often lonely.Although Borges had in his late years cut back on writing prose, those were the golden years of his poetic career. It is apparently much easier to write a poem of limited size in one's head than a longer piece of prose. So one door shuts and another opens.
Of course I know that I am eighty. I hope I may die at any moment, but what can I do about it but to go on living and dreaming, since dreaming is my task?
…if a soul is damned it is forever in hell, there is no use in finding its way to heaven. And the great Swedish mystic Swedenborg thought much the same way. The damned are unhappy in hell but would be far unhappier in heaven.
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I think of death as being full of hope. Hope of annihilation. Hope of being forgotten. Sometimes I feel unhappy. I can’t help it. Then I say: But after all why should I be unhappy, since at any moment I may die? And that comes to me as a comfort. Because I think of death as being total. I don’t want to go on. I’ve lived far too long. Why go on after death? That’s an exaggeration. I stand in hope of death, not in fear of death.
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It is very common to be unhappy, but when we are unhappy, we do not get the nightmare touch, the uncanny touch, the eerie touch. That is given us by the nightmare itself. The nightmare has a peculiar horror to it. The nightmare, that tiger of the dream. It has a peculiar horror that has nothing to do with things that happen to us in waking life. And that horror might be a foretaste of hell. I don’t believe in hell, of course, but there is something very strange about the nightmare, and nobody seems to have noticed that.
Hay tanta soledad en ese oro.
La luna de las noches no es la luna
Que vio el primer Adán. Los largos siglos
De la vigilia humana la han colmado
De antiguo llanto. Mírala. Es tu espejo. (La luna)