man attempts to rewrite greek myths to understand the psychology of the ancients. meets another guy doing the same thing who pretends his name is jung. in the end they knife fight in an infinite library.
A book reviewer goes to sleep and wakes up an architect. The two are one and the same yet the possibility of them ever meeting is even slimmer than the chance of drawing six correct lottery numbers tomorrow, not that tomorrow as a concept is real due to there being no past or future as there is only the infinite present. The architect finds a clue in a building blueprint that alludes to a secret society of heretics that claim that all books containing the letter 'z' should be burnt. The architect goes to sleep and wakes up a book reviewer. He argues in an essay that DFW was a hack.
A man is trying to organize his Ligo collection from his childhood for sale because he is unemployed and impecunious. He tries to organize the pieces but for every designation of element he finds that there are an endless number of pieces with unique combinations of features. There are plates with clips on them and bricks with clips on them. There are bricks with hinges, both vertical and horizontal. There are bricks with hinges and clips. There are brackets with hinges. There are bracketed plates, there are bracketed brick. There are plates in wedge shapes with brackets and clips on them. It seems as though for every possible iteration of features at least one unique piece exists in the collection. It becomes increasingly difficult to utilize the space while organizing the bricks into any sort of logical system. The man starves to death as he is performing the task.
>>7676323 I remember the week of June 8th, 2015 more distinctly than any in my forty-two years of life.
I was on one of my many walks through the sky blue corridors of my Buenos Aires neighbourhood when, by the good graces of a very precocious carrier pigeon, I was contacted by an aging street tough and infamous poet of that ur-metaphysical persuasion once espoused by a certain Russian Baron, whom I had become previously acquainted with on account of our mutual love of mescal and correspondence. His message was laconic, saying he was passing through in the next few days and wished to share a fantastic discovery. At the appointed time there came a distinct knock at my door and, after settling in with some mate and pleasantries, he presented me with his findings. He explained that he had discovered a tome, lacking any title and whose spartan trappings left a rather unremarkable effect on this locutor, that detailed the history of a purely ideological species. The people described therein possessed no material form, though this did not rob them of all interaction with the human experience. The markless tome, written entirely in Middle Latin in a penmanship that brought to mind the hermetic and monastic spheres, went into vivid detail about the peoples emanation via memories. While not present qua extension, the "angelus", as they were called, were nevertheless present in the formal sense, and their bodies may be seen in the purely idealized memory of any cognizant being. Any and all remembered persons may be one of these "angelus", and only by consistently contrasting ones mimetic account of the world with an objective one (his favoured method was a camera affixed to his hat at all times). By appealing to this camera he was able to identify half a dozen persons whom he distinctly recalled having prolonged relations with over the past few years but of whom no footage existed. In leaving he lent me his copy of that tome to pore over in my own time, assuring me it would be of great interest to my writings. Regretfully I have not seen that indistinct book in months, most likely lost during a moving week that saw a good dozen items from my personal library unaccounted for.
>>7676674 One way you could have done that is by creating a hierarchy, like hinges >> clips >> plates for example. So if a piece had hinges it would belong to the "hinges" category, even if it had clips. Also, it would only belong to the "plates" category if it had plates and didn't belong anywhere upper in the hierarchy.
He rose and drew his cane as he would draw his knife in his youth on street corners north of the Maldonado. He swung blindly and knocked down an entire shelf of an infinite number of books with an infinite number of pages. The Other--who was in fact his younger self--had fled or had never existed, along with everything that had ever existed or was to exist. The library crumbled around and within him.
With eyes pointed to a ceiling he wasn't sure was there he felt around this world of ephemeral threads which he would never again leave. He was a meme now. "As long as they keep posting me, I'll live", he smiled inwardly.
It wasn't so much a library as reticulate mountain. Stacks of books, papers, manuscripts, laid out in rows according to author and to topic and stacked out of my field of vision, all things known and written down by Man.
It was sizeable -- indeed a mountain -- but finite nonetheless. I had no fear of walking in one direction and finding no end. I began to read as a young man freshly pleased with this gift laid out in front of him, and I continue my foray into the oeuvre of human knowledge to this day. I move in one direction until I've reached the very end of the row, and then will move in another direction, and another, exhausting the reaches of our understandings of psychology and mathematics and biology and literature and world history and physics one at a time until there is nothing left to know.
My goal is en route but far from complete, and as an old man I do not know how much farther down this row of papers I can physically walk. I've yet to reach the end of a row even once. A suspicion has come over me in my senile age: what if there really is no end? Although surely there must be, I've surprised myself more than once in picking up a book with curious binding and dated at the current year. An impossibility given that this mountain of written knowledge seems to have existed as it was since I began my reading quest all those years ago. A printing error, surely. But it's occasioned more than once, a book if not proclaiming to have been published this year than within only the last few.
I must set this pen down and continue my work. I pick up the next article, a printed-out webpage which holds a box with the words "post something Borgesian ITT" at the top and boxes of text beneath that one, and then another, materializing in ink before my eyes, beginning with the words "It wasn't so much a library...", and then another, and another, materializing before me the very moment that they are written. As long as another soul is alive, my task here will never be complete.
i'm taking a class on borges at school and god damn he is the corniest fucking writer. I want to create a borges generator that can write something like this >>7676729 maybe with a few more names of places in europe and streets in buenos aires thrown in for good measure
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