And yet — Borges himself is immortal.
We don’t live forever. Instead, we live only in memory . And memory is Borges’s true labyrinth. It has no center. It has no exit. It is simply a corridor that folds back on itself, where your father is still young, where the book you haven’t written yet is already reviewed, where a blind Argentine man is smiling at you from across the century, saying: “Being immortal is unimportant; what matters is being remembered — and even that is a kind of fiction.” Read him. Reread him. Get lost. That’s the point. the immortal borges
There are writers you read to learn a story. Then there are writers you read to unlearn time. And yet — Borges himself is immortal