Borges "Clip"

The anthology is an admixture of prose and poetry. Not every piece rises to the same level (always the case), but every piece speaks (yells) of Borges.

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The argument set forth in the preceding paragraphs, rather encumbered and interrupted by examples, may seem intricate. I will find a more direct method. Let us consider a life in whose course repetitions abound: my life, for instance. I never pass in front of the Recoleta cemetery without remembering that my father, my grandparents, and great-grandparents are buried there, just as I shall be; then I remember having remembered the same thing innumerable times before; I can not walk through the outlying neighborhoods of the city in the silence of the night without thinking that nighttime is pleasing precisely because it does away with useless details, like memory; I can not lament the loss of a love or a friendship without meditating on how one only loses what one really never h ad; each time I cross one of the streets in South Buenos Aires, I think of you, Helen; every time the wind brings me the odor of eucalyptus, I think of Adrogué in my childhood; each time I recollect Fragment 91 of Heraclitus, You never go down to the same stream twice, I admire his dialectical skill, for the facility with which we accept the first meaning ("The stream is another") clandestinely imposes upon us the second meaning ("I am another") and grants us the illusion of having invented it; every time I hear a Germanophile running down Yiddish, I reflect that Yiddish is, after all, a German dialect, only slightly tainted by the language of the Holy Ghost. These tautologies (and others which I keep back) are my entire life. Naturally,