the child grows enormous but never grows up
A man sets out to draw the world. As the years go by, he peoples a space with images of provinces, kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fishes, rooms, instruments, stars, horses, and individuals. A short time before he dies, he discovers that the patient labyrinth of lines traces the lineaments of his own face.

From the afterword to Borges’s The Maker.

Still the king.

(via booksinthekitchen)

Whoa.

(via jhermann)

ekstasis:

barthel:

standardgrey:

This is crazy.

Whoa.

…A little bit closer to The Aleph. Time-bound, industrial-scale voyeurism. 

Which of us, walking through the twilight or retracing some day in our past, has never felt that we have lost some infinite thing?
Jorge Luis Borges, Paradiso (via human-voices)
petitchou:

Outside Marfa, TX
Here too. Here as at the otherEdge of the hemisphere, an endless plainWhere a man’s cry dies a lonely death.Here too the Indian, the lasso, the wild horse.Here too the bird that never shows itself,That sings for the memory of one eveningOver the rumblings of historyHere too the mystic alphabet of starsLeading my pen over the page to namesNot swept aside in the continualLabyrinth of Days: San JacintoAnd that other Thermopylae, the Alamo.Here too, the never understoodAnxious, and brief affair that is life.
—Texas, by Jorge Luis Borges
 (see this excellent essay on Borges and Texas)

petitchou:

Outside Marfa, TX

Here too. Here as at the other
Edge of the hemisphere, an endless plain
Where a man’s cry dies a lonely death.
Here too the Indian, the lasso, the wild horse.
Here too the bird that never shows itself,
That sings for the memory of one evening
Over the rumblings of history
Here too the mystic alphabet of stars
Leading my pen over the page to names
Not swept aside in the continual
Labyrinth of Days: San Jacinto
And that other Thermopylae, the Alamo.
Here too, the never understood
Anxious, and brief affair that is life.

Texas, by Jorge Luis Borges


(see this excellent essay on Borges and Texas)