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El Libro de Arena (Biblioteca Jorge Luis…
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El Libro de Arena (Biblioteca Jorge Luis Borges) (Spanish Edition) (original 1975; udgave 2005)

af Jorge Luis Borges

MedlemmerAnmeldelserPopularitetGennemsnitlig vurderingOmtaler
1,2091811,867 (4.12)19
Translated with an Afterword by Andrew Hurley 'His stories - concise, playful, brimming with ideas - are among the century's supreme literary achievements' INDEPENDENT ON SUNDAY While Borges remained fascinated by books, doubles, strange heresies, magic and the occult, his last two collections broke new ground in their astonishing range of themes. By the 1970s, Borges was frail, blind and bereft, and The Book of Sandis deeply concerned with loss, approaching death, identities rooted in past events and recollected sexual passion. Yet these painful issues are treated with bemused acceptance as well as characteristic inventiveness and wit. Equally haunting is the tale of the scholar who mysteriously acquires Shakespeare's memory and the other evocative parables which make up his final work. To the last, Borges retained a unique ability to shock and surprise.… (mere)
Medlem:camilo77
Titel:El Libro de Arena (Biblioteca Jorge Luis Borges) (Spanish Edition)
Forfattere:Jorge Luis Borges
Info:Emece Editores (2005), Paperback, 171 pages
Samlinger:Dit bibliotek
Vurdering:
Nøgleord:Ingen

Detaljer om værket

Bogen af sand af Jorge Luis Borges (1975)

  1. 20
    Aleffen af Jorge Luis Borges (cometahalley)
  2. 10
    The Gold of the Tigers: Selected Later Poems af Jorge Luis Borges (cometahalley)
    cometahalley: ancora una volta le grandi e potenti meditazioni sul mistero della vita e della morte.
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» Se også 19 omtaler

Engelsk (9)  Fransk (4)  Italiensk (2)  Spansk (2)  Hebræisk (1)  Alle sprog (18)
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El libro de arena esta es una producción literal de Jorge Luis Borges el cual contiene una cadena de cuentos y narraciones en una colección, fue estrenada en el año 1976 forma parte de las últimas novelas antes de entrar en el declive en el tiempo de escritor.
  AliciaSoler | Dec 6, 2019 |
"Utopia of a Tired Man" is worth the price of the whole book, but the whole book itself is priceless! Borges is amazingly amazing! ( )
  ez_reader | Jul 7, 2019 |


Aesthetic experience is extraordinary in the sense that it is always ours alone, uniquely ours. And some aesthetic experiences hit us right between the eyes with a knockout punch - these are encounters we will never forget. One such encounter was my reading this collection of stories by Jorge Luis Borges some thirty years ago. The images of the book of sand with its infinite pages, the hermit looking for a one-sided disk, an author's pristine lovemaking with a beautiful woman - for me, all aesthetic knockout punches. I would encourage anybody who would like to expand their horizons, expand their inner universe, and exercise their imagination to pick up and read this most wonderful collection. As a way of providing a sample, here are my top ten questions on the title story – The Book of Sand. And below my questions, the actual story.

1. In what way or ways can any short work of fiction be true?

2. What would be your initial thought and feeling if someone handed you the book of sand?

3. What book in your personal library would you trade for the book of sand?

4. Is the book of sand a metaphor for all great works of literature in the sense those works have no end or bottom?

5. What book comes to mind for you as one where the more you reread, the more question arise?

6. Are all works of literature infinite since they expand in different directions each time they are read by a different reader?

7. Are you inextricably bound to a certain book, or, in other words, is there any book holding you as prisoner?

8. What is it about certain books that they refuse to be mastered by anybody?

9. Would you feel uneasy owning the book of sand?

10. Where would you hide the book of sand if you never wanted the book to be discovered?

THE BOOK OF SAND by Jorge Luis Borges

The line is made up of an infinite number of points; the plane of an infinite number of lines; the volume of an infinite number of planes; the hypervolume of an infinite number of volumes. . . . No, unquestionably this is not—more geometrico—the best way of beginning my story. To claim that is it true is nowadays the convention of every made-up story. Mine, however, is true.

I live alone in a fourth-floor apartment on Belgrano Street, in Buenos Aires. Late one evening, a few months back, I heard a knock at my door. I opened it and a stranger stood there. He was a tall man, with nondescript features—or perhaps it was my myopia that made them seem that way. Dressed in gray and carrying a gray suitcase in his hand, he had an unassuming look about him. I saw at once that he was a foreigner. At first, he struck me as old; only later did I realize that I had been misled by his thin blond hair, which was, in a Scandinavian sort of way, almost white. During the course of our conversation, which was not to last an hour, I found out that he came from the Orkneys.

I invited him in, pointing to a chair. He paused awhile before speaking. A kind of gloom emanated from him—as it does now from me.

"I sell Bibles," he said.

Somewhat pedantically, I replied, "In this house are several English Bibles, including the first—John Wiclif's. I also have Cipriano de Valera's, Luther's—which, from a literary viewpoint, is the worst—and a Latin copy of the Vulgate. As you see, it's not exactly Bibles I stand in need of."

After a few moments of silence, he said, "I don't only sell Bibles. I can show you a holy book I came across on the outskirts of Bikaner. It may interest you."

He opened the suitcase and laid the book on a table. It was an octavo volume, bound in cloth. There was no doubt that it had passed through many hands. Examining it, I was surprised by its unusual weight. On the spine were the words "Holy Writ" and, below them, "Bombay."

"Nineteenth century, probably," I remarked.

"I don't know," he said. "I've never found out."

I opened the book at random. The script was strange to me. The pages, which were worn and typographically poor, were laid out in a double column, as in a Bible. The text was closely printed, and it was ordered in versicles. In the upper corners of the pages were Arabic numbers. I noticed that one left-hand page bore the number (let us say) 40,514 and the facing right-hand page 999. I turned the leaf; it was numbered with eight digits. It also bore a small illustration, like the kind used in dictionaries—an anchor drawn with pen and ink, as if by a schoolboy's clumsy hand.

It was at this point that the stranger said, "Look at the illustration closely. You'll never see it again."

I noted my place and closed the book. At once, I reopened it. Page by page, in vain, I looked for the illustration of the anchor. "It seems to be a version of Scriptures in some Indian language, is it not?" I said to hide my dismay.

"No," he replied. Then, as if confiding a secret, he lowered his voice. "I acquired the book in a town out on the plain in exchange for a handful of rupees and a Bible. Its owner did not know how to read. I suspect that he saw the Book of Books as a talisman. He was of the lowest caste; nobody but other untouchables could tread his shadow without contamination. He told me his book was called the Book of Sand, because neither the book nor the sand has any beginning or end."

The stranger asked me to find the first page.

I laid my left hand on the cover and, trying to put my thumb on the flyleaf, I opened the book. It was useless. Every time I tried, a number of pages came between the cover and my thumb. It was as if they kept growing from the book.

"Now find the last page."

Again I failed. In a voice that was not mine, I barely managed to stammer, "This can't be."

Still speaking in a low voice, the stranger said, "It can't be, but it is. The number of pages in this book is no more or less than infinite. None is the first page, none the last. I don't know why they're numbered in this arbitrary way. Perhaps to suggest that the terms of an infinite series admit any number."

Then, as if he were thinking aloud, he said, "If space is infinite, we may be at any point in space. If time is infinite, we may be at any point in time."

His speculations irritated me. "You are religious, no doubt?" I asked him.

"Yes, I'm a Presbyterian. My conscience is clear. I am reasonably sure of not having cheated the native when I gave him the Word of God in exchange for his devilish book."

I assured him that he had nothing to reproach himself for, and I asked if he were just passing through this part of the world. He replied that he planned to return to his country in a few days. It was then that I learned that he was a Scot from the Orkney Islands. I told him I had a great personal affection for Scotland, through my love of Stevenson and Hume.

"You mean Stevenson and Robbie Burns," he corrected.

While we spoke, I kept exploring the infinite book. With feigned indifference, I asked, "Do you intend to offer this curiosity to the British Museum?"

"No. I'm offering it to you," he said, and he stipulated a rather high sum for the book.

I answered, in all truthfulness, that such a sum was out of my reach, and I began thinking. After a minute or two, I came up with a scheme.

"I propose a swap, " I said. "You got this book for a handful of rupees and a copy of the Bible. I'll offer you the amount of my pension check, which I've just collected, and my black-letter Wiclif Bible. I inherited it from my ancestors."

"A black-letter Wiclif!" he murmured.

I went to my bedroom and brought him the money and the book. He turned the leaves and studied the title page with all the fervor of a true bibliophile.

"It's a deal," he said.

It amazed me that he did not haggle. Only later was I to realize that he had entered my house with his mind made up to sell the book. Without counting the money, he put it away.

We talked about India, about Orkney, and about the Norwegian jarls who once ruled it. It was night when the man left. I have not seen him again, nor do I know his name.

I thought of keeping the Book of Sand in the space left on the shelf by the Wiclif, but in the end I decided to hide it behind the volumes of a broken set of The Thousand and One Nights. I went to bed and did not sleep. At three or four in the morning, I turned on the light. I got down the impossible book and leafed through its pages. On one of them I saw engraved a mask. The upper corner of the page carried a number, which I no longer recall, elevated to the ninth power.

I showed no one my treasure. To the luck of owning it was added the fear of having it stolen, and then the misgiving that it might not truly be infinite. These twin preoccupations intensified my old misanthropy. I had only a few friends left; I now stopped seeing even them. A prisoner of the book, I almost never went out anymore. After studying its frayed spine and covers with a magnifying glass, I rejected the possibility of a contrivance of any sort. The small illustrations, I verified, came two thousand pages apart. I set about listing them alphabetically in a notebook, which I was not long in filling up. Never once was an illustration repeated. At night, in the meager intervals my insomnia granted, I dreamed of the book.

Summer came and went, and I realized that the book was monstrous. What good did it do me to think that I, who looked upon the volume with my eyes, who held it in my hands, was any less monstrous? I felt that the book was a nightmarish object, an obscene thing that affronted and tainted reality itself.

I thought of fire, but I feared that the burning of an infinite book might likewise prove infinite and suffocate the planet with smoke. Somewhere I recalled reading that the best place to hide a leaf is in a forest. Before retirement, I worked on Mexico Street, at the Argentine National Library, which contains nine hundred thousand volumes. I knew that to the right of the entrance a curved staircase leads down into the basement, where books and maps and periodicals are kept. One day I went there and, slipping past a member of the staff and trying not to notice at what height or distance from the door, I lost the Book of Sand on one of the basement's musty shelves. ( )
  Glenn_Russell | Nov 13, 2018 |
Contiene:
El otro.Ulrica. El congreso. There are more things. La secta de los treinta. La noche de los dones. El espejo y la mascara. Undr. Utopía de un hombre que esta cansado. El soborno. Avelino Arredondo. El disco. El ibro de Arena. Epílogo
  GiselleFagioli | Nov 26, 2016 |
antología del autor ( )
  laurabordoli | Mar 27, 2015 |
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» Tilføj andre forfattere (13 mulige)

Forfatter navnRolleHvilken slags forfatterVærk?Status
Jorge Luis Borgesprimær forfatteralle udgaverberegnet
Carmignani, IlideOversættermedforfatternogle udgaverbekræftet
Giovanni, Norman Thomas DiOversættermedforfatternogle udgaverbekræftet
Goodfellow, PeterOmslagsfotograf/tegner/...medforfatternogle udgaverbekræftet
Reid, AlistairOversættermedforfatternogle udgaverbekræftet
Sabarte Belacortu, MarioleinOversættermedforfatternogle udgaverbekræftet
Scarano, TommasoRedaktørmedforfatternogle udgaverbekræftet
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At my age (I was born in 1899), I cannot promise - I cannot even promise myself - more than these few variations on favourite themes.
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-En tal caso -le dije resueltamente- usted se llama Jorge Luis Borges. Yo también soy Jorge Luis Borges. Estamos en 1969, en la ciudad de Cambridge.
-No -me responió con mi propia voz un poco lejana.
(El otro)
De tu primera loa pude afirmar que era un feliz resumen de cuanto se ha cantado en Irlanda. Ésta supera todo lo anterior y también lo aniquila. Suspende, maravilla y deslumbra. No la merecerán los ignaros, pero sí los doctos, los menos. Un cofre de marfil será la custodia del único ejemplar. De la pluma que ha producido una obra tan eminente podemos esperar todavía una obra más alta. (El espejo y la máscara)
No mostré a nadie mi tesoro. A la dicha de poseerlo se agregó el temor de que lo robaran, y después el recelo de que no fuera verdaderamente infinito. Esas dos inquietudes agravaron mi ya vieja misantropía. Me quedaban unos amigos; dejé de verlos.  (El libro de arena)
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Translated with an Afterword by Andrew Hurley 'His stories - concise, playful, brimming with ideas - are among the century's supreme literary achievements' INDEPENDENT ON SUNDAY While Borges remained fascinated by books, doubles, strange heresies, magic and the occult, his last two collections broke new ground in their astonishing range of themes. By the 1970s, Borges was frail, blind and bereft, and The Book of Sandis deeply concerned with loss, approaching death, identities rooted in past events and recollected sexual passion. Yet these painful issues are treated with bemused acceptance as well as characteristic inventiveness and wit. Equally haunting is the tale of the scholar who mysteriously acquires Shakespeare's memory and the other evocative parables which make up his final work. To the last, Borges retained a unique ability to shock and surprise.

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