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This is the second Borges book that I have read (though the first in Spanish), and I have found that my reaction was an echo of the first. With Borges, I have the constant sensation that the writing is superlative and the style very much to my taste; yet somehow I often manage to be uninspired. The typical Borgesian themes—the collapse of personal identity, the sense of a mysterious connection, the obsession with a sort of occult understanding of a higher reality—make me uneasy, and at times strike me as a kind of armchair mysticism: the translation of spiritual impulses into erudite literature. And I am suspicious of anyone who uses their learning to intentionally create obscurity.
This only applies when his style falls flat. But when Borges is at his best, such as (for me) in El inmortal, La casa de Asterión, and the title story, El Aleph—when Borges breaks through my instinctive suspicion of all art that is intentionally mysterious—I feel the floor collapse from under me, and I am lost in an expansive feeling of literary pleasure. This is the trademark Borges effect; and, to my mind, all of his stories are aimed at evoking this same feeling. As a result, the stories are hit or miss for me. My problem is that, when the mysterious Borges effect fails to manifest, I am left with dense and at times dry prose (no doubt intentionally so), which I have trouble enjoying.
I was hoping that reading the stories in the original would be a different experience; but, alas, it was déjà vu. Thus I was somewhat disappointed as I read—no doubt unfairly, since his literary talent is impossible to deny.
This only applies when his style falls flat. But when Borges is at his best, such as (for me) in El inmortal, La casa de Asterión, and the title story, El Aleph—when Borges breaks through my instinctive suspicion of all art that is intentionally mysterious—I feel the floor collapse from under me, and I am lost in an expansive feeling of literary pleasure. This is the trademark Borges effect; and, to my mind, all of his stories are aimed at evoking this same feeling. As a result, the stories are hit or miss for me. My problem is that, when the mysterious Borges effect fails to manifest, I am left with dense and at times dry prose (no doubt intentionally so), which I have trouble enjoying.
I was hoping that reading the stories in the original would be a different experience; but, alas, it was déjà vu. Thus I was somewhat disappointed as I read—no doubt unfairly, since his literary talent is impossible to deny.