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meandmymoos's review against another edition
3.0
Overall: 3,5
The Garden of Forking Paths: 3
The Book of Sand: 4
Circular Ruins: 4
On Exactitude of Science: 3,5
Death and the Compass: 3
The Garden of Forking Paths: 3
The Book of Sand: 4
Circular Ruins: 4
On Exactitude of Science: 3,5
Death and the Compass: 3
ajju_315's review
mysterious
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? No
2.5
julietteisreading's review against another edition
adventurous
mysterious
reflective
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? N/A
- Diverse cast of characters? No
4.0
buddhafish's review
5.0
85th book of 2020.
These were all brilliant- philosophical, labyrinthine stories. I've had some sentences, some fragments from each of the stories prevail upon me, so I will blur the lines between the 5 stories within this, leaving no distinction from which each comes - so my review, in itself, becomes another labyrinth. As ever, Borges' actual words (or anyone else who is not me) will be italicised.
It seems recently that more and more, this wonderful line of Frost's is becoming more applicable:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
The garden's metaphor for "time" itself - This network of times which approached one another, forked, broke offor were unaware of one another centuries, embraces all possibilities of time. And we may lay in temples and hallucinate, we may imagine our selves, not 'ourselves' but many of our 'self', in different bodies, walking different roads, for we are sorry we cannot travel both. To see where the winding path leads, from that forking path. Soon enough we realise that the forking paths are infinite, there are infinite possibilities, a book with no beginning or end, a book you could thumb through forever and make no progress. One can make no progress through time except forward. Even when life makes little sense, and murders begin to happen, and if one kills the right man, then maybe the correct city will be bombed, maybe a book can be buried (but not forgotten) and maybe in the end - you realise you never existed anyway. Maybe you'll realise this with relief, with humiliation, with terror...
These were all brilliant- philosophical, labyrinthine stories. I've had some sentences, some fragments from each of the stories prevail upon me, so I will blur the lines between the 5 stories within this, leaving no distinction from which each comes - so my review, in itself, becomes another labyrinth. As ever, Borges' actual words (or anyone else who is not me) will be italicised.
It seems recently that more and more, this wonderful line of Frost's is becoming more applicable:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
The garden's metaphor for "time" itself - This network of times which approached one another, forked, broke offor were unaware of one another centuries, embraces all possibilities of time. And we may lay in temples and hallucinate, we may imagine our selves, not 'ourselves' but many of our 'self', in different bodies, walking different roads, for we are sorry we cannot travel both. To see where the winding path leads, from that forking path. Soon enough we realise that the forking paths are infinite, there are infinite possibilities, a book with no beginning or end, a book you could thumb through forever and make no progress. One can make no progress through time except forward. Even when life makes little sense, and murders begin to happen, and if one kills the right man, then maybe the correct city will be bombed, maybe a book can be buried (but not forgotten) and maybe in the end - you realise you never existed anyway. Maybe you'll realise this with relief, with humiliation, with terror...