Jorge Luis Borges: The Last Interview: And Other Conversations Read online

  JORGE LUIS BORGES: THE LAST INTERVIEW

  Copyright © 2013 by Melville House Publishing

  “Original Mythology” © 1968 by Richard Burgin. First published in Conversations with Jorge Luis Borges. The interview was conducted in English.

  “Borges and I” © 1980 by Artful Dodge. Reprinted by permission.

  The interview was conducted in English.

  “The Last Interview” was originally broadcast on La Isla FM Radio, 1985.

  © 1985, 2013 by María Kodama and Gloria López Lecube, used by permission of the Wylie Agency LLC and Gloria López Lecube. Translation from the Spanish of the “Last Interview” © 2013 by Kit Maude.

  Melville House Publishing

  145 Plymouth Street

  Brooklyn, NY 11201

  and

  8 Blackstock Mews

  Islington

  London N4 2BT

  mhpbooks.com facebook.com/mhpbooks @melvillehouse

  eISBN: 978-1-61219-205-5

  A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

  v3.1

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  ORIGINAL MYTHOLOGY

  Interviews by Richard Burgin

  From Conversations with Jorge Luis Borges, 1968

  “BORGES AND I”

  Interview by Daniel Bourne, Stephen Cape, Charles Silver

  Artful Dodge, 1980

  THE LAST INTERVIEW

  Interview by Gloria López Lecube

  La Isla FM Radio, Argentina, 1985

  Translated by Kit Maude

  About the Authors

  ORIGINAL MYTHOLOGY

  INTERVIEWS BY RICHARD BURGIN

  FROM CONVERSATIONS WITH JORGE LUIS BORGES, 1968

  One of the many pleasures the stars (in which I don’t believe) have granted me is in literary and metaphysical dialogue. Since both these designations run the risk of seeming a bit pretentious, I should clarify that dialogue for me is not a form of polemics, of monologue or magisterial dogmatism, but of shared investigation. I can’t refer to dialogue without thinking of my father, of Rafael Cansinos-Asséns, of Macedonio Fernández, and of many others I can’t begin to mention—since the most notable names on any list will always turn out to be those omitted. In spite of my impersonal concept of dialogue, my questioners tell me (and my memory confirms) that I tend to become a bit of a missionary and to preach, not without a certain monotony, the virtues of Old English and Old Norse, of Schopenhauer and Berkeley, of Emerson and Frost. The readers of this volume will realize that. It is enough for me to say that if I am rich in anything, it is in perplexities rather than in certainties. A colleague declares from his chair that philosophy is clear and precise understanding; I would define it as that organization of the essential perplexities of man.

  I have many pleasant memories of the United States, especially of Texas and New England. In Cambridge, Massachusetts, I spent many hours in leisurely conversation with Richard Burgin. It seemed to me he had no particular axe to grind; there was no imposition in his questioning or even a demand for a reply. There was nothing didactic either. There was a sense of timelessness.

  Rereading these pages, I think I have expressed myself, in fact confessed myself, better than in those I have written in solitude with excess care and vigilance. The exchange of thoughts is a condition necessary for all love, all friendship and all real dialogue. Two men who can speak together can enrich and broaden themselves indefinitely. What comes forth from me does not surprise me as much as what I receive from the other.

  I know there are people in the world who have the curious desire to know me better. For some seventy years, without too much effort, I have been working towards the same end. Walt Whitman has already said it:

  “I think I know little or nothing of my real life.”

  Richard Burgin has helped me to know myself.

  —Jorge Luis Borges

  On the day I found out that Jorge Luis Borges was coming to America, to Cambridge, I ran from Harvard Square to my room in Central Square, over a mile away, in no more than five minutes. The rest of that summer of 1967 seemed only a preparation for his arrival. Everywhere I went I spoke of Borges.

  When it was time for school again and I returned to Brandeis for my last year as an undergraduate, I met a very pretty girl from Brazil named Flo Bildner who seemed even more enthusiastic about Borges than I was. Whenever we’d run into each other, we’d talk for three or four hours at a stretch about Borges. After one such conversation, we decided we had to meet him.

  I remember the schemes we proposed, elaborate, involuted, outrageous schemes, more complicated than a Russian novel. Finally we rejected all of them. There was only one thing to do; Flo had his telephone number, she should call him up and say we wanted to see him. Strangely, miraculously, the plan worked.

  It was November 21, it was grey outside and raining slightly, it was two days before Thanksgiving. Our meeting was set for 6:30, so Flo and I split up in the afternoon, each to go out and buy him a present. Of course, there is something futile about buying a gift for Borges. He simply has no need or desire for any symbol of gratitude for his company. He always makes you feel that it is he who is the grateful one, and that your company is the only gift he needs. In any event, after wandering up and down the long streets of Boston, going through department stores, book stores, and record stores, I finally bought him a record of Bach’s Fourth and Fifth Brandenburg concertos on which my father played violin. Back in Cambridge, I met Flo holding her gift, four long-stemmed yellow roses.

  The distance from Harvard Square to Borges’s apartment on Concord Avenue was only some four or five blocks, yet to us it seemed almost as great an odyssey as the voyage of Ulysses. I think I have forgotten nothing or almost nothing of that evening. I remember the calm in the air after the rain; Flo’s eyes as wide and green as tropical limes; the mirrors in the Continental Hotel, where we stopped to perfect our appearance; the thousands of wet leaves on the footpaths. I remember stopping at the wrong address, ringing the doorbell, then apologizing hastily when a young woman answered who had never heard of Borges. I remember how we turned away and ran almost a block laughing—a dreamlike kind of laughter of dizziness, anxiety and an intoxicating kind of happiness.

  Then through the glass of a door we saw him, holding a cane and being helped to a lift by a man with crutches. We ran into the building, introduced ourselves, and helped both of them into the lift. The other man, in his early thirties perhaps and a physicist from MIT, was helping Borges in his study of Persian literature. Borges was dressed in a conservative but elegant grey suit with a pale blue necktie. The small apartment he shared with his wife seemed peculiarly empty. There were some ten or fifteen books on his bookshelf, a twelve-inch TV in the living room and a few magazines on a table. He seemed nervous or ill at ease at first, particularly when we gave him our presents. His wife was out with some friends, so Flo happily assumed the role of woman of the house. She went to the kitchen to fill a vase with water for the roses.

  “Don’t worry where you sit,” he said to me. “I can’t see anything.” I went to sit down on a couch, but Borges was up again in a start. “Do you want anything to drink? Wine, Scotch, or water?” I declined, but Flo decided to fix everybody a drink. Borges was back in front of me again. “Did you come just to chat or did you have something special to ask me?” If I had known a day or a week before that he would ask this question I wouldn’t have known what to say. Now the words came out of their own accord.

  “
I’m going to write a book about you and I thought I might ask you some questions.”

  And so we began to talk. Within fifteen minutes we were talking about Faulkner, Whitman, Melville, Kafka, Henry James, Dostoevsky and Schopenhauer. Every five minutes or so he would interrupt the flow of his conversation by saying, “Am I boring you? Am I disappointing you?” Then he said something that moved me very deeply. “I am nearly seventy and I could disguise myself as a young man, but then I would not be myself and you would see through it.”

  He is, perhaps above all other things, honest—so honest that your first reaction is to doubt him. But as I was to find out, he means everything he says, and when he is joking, somehow he makes sure you know it. Towards the end of our conversation he made some remarks about time. “After two or three chapters of The Trial you know he will never be judged, you see through the method. It’s the same thing in The Castle, which is more or less unreadable. I imitated Kafka once, but next time I hope to imitate a better writer. Sometimes great writers are not recognized. Who knows, there may be a young man or an old man writing now who is great. I should say a writer should have another lifetime to see if he’s appreciated.” Later he would say to me: “… I have uttered the wish that if I am born again I will have no personal memories of my other life. I mean to say, I don’t want to go on being Jorge Luis Borges, I want to forget all about him.”

  That first conversation ended when he said, with the sincerity of a child, “You may win your heart’s desire, but in the end you’re cheated of it by death.” Then he told us he was expected somewhere. He saw Flo and me and the professor to the door and said he hoped I’d call and see him again about the book. He even offered to phone me. “I don’t see why it has to end with one meeting,” he said.

  Three nights later I was back in the same apartment, this time with a tape recorder. Borges began to reminisce about the Argentine poet Lugones. “Lugones was a very fine craftsman, eh? He was the most important literary man of his country. He boasted of being the most faithful husband in South America, then he fell in love with a mistress and his mistress fell in love with his friend.” I mentioned that he had dedicated his book El hacedor (translated with the title Dreamtigers) to Lugones.

  “I think that’s the best thing I’ve done, eh? I mean the idea that I’m speaking to Lugones and then suddenly the reader is made aware that Lugones is dead, that the library is not my library but Lugones’s library. And then, after I have created and destroyed that, then I rebuild it again by saying that, after all, I suppose my time will come and then in a sense we’ll be contemporaries, no? I think it’s quite good, eh? Besides, I think it’s good because one feels that it is written with emotion, at least I hope so. I mean you don’t think of it as an exercise, no?”

  I answered by saying that I understood and admired his idea, but that in my book I wanted a clear picture of Borges and did not want to confuse him with anyone. I added that as he says in “The Aleph,” “Our minds are porous with forgetfulness,” and I was already becoming conscious of falsifying through my memory all that he had said to me. Then I asked him if I could tape record our conversations. “Yes, you can if you want to, only don’t make me too conscious of it, eh?”

  For the next six months I worked on this book, taping our conversations whenever possible, and as we progressed a pattern began to appear, certain themes and motifs kept recurring. Of course, the book involved more than merely conducting the interviews. I reread Borges, I attended his class on Argentine Literature at Harvard when I could and his series of six Charles Eliot Norton lectures at Sanders Theatre. The lectures were well attended and very well received. Borges had created genuine excitement in the Cambridge intellectual community. I know this meant a great deal to him. “The kind of cheering I got and what I felt behind it is new to me; I’ve lectured in Europe and South America, but nothing like this has ever happened to me. To have a new experience when you are seventy is quite a thing.”

  In the middle of December, around the time of her birthday, Flo, who had seen Borges several times on her own, decided to have a dinner party for him and his wife, to be held in my sister’s Cambridge apartment. Borges came with his wife and his personal secretary, John Murchison, a Harvard graduate student. Except for the guests of honor, everyone at the party was under twenty-five. This made no difference to Borges, who has always had a marvelous rapport with the young. Later a hippie unexpectedly dropped in on us, but no one, least of all Borges, was upset. “I wonder what the root word of the hippie is?” he said. His wife thought the young man’s appearance was fascinating. Flo had fixed a delicious, authentic Brazilian dinner, complete with the guitar music of Villa-Lobos in the background, and Borges thoroughly enjoyed it. On the way back to his apartment he told me he thought Cambridge was “a very lovable city.”

  After his successful poetry reading at Harvard (where Robert Lowell introduced him, saying, “It would be impertinent for me to praise him. For many years I’ve thought he should have won the Nobel Prize”), I decided that I simply had to arrange a similar affair at Brandeis. With the help of Professor Lida of the Spanish department, who is a friend and devoted admirer of Borges, we set a date for April 1. When I told Borges he said, “Well, I hope it’s not all a huge practical joke.” Then he asked me if I thought twenty or thirty people might show up. It turned out that over five hundred attended (about a fourth of the school’s population) and every seat in one of the university’s biggest auditoriums was filled twenty minutes before the programme began.

  Downstairs, below the auditorium, Borges was nervously going over what he wanted to say about each poem. This in turn made me nervous, but once he sensed my nervousness, he began joking with me, quite spontaneous jokes really, until we had both calmed down. I had the honour of introducing him, and Mr. Murchison and one of Borges’s translators, Norman Thomas di Giovanni, read the poems in translation, after which Borges would comment for two or three minutes about each poem. As I led him onstage, I thought how terrifying it must be for a blind person to face and talk to such a large audience. But once he was onstage, Borges’s nervousness vanished. He spoke with a fluency that constantly rose to eloquence. The audience was overwhelmed. When I called him the next day and congratulated him again, he seemed upset and cross with himself. “I always make such a fool of myself.”

  “But how can you say that?” I said. “Everybody loved it.”

  “Because I feel it, I feel that I acted like a fool.”

  By the time of his last lecture at Harvard, Borges was the literary hero of Cambridge. I understand that wherever he went in the country, giving his lectures and poetry readings, his reception was equally enthusiastic. In Cambridge, writers like Robert Lowell, Robert Fitzgerald, Yves Bonnefoy, John Updike and Bernard Malamud attended his lectures and lined up to meet him. John Barth said Borges was the man “who had succeeded Joyce and Kafka.”

  Borges’s response to his long overdue success in America was one of delight and gratefulness, yet he remained, as he will always remain, the most humble and gracious of men. I remember the day I came to see him at the larger and brighter apartment he had just moved in to. After ringing his bell, I hesitated in the lobby, a lobby that seemed like a labyrinth to me, with hallways going in every direction and cryptic numbers with arrows underneath them on each wall. But Borges had anticipated my difficulty and, with the aid of his cane, had walked down three flights of stairs to help me find my way. I was touched, but felt terrible that he had come all the way downstairs on my account. Borges smiled and extended his hand.

  —Richard Burgin

  A childhood of books; blindness and time; metaphysics; Cervantes; memory; early work; mirrors and appearances …

  BURGIN: Was there ever a time when you didn’t love literature?

  BORGES: No, I always knew. I always thought of myself as a writer, even before I wrote a book. Let me say that even when I had written nothing, I knew that I would. I do not think of myself as a good writer, but I knew that my
destiny or my fate was a literary one, no? I never thought of myself as being anything else.

  BURGIN: You never thought about taking up any career? I mean, your father was a lawyer.

  BORGES: Yes. But after all, he had tried to be a literary man and failed. He wrote some very nice sonnets. But he thought that I should fulfill that destiny, no? And he told me not to rush into print.

  BURGIN: But you were published when you were pretty young. About twenty.

  BORGES: Yes, I know, but he said to me, “You don’t have to be in a hurry. You write, you go over what you’ve written, you destroy, you take your time. What’s important is that when you publish something you should think of it as being pretty good, or at least as being the best that you can do.”

  BURGIN: When did you begin writing?

  BORGES: I began when I was a little boy. I wrote an English handbook ten pages long on Greek mythology, in very clumsy English. That was the first thing I ever wrote.

  BURGIN: You mean “original mythology” or a translation?

  BORGES: No, no, no, no, no. It was just saying, for example, well, “Hercules attempted twelve labors” or Hercules killed the Nemean Lion.”

  BURGIN: So you must have been reading those books when you were very young.

  BORGES: Yes, of course, I’m very fond of mythology. Well, it was nothing, it was just a, it must have been some fifteen pages long … with the story of the Golden Fleece and the Labyrinth and Hercules—he was my favourite—and then something about the loves of the gods, and the tale of Troy. That was the first thing I ever wrote. I remember it was written in a very short and crabbed handwriting because I was very shortsighted. That’s all I can tell you about it. In fact, I think my mother kept a copy for some time, but as we’ve travelled all over the world, the copy got lost, which is as it should be, of course, because we thought nothing whatever about it, except for the fact that it was being written by a small boy. And then I read a chapter or two of Don Quixote, and then, of course, I tried to write archaic Spanish. And that saved me from trying to do the same thing some fifteen years afterwards, no? Because I had already attempted that game and failed at it.