.
"The methodical task of writing distracts me from the present state of men. The certitude that everything has been written negates us or turns us into phantoms. I know of districts in which the young men prostrate themselves before books and kiss their pages in a barbarous manner, but they do not know how to decipher a single letter. Epidemics, heretical conflicts, peregrinations which inevitably degenerate into banditry, have decimated the population. I believe I have mentioned suicides, more and more frequent with the years. Perhaps my old age and fearfulness deceive me, but I suspect that the human species – the unique species – is about to be extinguished, but the Library will endure: illuminated, solitary, infinite, perfectly motionless, equipped with precious volumes, useless, incorruptible, secret.
I have just written the word "infinite." I have not interpolated this adjective out of rhetorical habit; I say that it is not illogical to think that the world is infinite. Those who judge it to be limited postulate that in remote places the corridors and stairways and hexagons can conceivably come to an end – which is absurd. Those who imagine it to be without limit forget that the possible number of books does have such a limit. I venture to suggest this solution to the ancient problem: The Library is unlimited and cyclical. If an eternal traveler were to cross it in any direction, after centuries he would see that the same volumes were repeated in the same disorder (which, thus repeated, would be an order: the Order). My solitude is gladdened by this elegant hope."
"The methodical task of writing distracts me from the present state of men. The certitude that everything has been written negates us or turns us into phantoms. I know of districts in which the young men prostrate themselves before books and kiss their pages in a barbarous manner, but they do not know how to decipher a single letter. Epidemics, heretical conflicts, peregrinations which inevitably degenerate into banditry, have decimated the population. I believe I have mentioned suicides, more and more frequent with the years. Perhaps my old age and fearfulness deceive me, but I suspect that the human species – the unique species – is about to be extinguished, but the Library will endure: illuminated, solitary, infinite, perfectly motionless, equipped with precious volumes, useless, incorruptible, secret.
I have just written the word "infinite." I have not interpolated this adjective out of rhetorical habit; I say that it is not illogical to think that the world is infinite. Those who judge it to be limited postulate that in remote places the corridors and stairways and hexagons can conceivably come to an end – which is absurd. Those who imagine it to be without limit forget that the possible number of books does have such a limit. I venture to suggest this solution to the ancient problem: The Library is unlimited and cyclical. If an eternal traveler were to cross it in any direction, after centuries he would see that the same volumes were repeated in the same disorder (which, thus repeated, would be an order: the Order). My solitude is gladdened by this elegant hope."
Translated by J. E. I.
[J. L. Borges: The Library of Babel]
J. L. Borges in Central Park, N.Y.C., 1969
Photographer: Diane Arbus
"(...) a rendszeres írás eltereli figyelmemet az emberek mai helyzetéről. a bizonyosságtól, hogy minden meg van írva, megsemmisülünk, vagy elbizakodottá válunk. ismerek olyan helyeket, ahol az ifjak leborulnak a könyvek elé, és barbárul csókolgatják a lapokat, közben pedig egyetlen betűt sem képesek megfejteni. a járványok, eretnek viszálykodások, az óhatatlanul banditizmussá fajuló zarándoklatok jócskán megtizedelték a lakosságot. azt hiszem, már említettem az öngyilkosságokat, melyeknek száma évről évre több. talán az öregség és a félelem vezet félre, de azt gyanítom, hogy az emberi faj – az egyetlen – kihalóban van, és a könyvtár fennmarad: kivilágítva, magányosan, végtelenül, tökéletes mozdulatlanságban, értékes köteteivel, haszontalanul, ronthatatlanul, titkosan.
leírtam imént a szót: végtelenül. Nem csupán retorikai megszokásból iktattam ide; állítom, hogy nem illogikus végtelennek gondolni a világot. akik végesnek hiszik, azt tételezik fel, hogy a folyosók, lépcsők és hatszögek valahol a messzeségben felfoghatatlan módon megszűnnek, ami abszurdum. akik pedig határtalannak képzelik, elfelejtik, hogy a könyvek lehetséges száma nem végtelen. e régi problémára én azt a megoldást bátorkodom sugallni: a könyvtár határtalan és periodikus. ha egy örökké élő utazó bármely irányban átutazna rajta, évszázadok múltán meggyőződhetne róla, hogy egyazon kötetek ismétlődnek egyazon rendetlenségben (amely, így ismétlődve, renddé, a renddé válik). ez a nemes remény édesíti meg magányom."
mar del plata, 1941Boglár Lajos fordítása
- részlet J. L. Borges Bábeli könyvtár c. novellájából
[In: Körkörös romok, Kozmosz Könyvek, Budapest, 1972]
Library
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