Last year, there was the “Alphabestiary,” running through July, definitions in verse of such diverse creatures as Kangaroo, Uncle, I, Werewolf, Gnu, and Victor.
Or the furious and funny answer to Kathy K. (and Kathy’s mother), when Kathy wrote: John Ciardi your writing is very bad in the book I Met a Man because you do not put perionds ...
The reply began:
Look, Kathy, look.
See the poet.
The poet is fat.
The poet is fifty.
The poet is dull.
He is sitting at his desk writing a poem ...
Or the one on getting rid of the TV set, which concludes: . . . these days in my house there are sometimes periods of silence. And who knows what heavenly dialogues a man may yet imagine given enough silences to start from?
Or The Refugee Angel (a, perhaps, allegory): Homesick for ourselves, we refugee angels inserted personals in the leading newspapers and became pen pals. It wasn’t, of course, the same thing as going home, wherever that had been, whatever was left of it.
But just to have someone to talk to in our own language (which we are forever inventing) is almost the next thing to a reality . . .
... A letter is an evidence. It can be folded and carried in a pocket and reopened at night and read again. And, during the day, touched. It is the next thing to being almost real. It is a thing and, therefore, partly believable. . . .
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* * * *
Ciardi was talking about soldiers, far from home. But what he says is at least as true for the sudden letter from a stranger that discovers a part of one’s own private landscape in another’s mind.
I spoke earlier of the letters that are the Anthologist’s Reward. Sometimes, they build up to a virtual chain reaction.
It was Carol Emshwiller (herself represented in the 4th and 5th Annuals) who called Peter Redgrave’s prose-poem, “Mr. Waterman,” to my attention, two years ago. Her post card referred me to the Paris Review, and almost timidly assured me that she knew it was not quite what I usually used, but she thought it was awfully good.
She was right on both counts. It was very good, and it was not what I usually used: Not what I usually found. I find more of it these days: there is more, and I’m beginning to know where to look. And writers write to tell me about the good new things I often have not seen myself. Like Carol Emshwiller, like Ballard, like Disch. Or like Redgrove. Some excerpts from a much folded, carried, opened, and reread letter:
* * * *
My complaint about much s-f has been that the writers seem to have kept to a pulp magazine lingua franca in the interests, perhaps, of getting their insights published and known, and have neglected what you could call the known means of expression.
He goes on to discuss several writers, and one in particular: . . . some of whose stories have invented ,parts of my own mind, but whose mode of expression I believe is often conventional in the extreme. I admire his invention so much . . . but when I think back to his stories and listen to them I can usually say, “That’s like so-and-so, or he’s using such and such as a vehicle, to get that wonderful thing across, instead of coming, in his own person.”
And by way of pointing up his meaning, comes at last to: . . . Jorge Luis Borges, who tells the most appalling mathematical jokes with sad humility ... In my opinion he’s the greatest link between s-f and so-called humane studies, in, for instance, his magnificent “library of Babel” about the people who wander in an infinite library of books containing, not sense necessarily, but all the possible permutations of letters (like the monkeys who, given long enough, would randomly strike out Shakespeare on typewriters).
* * * *
He went on to quote, stopping sometimes to repeat and relish some treasured phrase—a paragraph from the “Library,” another from “Funes the Memorious” (who could remember everything).
Others had told me about Borges. He was “on my list.” It’s a long list, and its priorities are always in upheaval. After Redgrove’s letter, I went out and found the book. From which—
* * * *
THE CIRCULAR RUINS
JORGE LUIS BORGES
And if he left off dreaming about you...
—Through the Looking Glass, VI
No one saw him disembark in the unanimous night, no one saw the bamboo canoe sinking into the sacred mud, but within a few days no one was unaware that the silent man came from the South and that his home was one of the infinite villages upstream, on the violent mountainside, where the Zend tongue is not contaminated with Greek and where leprosy is infrequent. The truth is that the obscure man kissed the mud, came up the bank without pushing aside (probably without feeling) the brambles which dilacerated his flesh, and dragged himself, nauseous and bloodstained, to the circular enclosure crowned by a stone tiger or horse, which once was the color of fire and now was that of ashes. This circle was a temple, long ago devoured by fire, which the malarial jungle had profaned and whose god no longer received the homage of men. The stranger stretched out beneath the pedestal. He was awakened by the sun high above. He evidenced without astonishment that his wounds had closed; he shut his pale eyes and slept, not out of bodily weakness but out of determination of will. He knew that this temple was the place required by his invincible purpose; he knew that, downstream, the incessant trees had not managed to choke the ruins of another propitious temple, whose gods were also burned and dead; he knew that his immediate obligation was to sleep. Towards midnight he was awakened by the disconsolate cry of a bird. Prints of bare feet, some figs and a jug told him that men of the region had respectfully spied upon his sleep and were solicitous of his favor or feared his magic. He felt the chill of fear and sought out a burial niche in the dilapidated wall and covered himself with some unknown leaves.
The purpose which guided him was not impossible, though it was supernatural. He wanted to dream a man: he wanted to dream him with minute integrity and insert him into reality. This magical project had exhausted the entire content of his soul; if someone had asked him his own name or any trait of his previous life, he would not have been able to answer. The uninhabited and broken temple suited him, for it was a minimum of visible world; the nearness of the peasants also suited him, for they would see that his frugal necessities were supplied. The rice and fruit of their tribute were sufficient sustenance for his body, consecrated to the sole task of sleeping and dreaming.
At first, his dreams were chaotic; somewhat later, they were of a dialectical nature. The stranger dreamt that he was in the center of a circular amphitheater which in some way was the burned temple: clouds of silent students filled the gradins; the faces of the last ones hung many centuries away and at a cosmic height, but were entirely clear and precise. The man was lecturing to them on anatomy, cosmography, magic; the countenances listened with eagerness and strove to respond with understanding, as if they divined the importance of the examination which would redeem one of them from his state of vain appearance and interpolate him into the world of reality. The man, both in dreams and awake, considered his phantoms’ replies, was not deceived by impostors, divined a growing intelligence in certain perplexities. He sought a soul which would merit participation in the universe.
After nine or ten nights, he comprehended with some bitterness that he could expect nothing of those students who passively accepted his doctrines, but that he could of those who, at times, would venture a reasonable contradiction. The former, though worthy of love and affection, could not rise to the state of individuals; the latter pre-existed somewhat more. One afternoon (now his afternoons too were tributaries of sleep, now he remained awake only for a couple of hours at dawn) he dismissed the vast illusory college forever and kept one single student. He was a silent boy, sallow, sometimes obstinate, with sharp features which reproduced those of the dreamer. He was not long disconcerted by his companions’ sudden elimination; his progress, after a few special lessons, astounded his teacher. Nevertheless, catastrophe ensued. T
he man emerged from sleep one day as if from a viscous desert, looked at the vain light of afternoon, which at first he confused with that of dawn, and understood that he had not really dreamt. All that night and all day, the intolerable lucidity of insomnia weighed upon him. He tried to explore the jungle, to exhaust himself; amidst, the hemlocks, he was scarcely able to manage a few snatches of feeble sleep, fleetingly mottled with some rudimentary visions which were useless. He tried to convoke the college and had scarcely uttered a few brief words of exhortation, when it became deformed and was extinguished. In his almost perpetual sleeplessness, his old eyes burned with tears of anger.
He comprehended that the effort to mold the incoherent and vertiginous matter dreams are made of was the most arduous task a man could undertake, though he might penetrate all the enigmas of the upper and lower orders: much more arduous than weaving a rope of sand or coining the faceless wind. He comprehended that an initial failure was inevitable. He swore he would forget the enormous hallucination which had misled him at first, and he sought another method. Before putting it into effect, he dedicated a month to replenishing the powers his delirium had wasted. He abandoned any premeditation of dreaming and, almost at once, was able to sleep for a considerable part of the day. The few times he dreamt during this period, he did not take notice of the dreams. To take up his task again, he waited until the moon’s disk was perfect. Then, in the afternoon, he purified himself in the waters of the river, worshiped the planetary gods, uttered the lawful syllables of a powerful name and slept. Almost immediately, he dreamt of a beating heart.
He dreamt it as active, warm, secret, the size of a closed fist, of garnet color in the penumbra of a human body as yet without face or sex; with minute love he dreamt it, for fourteen lucid nights. Each night he perceived it with greater clarity. He did not touch it, but limited himself to witnessing it, observing it, perhaps correcting it with his eyes. He perceived it, lived it, from many distances and many angles. On the fourteenth night he touched the pulmonary artery with his finger, and then the whole heart, inside and out. The examination satisfied him. Deliberately, he did not dream for a night; then he took the heart again, invoked the name of a planet and set about to envision another of the principal organs. Within a year he reached the skeleton, the eyelids. The innumerable hair was perhaps the most difficult task. He dreamt a complete man, a youth, but this youth could not rise nor did he speak nor could he open his eyes. Night after night, the man dreamt him as asleep.
In the Gnostic cosmogonies, the demiurgi knead and mold a red Adam who cannot stand alone; as unskillful and crude and elementary as this Adam of dust was the Adam of dreams fabricated by the magician’s nights of effort. One afternoon, the man almost destroyed his work but then repented. (It would have been better for him had he destroyed it.) Once he had completed his supplications to the numina of the earth and the river, he threw himself down at the feet of the effigy which was perhaps a tiger and perhaps a horse, and implored its unknown succor. That twilight, he dreamt of the statue. He dreamt of it as a living, tremulous thing: it was not an atrocious mongrel of tiger and horse, but both these vehement creatures at once and also a bull, a rose, a tempest. This multiple god revealed to him that its earthly name was Fire, that in the circular temple (and in others of its kind) people had rendered it sacrifices and cult and that it would magically give life to the sleeping phantom, in such a way that all creatures except Fire itself and the dreamer would believe him to be a man of flesh and blood. The man was ordered by the divinity to instruct his creature in its rites, and send him to the other broken temple whose pyramids survived downstream, so that in this deserted edifice a voice might give glory to the god. In the dreamer’s dream, the dreamed one awoke.
The magician carried out these orders. He devoted a period of time (which finally comprised two years) to revealing the arcana of the universe and of the fire cult to his dream child. Inwardly, it pained him to be separated from the boy. Under the pretext of pedagogical necessity, each day he prolonged the hours he dedicated to his dreams. He also redid the right shoulder, which was perhaps deficient. At times, he was troubled by the impression that all this had happened before. ... In general, his days were happy; when he closed his eyes, he would think: Now I shall be with my son. Or, less often: The child I have engendered awaits me and will not exist if I do not go to him.
Gradually, he accustomed the boy to reality. Once he ordered him to place a banner on a distant peak. The following day, the banner flickered from the mountain top. He tried other analogous experiments, each more daring than the last. He understood with certain bitterness that his son was ready—and perhaps impatient—to be born. That night he kissed him for the first time and sent him to the other temple whose debris showed white downstream, through many leagues of inextricable jungle and swamp. But first (so that he would never know he was a phantom, so that he would be thought a man like others) he instilled into him a complete oblivion of his years of apprenticeship.
The man’s victory and peace were dimmed by weariness. At dawn and at twilight, he would prostrate himself before the stone figure, imagining perhaps that his unreal child was practicing the same rites, in other circular ruins, downstream; at night, he would not dream, or would dream only as all men do. He perceived the sounds and forms of the universe with a certain colorlessness: his absent son was being nurtured with these diminutions of his soul. His life’s purpose was complete; the man persisted in a kind of ecstasy. After a time, which some narrators of his story prefer to compute in years and others in lustra, he was awakened one midnight by two boatmen; he could not see their faces, but they told him of a magic man in a temple of the North who could walk upon fire and not be burned. The magician suddenly remembered the words of the god. He recalled that, of all the creatures of the world, fire was the only one that knew his son was a phantom. This recollection, at first soothing, finally tormented him. He feared his son might meditate on his abnormal privilege and discover in some way that his condition was that of a mere image. Not to be a man, to be the projection of another man’s dream, what a feeling of humiliation, of vertigo! All fathers are interested in the children they have procreated (they have permitted to exist) in mere confusion or pleasure; it was natural that the magician should fear for the future of that son, created in thought, limb by limb and feature by feature, in a thousand and one secret nights.
The end of his meditations was sudden, though it was foretold in certain signs. First (after a long drought) a faraway cloud on a hill, light and rapid as a bird; then, toward the south, the sky which had the rose color of the leopard’s mouth; then the smoke which corroded the metallic nights; finally, the panicky flight of the animals. For what was happening had happened many centuries ago. The ruins of the fire god’s sanctuary were destroyed by fire. In a birdless dawn the magician saw the concentric blaze close round the walls. For a moment, he thought of taking refuge in the river, but then he knew that death was coming to crown his old age and absolve him of his labors. He walked into the shreds of flame. But they did not bite into his flesh, they caressed him and engulfed him without heat or combustion. With relief, with humiliation, with terror, he understood that he too was a mere appearance, dreamt by another.
* * * *
Although the volume containing “The Circular Ruins,” and most of what has since appeared as Fictions, was published in Spanish twenty-five years ago, none of Borges’ books appeared in English until 1962. (Some of Borges’ poetry was translated for anthologies as early as 1942—but the first story to be published in English was translated by Anthony Boucher for Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, in 1948; eight individual stories altogether appeared between 1948-1959.)
At the present time, three collections of Borges’ work are available in the United States: Labyrinths and two volumes from the University of Texas Press: Dreamtigers (1964) and Other Inquisitions (1965).
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* * * *
It seems time to ask again: what
are the gradations, the lines of definition, between “delusion” and “reality”? Between madness and dreaming, between dream and creativity, between the act of creation and divinity? Between divinity and madness?
In which of these overlapping lands lies the residence of Reality?
The latest scientific stance suggests that the act of dreaming is a prerequisite for sanity. But sanity (in court at least) is the ability to distinguish reality from illusion. Are our dreams, then, real? (Sub-real? Surreal?)
Harvey Jacobs, who is just about half as old as Jorge Luis Borges, but who broke into (English-language, fiction-category) print only two years later than Borges—and who is also appearing for the first time in any sort of s-f collection—has a not even remotely similar story, which also happens to be about dreams, gods, and the act of creation.
* * * *
THE GIRL WHO DREW THE GODS
HARVEY JACOBS
The Year's Best Science Fiction 11 - [Anthology] Page 24