I Wanted To Live Among Books.

For Borges, The Core Of Reality Lay In Books; Reading Books, Writing Books, Talking About Books. In A Visceral Way, He Was Conscious Of Continuing A Dialogue Begun Thousands Of Years Before And Which He Believed Would Never End.

I've Never Really Understood Attachment To A Place For Reasons Of Birth. That My Mother Happened To Give Birth To Me In A Certain Place Doesn't, To My Mind, Justify Any Thankfulness Towards That Place. It Could Have Been Anywhere.

My Books Hold Between Their Covers Every Story I've Ever Known And Still Remember, Or Have Now Forgotten, Or May One Day Read; They Fill The Space Around Me With Ancient And New Voices.

If Justice Takes Place, There May Be Hope, Even In The Face Of A Seemingly Capricious Divinity.

I Know My Time Will Come Soon Enough, But I Will Not Dwell On It. What Is The Purpose? We Might As Well Dwell On The Work Of Our Teeth Or On The Mechanics Of Our Walk. It Is There, It Will Always Be There, And I Don't Intend To Spend My Glorious Hours Looking Over My Shoulder To See Death's Icy Face.