Jorge Luis Borges


Solely one thing is not; it’s oblivion. God who saves the metal saves the dross and stores up in His prophetic memory the moons that will be and those that have been. There everything is: thousands of reflections that, between all forms of waning light, your face has been leaving in mirrors and the ones it will go on leaving, always. And all is part of the diverse crystal of this memory, the universe whose arduous corridors have no end and whose doors close themselves at your step; only from the horizon’s other side will you see the Archetypes and the Splendors.

Translated from the Spanish by Evelyn Hooven
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