Books The Point of it All
posted by March 30 at 12:40 PMon
My past obsession with Jorge Luis Borges (between 93 and 97)…
…is matched, in quality/intensity, only by my current obsession with Spinoza, particularly his short book The Ethics, and more particularly, the chapter titled “On The Mind,” and even more particularly, the early passages on the memory and the body.
It is to the genius of their creators that “The Aleph” and The Ethics owe their liberation from the low status of creations. Because the minds of the writers wanted to mirror the mind of creation, these works do not appear to be works, works that are mere fabrications, but, instead, works that shimmer in the amazing manner of the Buddhist infinite net of jewels, that is, in the manner of what the scholastics called substance, that is, in the manner of creation itself.
And so today my life arrived at a new level of happiness (happiness being the sense of fulfillment or completion) when I discovered this poem by Borges:
Like golden mist, the west lights up
The window. The diligent manuscript
Awaits, already laden with infinity.
Someone is building God in the twilight.
A man engenders God. He is a Jew
Of sad eyes and citrine skin.
Time carries him as the river carries
A leaf in the downstream water.
No matter. The enchanted one insists
And shapes God with delicate geometry.
Since his illness, since his birth,
He goes on constructing God with the word.
The mighties love was granted him
Love that does not expect to be loved.
You must love it all and not expect to be loved at all. That is real love, that is Spinoza.