Borges, in his poem “remorse” said:
“I have committed the worst sin that a man can commit, I was not happy.”
Then I was sixteen years and those were the words of an old man, the truth is that I thought to understand what he was talking about. Since then my life could be summarized as a succession of errors (he also spoke in that way of his own life), which led me to this point, vanishing during the elapsed time any other possible now, result of missed opportunities or decisions which I did not take and could have led my steps to a different future, such as paths that bifurcate, that depart to an unfathomable destination.
Also he pass me the taste for the etymology and the language history, and perhaps I owe the interest that, in those days, I put in the subject of Latin, dedication with which I got a perplexing score in the final test. I do not Know what happens in the private schools of priests, but in the public schools,Latin was by far the most discredited of all subjects, accused of useless, senseless and decadent, it weighed like a stone in the souls of most students, so that who showed some interest for this subject cursed, he was named “majara”, which was then the name for the freaks.
It was a pity that the world that he lived not forgave his tepidity as politician, it was probably his biggest mistake, but we can not pretend that a person which denied the policy would embody something apart from a peaceful anarchism, as he own once described his political attitude. He should not accept the award from the Chilean Academy in times of Pinochet; neither conferences, or his anti-racist was able to erase this fact,simple and complex at once. Due to this probably, despite many nominations he ever received that undoubtedly deserved, Nobel.
I love the way he mixed present, past and future, alloying them in a solid form brighter than mere reality. Avid devourer of books, dreamed that the paradise was an infinite library. Not to hate Germanic mythology during Hitler´s times, made him suspect among those who will not know him. He lived a meaningless time, a world that was not his world. During the Falklands War remained a British Pro openly in an atmosphere heated by the Argentine military junta, an attitude that no one understood.
Sometimes I do not think he died of old (despite I never imagined young), who was not blind, I like to think that at some point he went, through the moon of a mirror either, to the other side, a place, a time, where the library of Alexandria never was destroyed, where nobody ever stack books to burn, maybe to a maze of paper, where he is straining a large garden, whose hedges are made with countless volumes of brainy authors like him.