Reading "Borges and I" made me think a lot about the idea of doubles: how one version of Borges is his normal self, while the other is portrayed in literature as a more exaggerated and exciting version. The double of Borges in literature could be viewed as who the narrator aspires to be. However, Borges in literature is causing the narrator to feel as though he is left with nothing; he is devoting himself and giving too much of himself away to the Borges in the literature he writes; it leaves the narrator himself feeling empty, unable to distinguish himself from what appears as his alter-ego. As we discussed in class, this idea of doubles relates to the idea of external versus internal. Borges himself, the one not enhanced in literature, would be internal, and the exaggerated, character version is the external. Borges wants people to see him as having a more exciting life than he actually has. In today's society, this directly relates to how people are in real life versus social media. People portray the "best" versions of themselves on social media, to make others think their life is awesome, just like Borges does through literature. People only post pictures on Instagram that are about exciting events in their life, or positive things in general to give their followers the idea that they have a great life full of exciting events worth sharing. However, real life is not like that. Yes, there are days where exciting things will happen that you'll want to share, but it's not all there is to life. Sadness, disappointment, or boring days overall are never heard about on social media. These qualities and parts of peoples' lives stay apart of the internal; they do not want bad things to ruin their external image to others. People use social media to create different versions of themselves.
I received more of a Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde vibe from "Borges and I". It seemed as if Borges was very different from the author. Subconsciously the author has come up with this separate Borges to be the one people see as the man who represents the authors literary work. Yes it is stated that they shared common interests, but the author even writes how Borges acted vain when doing so. I believe that this author is becoming afraid of the fact that when he dies, Borges will be all that is left. He, at this point does not like what Borges is, as an idea. Borges was created to represent the author however so far, this has been unsuccessful. The author even writes how he tried to forget out Borges altogether, but Borges has integrated himself to firmly into the author's life. He is all the author can think about. It should be understood that Borges is not real. He is the identity that the author has created to be perceived by in his writings. This can be compared to hiding behind a mask that gives yourself a false sense of security. The author has used Borges to protect himself just in case his writings are viewed negatively. However the author has realized that Borges does not fully represent himself so when he passes on the literary Borges will stay behind forever. The author will be remembered as Borges, but that is no who the author is.
The narrator in “Borges and I” seems to me to be the original man known as Borges. Through his constant attempts to satiate society’s expectations of man and author, Borges has externally changed small bits of himself at a time by taking a piece of his true internal self and morphing it to fit into societal expectations. Over time, these changes have accumulated to form this version of the literary figure Borges that the public sees and approves of. However, the narrator – who I see as the original Borges – can hardly recognize himself anymore. He distances himself from the literary Borges as if they are two completely different people and feels that, little by little, the literary Borges is stealing a piece of the original Borges and morphing it until it is unrecognizable.
To relate this to modern life, I began to think of what we consider identity theft. With technology advancing, it seems that the possibility of identity theft is greater than ever before. However, what we are anxiously protecting is actually a nine digit number that supposedly is our only proof of existence. A Social Security Number is the man made, society-approved concept of identity. As Borges implies, there is a deeper, interior self that reflects our true identities, untouched by the ridicule and restrictions of society. This internal self is a more accurate representation of identity than any nine digit number, yet this self is slowly destroyed as the external identity needs more fuel to placate society. I believe that we should worry more about identity theft of the interior (as Borges is struggling with) than the exterior. If the external identity (Social Security Number) is lost, the internal identity remains and the person continues to exist. The exterior is entirely comprised of the basic traits and characteristics of the interior self. Even though they have been drastically morphed to fit a common standard, the basis remains the same and, without the basis, there is nothing to build upon or maintain. So, if the internal identity is lost, the external has nothing more to feed off of to satisfy society and the being will simply cease to exist.
This text is presented as the rambled thoughts of a man struggling with losing his identity. The feeling from reading this is very reminiscent of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and this story is even hinted at by Borges later in the work. He writes that he likes “the prose of Stevenson,” referring to Robert Louis Stevenson, the author of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Although not as extreme a case as that of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Borges nonetheless struggles with the idea of having both an internal identity and an external identity. “Borges” represents the external identity of the writer – the one who procures the fame and fortune of creating great works, and basks in the benefits of this fame. The internal identity of the writer is the embodiment of his fear of his legacy. Will he (the writer himself) or his work (Borges) be remembered? By the end of this writing, the narrator accepts that he and Borges are indeed one being, although one will succeed over the other eventually, and it will most likely be Borges that wins.
The battle between one’s external and internal self is not as uncommon as some might try to believe. Everyone carries several different personalities with them at all times, ready to be pulled out at a moment’s notice as a situation changes. For example, people obviously act differently when they are alone compared to when they are with their family, and when they are with their friends. They may even hold several identities to use for several different groups of friends. People adapt their personality in order to achieve their goals. In the text, “Borges” became the adapted identity of the writer in order to achieve success in the literary field. Politicians adapt their personalities to gain the support of their constituents. What Jorge Luis Borges warns against, however, is to allow one’s invented identity to consume their true self.
While interpreting “Borges” I came to the conclusion that he not only represents the side of “I” seen by society, but his imagination as well. When Borges says “..I tried to free myself from him and went from the mythologies of the suburbs to the games with time and infinity” he seems to be articulating “Borges’ ” written work as fantasy that is unrealistic. However, it is stated earlier that “I let myself live, let myself go on living, so that Borges may contrive his literature, and this literature justifies me” (Borges). Meaning the writing “Borges” is able to create brings “I” to a state of comfort. When people look at the person writing the passage, they see a writer and a professor. What seems to scare the “I” side of this character the most is that people are not seeing the truth. When he dies he will become a renowned author, professor etc. Yet, he is terrified by the fact that that’s all he will be remembered as. The person behind the stories is just an ordinary man who finds his reality obsolete within the things people will remember him by, his writings. This reminds me of how actors are often perceived to possess certain personalities based on the characters they play. For example, Robin Williams was seen as an acclaimed comedic actor; always putting smiles on the faces of his viewers. What viewers didn’t see was the person who was constantly hurting inside, struggling with depression. Personally, when someone thinks of me, I don’t want them to think of my poor qualities. Rather, I would hope to be remembered as intelligent, optimistic and inclusive. In social situations, people choose not tell people about their struggles right off the bat and especially not in those that are professional. Like “Borges” as a writer and Robin Williams as an actor, we leave our hardships out of the workplace. When we finish our lives on earth, our achievements may be measured by the work we have done, the good things. I believe the “I” in Borges’ passage is haunted by this because who he was will be derived from his writing. As much as he loves his creative self, he knows that it is only part of him and although realistic and perhaps dark, his other side completes him as a person.
After reading this piece, I am particularly interested in Borges' interpretation of the relationship between a writer's personal, interior life and their exterior, famous life. Continuing what both Connor and Nathan have already touched upon, it is clear that Borges struggles with the fact that these two separate identities of his do not match up. After experiencing Jared's Creative Writing class last semester, I have come to the understanding that a lot of the time, writing is a cathartic release of a person's deepest emotions and thoughts. Stories often are based upon or incorporate ideas and events that are near and dear to a writer, and come from a very sincere place inside of them. I like to think that you can learn a lot about who a person is from the stories that they write, because it is easiest to write about what you know and what is true for you.
If what I am rambling about here is indeed true, you could say that a writer's exterior identity (characterized by what they write) is oftentimes a reflection of their inner selves. However, for Borges, this is not the case. He feels that his exterior identity, which he personifies, has a " perverse custom of falsifying and magnifying things." I interpret him as a more reserved and quiet person on the interior, but on the outside, he and his writing come across as potentially loud and over-the-top. He is unfortunately tied to his exterior character, but does not recognize himself in that exterior anymore. He wants his writing to reflect his true self again, but it seems like he has lost any hope of making this happen. Maybe this is because society had certain expectations for him and his writing to fulfill, and in trying to meet those expectations, he became someone he didn't even recognize anymore.
I think that he also has a lot of anxiety about the fact that he is so disconnected from his work, because when he dies he will be remembered for the things he wrote and they do not represent him in the way that he wants. As a budding writer, I also share this anxiety. Not that I will be famous any day, but who would want to be remembered falsely?
The narrator in “Borges and I” seems to be living a double life. He writes about a man named Borges who he seems to know when he states, “I know of Borges from the mail and see his name on a list of professors in a biographical dictionary”. The narrator tends to write about Borges as if he is a different person, but at the same time Borges does not seem so different from the narrator. The narrator states, “I shall remain in Borges, not in myself”, which makes it seem like Borges is actually the narrator, if not just a small part. It seems as though Borges is the part of the narrator which he aspires to be the most. Borges seems to have all of these accomplishments when the narrator doesn’t seem to have any at all. The narrator writes how he is “giving over everything to him” [Borges], which makes it seem as though he feels that he is not even really himself and that Borges is taking over him. The narrator tries to make the audience believe that he is completely disconnected from Borges, when in reality the narrator is Borges. This text reminds me of our discussion in class about internal vs external self. In this text the narrator is presenting himself as internal and Borges as his external self. Instead of the narrator presenting himself to society the way that he actually is, he presents himself as Borges which makes him seem like he is living a double life. Maybe the reason that the narrator is trying to separate himself from Borges is because Borges has all these redeeming qualities and accomplishments when the narrator believes that he himself has none. The narrator may want society to know him and remember him with the qualities and accomplishments that Borges has, so he is letting Borges take over. It is puzzling however, because the narrator presents himself as Borges because he seems to think that is what society would accept, but the narrator does not seem to particularly like Borges. He writes, “my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him”. It is possible that although Borges may be what society wants to see, the narrator is upset that he will not be perceived by who he actually is.
If you looked into my room at Stonehill, you would see realistic drawings with perfectly straight lines and detailed shading. You would never see those drawings on my walls at home. Those walls are reserved for scribbled self-portraits with paint splatters and emotions. Similarly, if you were to look at me, you would see someone who looks as simple as the boring art in my dorm. My hair will never be like those perfect pieces of art; it will always be a curly mess, but everything else about me seems plain. I think that if you looked inside me you would see the drawings that are hanging on my walls at home. You would see the equivalent to those paint splatters and scribbled lines in my thoughts because when I am making that art I am doing it just for me. When I hang that art in my bedroom, I am hanging it just for me. However, when I made the art in my dorm I did not do it for me; I did it for a teacher and a grade. When I hung that same art, it was also not for me. It was for the people who walk by my room and maybe my roommate. Maybe a part of it was for myself too, but if it was for me it’s only a reminder of the type of artist and the type of person that I don’t want to be, and the one that I am for other people.
He is 2 inches thick. He is paper mache. A caricature of a man. He is a shadow at night. He is the snake oil. He is dead star in the night sky. He is no one. He is a lie. He is nothing.
I am the thoughts that keep you up at night. I am the voice whispering....jump. I am the dirt in your eye, you can't ignore me. I am the feeling in your gut. I am your cut brake line on the autobahn. I am the hand holding you underwater and the first breathe of air when you surface. I am your best friend and your worst nightmare. I am...you.
It is less the striking, jarring uncanny of looking into a mirror, and more the fondness of a friend. We share many things, like the love of privacy and quiet, an introversion that wishes most to stay at home with a good book, perhaps by a fire and with a cup of tea or something else warm, and to forego the crowd. The company of others does not bring us displeasure – though, certainly, we do prefer that they be small in number – but we are much more at ease alone, able to keep occupied and entertained for hours on end with little more than ourselves.
Most days, we are one, and our relationship one of mutual warmth and balance. We do not feel terribly compelled to separate ourselves terribly simply because we are in the spotlight, ever scrutinised by the public eye. We do not feel the need.
And yet, we must sometimes separate ourselves, or at least, one of us must restrain the other. Try as we may, and mostly true to ourselves as we stay, some days, one of us must leave, and the other is left, resigned, to put on the Person Suit, to play the part that has been assigned, for those who will inevitably watch us.
I wish we could stay together more, because we're good together.
I arrive at my 8:30 am class precisely at 8:20 am. The second row seat to the far left calls my name. It is at that point that I take out my notebook and begin to record the date in the top right corner. The clock ticks away as all of the different accounts on my balance sheet travel across my page. The professor’s go-to phrase repeats over and over again in my head, “put down the correct account and the correct amount.” I enjoy the structure, the team building that is exercised in each group project and the use of excel.
The day passes on as I arrive to each class 10 minutes early, each lift 20 minutes before it is scheduled and each practice an hour prior to the start time. My day is organized by time and each day is filled with my “favorite things” until the sun has set. It is not until my laptop is open before bed that my true thoughts unfold. It is there that I am able to let my words flow. It is almost as though a different part of my brain is fetched. This version of me is able to reflect, with no time limit. There is no amount of words or paragraphs required. There is no specific time the laptop must be put away. This person is creative, this person is honest, this person is me.
She walks through the campus, her hair brushed so as to emphasize her femininity. Her make up is done to show that she wants to be beautiful. Her clothes suggest that she wants to put effort forth and she truly wants to be put together. She lives in a society where normalcy is the only option. She lives in a world where being outside the norm is dangerous. But, there is someone else knocking, and occasionally, the person inside crashes into the exterior. When she gets into a comfortable place, the other part of her comes through. She relaxes her posture, and relaxes her speech. She no longer is as focused on her appearance as her other self. She is more comfortable with not being perceived as normal. She is more comfortable in her skin, being outside of normal than existing within it. But then, just as she begins to find her comfort and enjoy her life outside of normalcy, society wraps her back into the world where only normalcy can exist. Perhaps she will be able to find a middle ground, or perhaps she will beat the pattern of normalcy.
In response to reading "Borges and I", I have come up with my own interpretation of the style and train of thought that I believe the text follows. I used the same type of characters in my writing, a first person character as well as someone called she. I found it difficult to distinguish between which character represented the conscious and which represented the unconscious even as I was writing this.
I am the face exposed to the wind, the traveler, the pretty thing with an unhappy look. I am the one that causes trouble and the one that fixes broken things, but She is the one that plays games and the one who hurts. If we were separated, it might be a blessing, a moment of sweet relief from her dirty nails clawing at the lining of my stomach. But perhaps if we were not one, it would be the end of me. She truly has nothing without me, but without her I am nothing. She gives me purpose but I give her freedom.
Our interests are the same, but we are not. Though we shared the same trek to the location at which these lines are composed, different paths were taken. Mine was filled with observation and completed with a mind open to explore anything that happens to enter it. There is satisfaction in this. His, however, was direct. The desired location filled his mind, and the location was reached. The task was complete and that is all that matters. Days, for him, are composed of a series of similar tasks, all intended to be completed and crossed out. There is satisfaction in this also. We both enjoy coffee, but for different reasons; the rich, aromatic, smooth taste attracts me to it, but he drinks it to stay awake, to work, and keep focused.
I tend to enjoy English classes more often than he does. The easygoing, explorative nature of my mind is most open when I read, write, and think in ways encouraged in these classes. I am concerned with the question, “who am I?” He, however, feels satisfaction from the exactness, organization, and precision involved in succeeding in science classes. He is concerned with a similar question, but a more scientific one. He asks, “what am I?”
Yet it is him that prevails. The transcript lists a B.S., not a B.A. But the things I value are not lost; they continuously work in the background.
Together, we can achieve a form of understanding and a mindset that is much more valuable than we can when divided. We are simply better together. Like I said, our interests are the same - we are just two opposite sides of the same coin. We are both looking to understand ourselves. Both seeking to understand John.
Uncertainty is a common feeling I possess, one which I struggle to dilute for my other self. The uncertainty lies in the judgment of our peers. The possible scrutiny of my other self is frightening for me, which is why I collect her every morning, instilling a façade with paint and powder that we hope conveys as confidence.
My uncertainty in us causes me to over-scrutinize her subtle comments and movement through space. It causes me to distance us from others, unless we’re given explicit encouragement otherwise. It’s something I have always been wary of, but she doesn’t mind it too much. She likes the alone time and I enjoy the precious moments to collect myself and keep us healthy.
But seeing other, outgoing personalities leaves me feeling broken, sometimes. Why am I not like that? Does she want me to be? I refrain from those thoughts because I hope she’s accepted my guarded watchfulness and embraced the success she’s achieved from the time she’s had to focus on what matters during the time I’ve given her.
I have a name. My name is a part of of my identity that one could consider to be a fact. Even so, I sometimes feel that my name is tied to two different versions of me. There is the version of me out in the open; the one whom everyone will meet. That person is unwilling to speak his mind or rather he has to muster a lot of courage to do so. Then there is the version of me who is somewhat nearby but you’d have to work to really meet and get to know. That person isn’t afraid to express himself. That person can crack up jokes (or at least try) and do his best to make sure people get what he is saying.
I can’t call either side of me “false”; if that is how I act than that is who I am. It bothers me though, that my name is tied to both sides of me. They’re opposites yet my name is used to identify them both interchangeably. It’s problematic because there will always be a person who is thrown off or shocked to see a different side of me that they are not used to. So though I know each version of me is true, I can’t help but wish that they’d each have their own name. That way, my private and public selves can separate themselves from each other. That way, they can have their own identity.
She is quiet, reticent and too sensitive for her own good. She is petrified of speaking in front of people, for fear that she will seem dull, stupid and confused. She prefers the company of books because books, though expressive, aren’t capable of harboring opinions of their readers. Each day, without fail, she obsessively revises a monologue for my consideration, one of crushing self-doubt and unshakable cynicism that is never any better than the previous drafts (the syntax varies depending on the books she’s reading but the gist of it remains the same). Knowing her as I do, I’m hesitant to offer constructive criticism.
We have the same name but I’m not sure who it suits best. I get the impression that we share a face and a body, too, yet we have found no mirror capable of throwing back any such revelations. In any event, we both despise mirrors--and no one has to worry about telling us apart, as we don’t go out together in public; I don’t have the patience or resolve to coddle a basket case.
Yet sometimes, whether out of contempt or some unanticipated leakage of bravery, she will threaten to tag along. She’s just as good an actor as I am, as wily as she is sensitive, which I often forget. She doesn’t tag along, though. She just shows up, my unanticipated plus-one, and all I can do is watch. Such occasions are either mercifully brief or excruciatingly long.
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Reading "Borges and I" made me think a lot about the idea of doubles: how one version of Borges is his normal self, while the other is portrayed in literature as a more exaggerated and exciting version. The double of Borges in literature could be viewed as who the narrator aspires to be. However, Borges in literature is causing the narrator to feel as though he is left with nothing; he is devoting himself and giving too much of himself away to the Borges in the literature he writes; it leaves the narrator himself feeling empty, unable to distinguish himself from what appears as his alter-ego.
ReplyDeleteAs we discussed in class, this idea of doubles relates to the idea of external versus internal. Borges himself, the one not enhanced in literature, would be internal, and the exaggerated, character version is the external. Borges wants people to see him as having a more exciting life than he actually has. In today's society, this directly relates to how people are in real life versus social media. People portray the "best" versions of themselves on social media, to make others think their life is awesome, just like Borges does through literature. People only post pictures on Instagram that are about exciting events in their life, or positive things in general to give their followers the idea that they have a great life full of exciting events worth sharing. However, real life is not like that. Yes, there are days where exciting things will happen that you'll want to share, but it's not all there is to life. Sadness, disappointment, or boring days overall are never heard about on social media. These qualities and parts of peoples' lives stay apart of the internal; they do not want bad things to ruin their external image to others. People use social media to create different versions of themselves.
Conor O'Malley
ReplyDeleteI received more of a Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde vibe from "Borges and I". It seemed as if Borges was very different from the author. Subconsciously the author has come up with this separate Borges to be the one people see as the man who represents the authors literary work. Yes it is stated that they shared common interests, but the author even writes how Borges acted vain when doing so. I believe that this author is becoming afraid of the fact that when he dies, Borges will be all that is left. He, at this point does not like what Borges is, as an idea. Borges was created to represent the author however so far, this has been unsuccessful. The author even writes how he tried to forget out Borges altogether, but Borges has integrated himself to firmly into the author's life. He is all the author can think about. It should be understood that Borges is not real. He is the identity that the author has created to be perceived by in his writings. This can be compared to hiding behind a mask that gives yourself a false sense of security. The author has used Borges to protect himself just in case his writings are viewed negatively. However the author has realized that Borges does not fully represent himself so when he passes on the literary Borges will stay behind forever. The author will be remembered as Borges, but that is no who the author is.
The narrator in “Borges and I” seems to me to be the original man known as Borges. Through his constant attempts to satiate society’s expectations of man and author, Borges has externally changed small bits of himself at a time by taking a piece of his true internal self and morphing it to fit into societal expectations. Over time, these changes have accumulated to form this version of the literary figure Borges that the public sees and approves of. However, the narrator – who I see as the original Borges – can hardly recognize himself anymore. He distances himself from the literary Borges as if they are two completely different people and feels that, little by little, the literary Borges is stealing a piece of the original Borges and morphing it until it is unrecognizable.
ReplyDeleteTo relate this to modern life, I began to think of what we consider identity theft. With technology advancing, it seems that the possibility of identity theft is greater than ever before. However, what we are anxiously protecting is actually a nine digit number that supposedly is our only proof of existence. A Social Security Number is the man made, society-approved concept of identity. As Borges implies, there is a deeper, interior self that reflects our true identities, untouched by the ridicule and restrictions of society. This internal self is a more accurate representation of identity than any nine digit number, yet this self is slowly destroyed as the external identity needs more fuel to placate society. I believe that we should worry more about identity theft of the interior (as Borges is struggling with) than the exterior. If the external identity (Social Security Number) is lost, the internal identity remains and the person continues to exist. The exterior is entirely comprised of the basic traits and characteristics of the interior self. Even though they have been drastically morphed to fit a common standard, the basis remains the same and, without the basis, there is nothing to build upon or maintain. So, if the internal identity is lost, the external has nothing more to feed off of to satisfy society and the being will simply cease to exist.
This text is presented as the rambled thoughts of a man struggling with losing his identity. The feeling from reading this is very reminiscent of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and this story is even hinted at by Borges later in the work. He writes that he likes “the prose of Stevenson,” referring to Robert Louis Stevenson, the author of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Although not as extreme a case as that of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Borges nonetheless struggles with the idea of having both an internal identity and an external identity. “Borges” represents the external identity of the writer – the one who procures the fame and fortune of creating great works, and basks in the benefits of this fame. The internal identity of the writer is the embodiment of his fear of his legacy. Will he (the writer himself) or his work (Borges) be remembered? By the end of this writing, the narrator accepts that he and Borges are indeed one being, although one will succeed over the other eventually, and it will most likely be Borges that wins.
ReplyDeleteThe battle between one’s external and internal self is not as uncommon as some might try to believe. Everyone carries several different personalities with them at all times, ready to be pulled out at a moment’s notice as a situation changes. For example, people obviously act differently when they are alone compared to when they are with their family, and when they are with their friends. They may even hold several identities to use for several different groups of friends. People adapt their personality in order to achieve their goals. In the text, “Borges” became the adapted identity of the writer in order to achieve success in the literary field. Politicians adapt their personalities to gain the support of their constituents. What Jorge Luis Borges warns against, however, is to allow one’s invented identity to consume their true self.
While interpreting “Borges” I came to the conclusion that he not only represents the side of “I” seen by society, but his imagination as well. When Borges says “..I tried to free myself from him and went from the mythologies of the suburbs to the games with time and infinity” he seems to be articulating “Borges’ ” written work as fantasy that is unrealistic. However, it is stated earlier that “I let myself live, let myself go on living, so that Borges may contrive his literature, and this literature justifies me” (Borges). Meaning the writing “Borges” is able to create brings “I” to a state of comfort. When people look at the person writing the passage, they see a writer and a professor. What seems to scare the “I” side of this character the most is that people are not seeing the truth. When he dies he will become a renowned author, professor etc. Yet, he is terrified by the fact that that’s all he will be remembered as. The person behind the stories is just an ordinary man who finds his reality obsolete within the things people will remember him by, his writings.
ReplyDeleteThis reminds me of how actors are often perceived to possess certain personalities based on the characters they play. For example, Robin Williams was seen as an acclaimed comedic actor; always putting smiles on the faces of his viewers. What viewers didn’t see was the person who was constantly hurting inside, struggling with depression. Personally, when someone thinks of me, I don’t want them to think of my poor qualities. Rather, I would hope to be remembered as intelligent, optimistic and inclusive. In social situations, people choose not tell people about their struggles right off the bat and especially not in those that are professional. Like “Borges” as a writer and Robin Williams as an actor, we leave our hardships out of the workplace. When we finish our lives on earth, our achievements may be measured by the work we have done, the good things. I believe the “I” in Borges’ passage is haunted by this because who he was will be derived from his writing. As much as he loves his creative self, he knows that it is only part of him and although realistic and perhaps dark, his other side completes him as a person.
After reading this piece, I am particularly interested in Borges' interpretation of the relationship between a writer's personal, interior life and their exterior, famous life. Continuing what both Connor and Nathan have already touched upon, it is clear that Borges struggles with the fact that these two separate identities of his do not match up. After experiencing Jared's Creative Writing class last semester, I have come to the understanding that a lot of the time, writing is a cathartic release of a person's deepest emotions and thoughts. Stories often are based upon or incorporate ideas and events that are near and dear to a writer, and come from a very sincere place inside of them. I like to think that you can learn a lot about who a person is from the stories that they write, because it is easiest to write about what you know and what is true for you.
ReplyDeleteIf what I am rambling about here is indeed true, you could say that a writer's exterior identity (characterized by what they write) is oftentimes a reflection of their inner selves. However, for Borges, this is not the case. He feels that his exterior identity, which he personifies, has a " perverse custom of falsifying and magnifying things." I interpret him as a more reserved and quiet person on the interior, but on the outside, he and his writing come across as potentially loud and over-the-top. He is unfortunately tied to his exterior character, but does not recognize himself in that exterior anymore. He wants his writing to reflect his true self again, but it seems like he has lost any hope of making this happen. Maybe this is because society had certain expectations for him and his writing to fulfill, and in trying to meet those expectations, he became someone he didn't even recognize anymore.
I think that he also has a lot of anxiety about the fact that he is so disconnected from his work, because when he dies he will be remembered for the things he wrote and they do not represent him in the way that he wants. As a budding writer, I also share this anxiety. Not that I will be famous any day, but who would want to be remembered falsely?
The narrator in “Borges and I” seems to be living a double life. He writes about a man named Borges who he seems to know when he states, “I know of Borges from the mail and see his name on a list of professors in a biographical dictionary”. The narrator tends to write about Borges as if he is a different person, but at the same time Borges does not seem so different from the narrator. The narrator states, “I shall remain in Borges, not in myself”, which makes it seem like Borges is actually the narrator, if not just a small part. It seems as though Borges is the part of the narrator which he aspires to be the most. Borges seems to have all of these accomplishments when the narrator doesn’t seem to have any at all. The narrator writes how he is “giving over everything to him” [Borges], which makes it seem as though he feels that he is not even really himself and that Borges is taking over him.
ReplyDeleteThe narrator tries to make the audience believe that he is completely disconnected from Borges, when in reality the narrator is Borges. This text reminds me of our discussion in class about internal vs external self. In this text the narrator is presenting himself as internal and Borges as his external self. Instead of the narrator presenting himself to society the way that he actually is, he presents himself as Borges which makes him seem like he is living a double life. Maybe the reason that the narrator is trying to separate himself from Borges is because Borges has all these redeeming qualities and accomplishments when the narrator believes that he himself has none. The narrator may want society to know him and remember him with the qualities and accomplishments that Borges has, so he is letting Borges take over. It is puzzling however, because the narrator presents himself as Borges because he seems to think that is what society would accept, but the narrator does not seem to particularly like Borges. He writes, “my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him”. It is possible that although Borges may be what society wants to see, the narrator is upset that he will not be perceived by who he actually is.
If you looked into my room at Stonehill, you would see realistic drawings with perfectly straight lines and detailed shading. You would never see those drawings on my walls at home. Those walls are reserved for scribbled self-portraits with paint splatters and emotions. Similarly, if you were to look at me, you would see someone who looks as simple as the boring art in my dorm. My hair will never be like those perfect pieces of art; it will always be a curly mess, but everything else about me seems plain. I think that if you looked inside me you would see the drawings that are hanging on my walls at home. You would see the equivalent to those paint splatters and scribbled lines in my thoughts because when I am making that art I am doing it just for me. When I hang that art in my bedroom, I am hanging it just for me. However, when I made the art in my dorm I did not do it for me; I did it for a teacher and a grade. When I hung that same art, it was also not for me. It was for the people who walk by my room and maybe my roommate. Maybe a part of it was for myself too, but if it was for me it’s only a reminder of the type of artist and the type of person that I don’t want to be, and the one that I am for other people.
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ReplyDeleteHe is 2 inches thick. He is paper mache. A caricature of a man. He is a shadow at night. He is the snake oil. He is dead star in the night sky. He is no one. He is a lie. He is nothing.
ReplyDeleteI am the thoughts that keep you up at night. I am the voice whispering....jump. I am the dirt in your eye, you can't ignore me. I am the feeling in your gut. I am your cut brake line on the autobahn. I am the hand holding you underwater and the first breathe of air when you surface. I am your best friend and your worst nightmare. I am...you.
Most days, we are one.
ReplyDeleteIt is less the striking, jarring uncanny of looking into a mirror, and more the fondness of a friend. We share many things, like the love of privacy and quiet, an introversion that wishes most to stay at home with a good book, perhaps by a fire and with a cup of tea or something else warm, and to forego the crowd. The company of others does not bring us displeasure – though, certainly, we do prefer that they be small in number – but we are much more at ease alone, able to keep occupied and entertained for hours on end with little more than ourselves.
Most days, we are one, and our relationship one of mutual warmth and balance. We do not feel terribly compelled to separate ourselves terribly simply because we are in the spotlight, ever scrutinised by the public eye. We do not feel the need.
And yet, we must sometimes separate ourselves, or at least, one of us must restrain the other. Try as we may, and mostly true to ourselves as we stay, some days, one of us must leave, and the other is left, resigned, to put on the Person Suit, to play the part that has been assigned, for those who will inevitably watch us.
I wish we could stay together more, because we're good together.
I arrive at my 8:30 am class precisely at 8:20 am. The second row seat to the far left calls my name. It is at that point that I take out my notebook and begin to record the date in the top right corner. The clock ticks away as all of the different accounts on my balance sheet travel across my page. The professor’s go-to phrase repeats over and over again in my head, “put down the correct account and the correct amount.” I enjoy the structure, the team building that is exercised in each group project and the use of excel.
ReplyDeleteThe day passes on as I arrive to each class 10 minutes early, each lift 20 minutes before it is scheduled and each practice an hour prior to the start time. My day is organized by time and each day is filled with my “favorite things” until the sun has set. It is not until my laptop is open before bed that my true thoughts unfold. It is there that I am able to let my words flow. It is almost as though a different part of my brain is fetched. This version of me is able to reflect, with no time limit. There is no amount of words or paragraphs required. There is no specific time the laptop must be put away. This person is creative, this person is honest, this person is me.
She walks through the campus, her hair brushed so as to emphasize her femininity. Her make up is done to show that she wants to be beautiful. Her clothes suggest that she wants to put effort forth and she truly wants to be put together. She lives in a society where normalcy is the only option. She lives in a world where being outside the norm is dangerous. But, there is someone else knocking, and occasionally, the person inside crashes into the exterior.
ReplyDeleteWhen she gets into a comfortable place, the other part of her comes through. She relaxes her posture, and relaxes her speech. She no longer is as focused on her appearance as her other self. She is more comfortable with not being perceived as normal. She is more comfortable in her skin, being outside of normal than existing within it. But then, just as she begins to find her comfort and enjoy her life outside of normalcy, society wraps her back into the world where only normalcy can exist.
Perhaps she will be able to find a middle ground, or perhaps she will beat the pattern of normalcy.
In response to reading "Borges and I", I have come up with my own interpretation of the style and train of thought that I believe the text follows. I used the same type of characters in my writing, a first person character as well as someone called she. I found it difficult to distinguish between which character represented the conscious and which represented the unconscious even as I was writing this.
ReplyDeleteI am the face exposed to the wind, the traveler, the pretty thing with an unhappy look. I am the one that causes trouble and the one that fixes broken things, but She is the one that plays games and the one who hurts.
If we were separated, it might be a blessing, a moment of sweet relief from her dirty nails clawing at the lining of my stomach.
But perhaps if we were not one, it would be the end of me. She truly has nothing without me, but without her I am nothing. She gives me purpose but I give her freedom.
Our interests are the same, but we are not. Though we shared the same trek to the location at which these lines are composed, different paths were taken. Mine was filled with observation and completed with a mind open to explore anything that happens to enter it. There is satisfaction in this. His, however, was direct. The desired location filled his mind, and the location was reached. The task was complete and that is all that matters. Days, for him, are composed of a series of similar tasks, all intended to be completed and crossed out. There is satisfaction in this also. We both enjoy coffee, but for different reasons; the rich, aromatic, smooth taste attracts me to it, but he drinks it to stay awake, to work, and keep focused.
ReplyDeleteI tend to enjoy English classes more often than he does. The easygoing, explorative nature of my mind is most open when I read, write, and think in ways encouraged in these classes. I am concerned with the question, “who am I?” He, however, feels satisfaction from the exactness, organization, and precision involved in succeeding in science classes. He is concerned with a similar question, but a more scientific one. He asks, “what am I?”
Yet it is him that prevails. The transcript lists a B.S., not a B.A. But the things I value are not lost; they continuously work in the background.
Together, we can achieve a form of understanding and a mindset that is much more valuable than we can when divided. We are simply better together. Like I said, our interests are the same - we are just two opposite sides of the same coin. We are both looking to understand ourselves. Both seeking to understand John.
Uncertainty is a common feeling I possess, one which I struggle to dilute for my other self. The uncertainty lies in the judgment of our peers. The possible scrutiny of my other self is frightening for me, which is why I collect her every morning, instilling a façade with paint and powder that we hope conveys as confidence.
ReplyDeleteMy uncertainty in us causes me to over-scrutinize her subtle comments and movement through space. It causes me to distance us from others, unless we’re given explicit encouragement otherwise. It’s something I have always been wary of, but she doesn’t mind it too much. She likes the alone time and I enjoy the precious moments to collect myself and keep us healthy.
But seeing other, outgoing personalities leaves me feeling broken, sometimes. Why am I not like that? Does she want me to be? I refrain from those thoughts because I hope she’s accepted my guarded watchfulness and embraced the success she’s achieved from the time she’s had to focus on what matters during the time I’ve given her.
I have a name. My name is a part of of my identity that one could consider to be a fact. Even so, I sometimes feel that my name is tied to two different versions of me. There is the version of me out in the open; the one whom everyone will meet. That person is unwilling to speak his mind or rather he has to muster a lot of courage to do so. Then there is the version of me who is somewhat nearby but you’d have to work to really meet and get to know. That person isn’t afraid to express himself. That person can crack up jokes (or at least try) and do his best to make sure people get what he is saying.
ReplyDeleteI can’t call either side of me “false”; if that is how I act than that is who I am. It bothers me though, that my name is tied to both sides of me. They’re opposites yet my name is used to identify them both interchangeably. It’s problematic because there will always be a person who is thrown off or shocked to see a different side of me that they are not used to. So though I know each version of me is true, I can’t help but wish that they’d each have their own name. That way, my private and public selves can separate themselves from each other. That way, they can have their own identity.
She is quiet, reticent and too sensitive for her own good. She is petrified of speaking in front of people, for fear that she will seem dull, stupid and confused. She prefers the company of books because books, though expressive, aren’t capable of harboring opinions of their readers. Each day, without fail, she obsessively revises a monologue for my consideration, one of crushing self-doubt and unshakable cynicism that is never any better than the previous drafts (the syntax varies depending on the books she’s reading but the gist of it remains the same). Knowing her as I do, I’m hesitant to offer constructive criticism.
ReplyDeleteWe have the same name but I’m not sure who it suits best. I get the impression that we share a face and a body, too, yet we have found no mirror capable of throwing back any such revelations. In any event, we both despise mirrors--and no one has to worry about telling us apart, as we don’t go out together in public; I don’t have the patience or resolve to coddle a basket case.
Yet sometimes, whether out of contempt or some unanticipated leakage of bravery, she will threaten to tag along. She’s just as good an actor as I am, as wily as she is sensitive, which I often forget. She doesn’t tag along, though. She just shows up, my unanticipated plus-one, and all I can do is watch. Such occasions are either mercifully brief or excruciatingly long.