We are all immortals — just backward.
Every time someone reads “The Garden of Forking Paths,” Borges steps out of the library. Every time a writer borrows his labyrinths — from Eco to Danielewski to Inception — Borges whispers from the stacks. He exists in the infinite regress of quotations, in the false memories of fictional scholars, in the paradox of a man who went blind while directing the National Library of Argentina. (“I speak of God’s splendid irony,” he wrote, “who granted me at once books and night.”) the immortal borges
To be immortal is to be bored of every sunrise. To forget your mother’s voice. To watch cities crumble into sand and feel nothing. We are all immortals — just backward