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//-->The Book of Sandby Jorge Luis Borgestranslated by Andrew HurleyThe lineconsists of an infinite number of points;the plane,of an infinite number of lines;the volume,of an infinite number of planes;the hypervolume,of an infinite number of volumes…No—this,more geometrico,is decidedly not the best way to begin my tale.To say that the story is true is by nowa convention of every fantastic tale;mine, nevertheless, is true.I live alone,in a fifth-floor apartmenton Calle Belgrano.One evening a few months ago, I heard a knock at my door.I opened it, and a stranger stepped in.He was a tall man, with blurred, vague features,or perhaps my nearsightedness made me see him that way.Everything about him spoke of honest poverty:he was dressed in gray, and carried a gray valise.I immediately sensed that he was a foreigner.At first I thought he was old;then I noticed that I had been misled by his sparse hair,which was blonde, almost white, like the Scandinavians’.In the course of our conversation,which I doubt lasted more than an hour,I learned that he hailed from the Orkneys.I pointed the man to a chair.He took some time to begin talking.He gave off an air of melancholy, as I do myself now.“I sell Bibles,” he said at last.“In this house,” I replied,not without a somewhat stiff, pedantic note,“there are several English Bibles,including the first one, Wyclif’s.I also have Cipriano de Valera’s, Luther’s(which is, in literary terms, the worst of the lot),and a Latin copy of the Vulgate.As you see, it isn’t exactly Bibles I might be needing.”After a brief silence he replied.“It’s not only Bibles I sell.I can show you a sacred bookthat might interest a man such as yourself.I came by it in northern India, Bikaner.”He opened his valise and brought out the book.He laid it on the table.It was a clothbound octavo volumethat had clearly passed through many hands.I examined it; the unusual heft of it surprised me.On the spine was printed Holy Writ, and then Bombay.“Nineteenth century I’d say, ” I observed.“I don’t know,” was the reply.“Never did know.”The characters were unfamiliar to me.The pages, which seemed worn and badly set,were printed in double columns, like a Bible.The text was cramped, and composed into versicles.At the upper corner of each page were Arabic numerals.I was struck by an odd fact:the even-numbered page would carry the number 40,514, let us say,while the odd-numbered page that followed it would be 999.I turned the page; the next page bore an eight-digit number.It also bore a small illustration, like those one sees in dictionaries:an anchor drawn in pen and ink,as though by the unskilled hand of a child.I took note of the page, and then closed the book.Immediately, I opened it again.In vain I searched for the figure of the anchor, page after page.To hide my discomfiture, I tried another tack.“This is a version of Scripture in some Hindu language, isn’t that right?”“No,” he replied.Then he lowered his voice, as though entrusting me with a secret.“I came across this book in a village on the plain,and I traded a few rupees and a Bible for it.The man who owned it didn’t know how to read.I suspect he saw the Book of Books as an amulet.He was of the lowest caste;people could not so much as step on his shadow without being defiled.He told me his book was called the Book of Sandbecause neither sand nor this book has a beginning or an end.”It was at that point that the stranger spoke again.“Look at it well. You will never see it again.”There was a threat in the words,but not in the voice.He suggested I try to find the first page.I took the cover in my left hand and opened the book,my thumb and forefinger almost touching.It was impossible:several pages always lay between the cover and my hand.It was as though they grew from the very book.“Now try to find the end.”I failed there as well.“This can’t be,” I stammered,my voice hardly recognizable as my own.“It can’t be, yet it is,” the Bible peddler said,his voice little more than a whisper.“The number of pages in this book is literally infinite.No page is the first page; no page is the last.I don’t know why they’re numbered in this arbitrary way,but perhaps it’s to give one to understand thatthe terms of an infinite seriescan be numbered any way whatever.”Then, as though thinking out loud, he went on.“If space is infinite, we were anywhere,at any point in space.If time is infinite, we are at any point in time.”His musings irritated me.“You,” I said, “are a religious man, are you not?”“Yes, I’m Presbyterian. My conscience is clear.I am certain I didn’t cheat that nativewhen I gave him the Lord’s Word in exchange for his diabolic book.”I assured him he had nothing to reproach himself for,and asked whether he was just passing through the country.He replied that he planned to return to his own countrywithin a few days.It was then that I learned he was a Scot,and that his home was in the Orkneys.I told him I had great personal fondness for Scotlandbecause of my love for Stevenson and Hume.“And Robbie Burns,”he corrected. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]