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A Dialogue on Borges’ Blindness: “Everything Near Becomes Far”

Ilan Stavans et Max Ubelaker Andrade

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1Among the ironies in Jorge Luis Borges’ work is that he was an inveterate reader with a portentous memory who, around the age of fifty, could no longer read and write unassisted: blindness left books out of reach at the very moment he became the director of Argentina’s National Library. Yet he didn’t feel incapacitated by blindness, grounding an intellectual journey in the richness of his experience at the edge of sight and using it to reconsider the nature of imagination, identity, and literary vision. In this wide-ranging conversation, which was done electronically between January 21 and February 9, 2023, Ilan Stavans, Lewis-Sebring Professor at Amherst College, the publisher of Restless Books, and a consultant to the Oxford English Dictionary, and Max Ubelaker Andrade, Associate Teaching Professor in Latin American Studies at University of Massachusetts Lowell and author of Borges Beyond the Visible (2019), discuss the nuances of the writer’s luminous “darkness.” Both Ilan Stavans and Max Ubelaker Andrade are sighted.

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3Max Ubelaker Andrade: Jorge Luis Borges opens his poem “Yo” (“I,” La rosa profuna, 1975) with a list of various parts that might be imagined as ‘his’: “La calavera, el corazón secreto, los caminos de sangre que no veo, / los túneles del sueño, ese Proteo, / las vísceras, la nuca, el esqueleto.” (The skull, the secret heart, / the paths of blood that I do not see, / the tunnels of dreams, that Proteus, / the viscera, the nape, the skeleton.) The poem affirms: “Soy esas cosas.” (I am those things).

4 It can take a moment for the sighted reader to notice how all of these words refer to parts of their own self that exist (for them) always out of view: unseen, in any direct way, they must be imagined into existence. It is a poem that can serve as a gentle reminder of how effortless and natural it is to not see, how normal, even when it comes to parts of ourselves that are incredibly familiar and intimately close. The poem expands on this idea to include memories that the mind must compose (non-optically) as well as an evocation of gazing out at ships from a port (perhaps as a memory, when Borges could see them, or perhaps at the time of writing the poem, when he could not). It suggests, finally, that while it is strange that the self would be composed of so many disparate, imagined elements, stranger still is being someone who weaves words together in the room of a house.

5 The profound strangeness of reading and writing (two acts which seem to overlap or overtake each other in Borges’ work) is a central dimension of his stories. I believe that, for him, the transformative potential of literary experiences is often in subtle conversation his own relationship with sight, blindness, and imagination.

6Ilan Stavans: My mother lost her memory in her last years of life. Without it, she was no longer my mother. I often imagine myself in a similar situation. Who would I be without the capacity of remembering my name, my childhood, the dreams I had last night? And the sense of hearing almost completely disappeared for my brother, a musical composer, during the COVID pandemic. It is slowly returning on the left ear but he has lost registering sounds in quality and quantity on the right ear. His sadness is enormous. He has decided to sell his piano.

7I also visualize myself without sight; I wouldn’t be able to read. And without my two hands, I wouldn’t be able to write, to type. Cervantes lost mobility of his left arm during the Battle of Lepanto in 1571; it didn’t stop him from composing, more than three decades later, Don Quixote. Borges lost his sight around the age of fifty, although not altogether. In his lecture on blindness, which he delivered at Teatro Coliseo in Buenos Aires in 1977 and is part, with six other lectures, of the book Siete noches (Seven Nights, 1980), he talks about his loyalty to certain colors: “yellow, blue (except that the blue may be green), and green (except that the green may be blue).” He adds: “White has disappeared, or is confused with gray. As for red, it has vanished completely. But I hope some day—I am following a treatment—to improve and to be able to see that great color, that color which shines in poetry, and which has so many beautiful names in many languages.”

8 Borges doesn’t want pity from anyone. The blind, in his view, are just like everybody else. He says that “people generally imagine the blind as enclosed in a black world. There is, for example, Shakespeare’s line: ‘Looking on darkness which the blind do see.’ If we understand ‘darkness’ as ‘blackness,’ then Shakespeare is wrong.” He says that one of the colors that the blind—or at least that blind man—do not see is black. I find this disquisition enlightening: being blind, Borges stresses, doesn’t mean not seeing; it means seeing differently. Borges’ paternal lineage includes a number of blind relatives, including his father, who at an older age could still see but in a limited fashion. He talks of the enormous privilege he felt at having been director of Argentina’s National Library for eighteen years and the inherent contradiction in him accepting the job at a time when he could no longer read. Two other directors of the library were also blind: Paul Groussac, whom Borges admired (and who, like him, adored Don Quixote), and José Mármol. He quotes from his own “Poema de los dones” (Poem of the Gifts, 1959). This is Eliot Weinberger’s translation:

No one should read self-pity or reproach
into this statement of the majesty
of God; who with such splendid irony
granted me books and blindness in one touch.

9In other words, blindness is a gift. Other blind writes include Homer, about whom Greek tradition tells us next to nothing but has granted us his two extraordinary epic poems; John Milton, who like Borges imagined the loss of paradise (in his lecture on blindness, Borges says “I had always imagined paradise as a kind of library); and James Joyce, who rewrote Homer. In photographs of his youth, a myopic Borges is occasionally seen wearing heavy glasses, but, according to several biographers, shied from using them in public. But in old age, he is seen in portraits without glasses, his sight lost in space.

10 In my mind, I see him at Teatro Coliseo in front of the crowd, sitting on a wooden chair, a table with a glass of water to his right, his hands suspended while holding a cane, his eye projecting into the darkness before him. An admirable profile.

11MUA: Borges’ lecture on blindness, for me, is crisscrossed with important tensions and contradictions. At one level, the lecture does three things: it works to acknowledge and challenge some of the stereotypes that sighted people often associate with blindness; it suggests that being blind has joined Borges with a new community (and a new tradition) of blind writers; and it offers examples of how blindness (which is often framed as a kind of loss) can be additive, creating the conditions for new discoveries, projects, and practices. Yet each of these dimensions of the text double back on themselves in different, contradictory ways.

12Despite announcing that he is speaking from his own personal experiences, when Borges dispels the myth that every blind person is “enclosed in a black world,” his text makes statements about “el ciego” (“the blind person”), that can lead readers to assume they are learning about blind people’s visual experiences in general. It can, in a contradictory way, replace one generalization with another, despite the diversity of experiences of blindness (which, as Kenneth Jernigan has written, can involve a total lack of visual stimuli, cascading colors, narrowed fields of sight, blocked fields of vision, and also “perfect” 20/20 sight when it is paired with a high sensitivity to light… all of which become “blindness” within social and cultural contexts designed for and by sighted people).

13I find it particularly important that while Borges describes his own personal experience of blindness (and sight) as that of a slowly building twilight—a process that began the day he was born and continued up until the moment of writing his text—he also suggests that audiences prefer a more dramatic version of things. Borges, crucially, uses the word patético (pathetic) to describe what his listeners might want. He then proceeds to cater to these preferences, telling the story of being named as the director of the National Library without being able to read even the titles of the 900,000 books it houses.

14This story of loss is complicated by the last part of the essay. Despite writing that he could not read the books that he was in charge of, Borges, in the very same essay, describes the experience of reading as a blind person as he began his study of Old English literature with a group of students. Borges, of course, read while listening, as do many people (now often with screen readers), which made it, for him, a far more collaborative experience. Writing, too, would now involve other people in a new way. “I had replaced the visible world with the auditory world of the Anglo-Saxon language,” he writes, after describing the joyous social experience of collectively discovering the definition of a few key words, which to him and his group were like “talismans.” He is working more slowly now, but also with others, and remembers how they all spilled out into the street afterwards happily yelling “Lundenburh” and “Romeburh.”

15What is most striking to me is that after catering to the desires for a ‘pathetic moment’ where he cannot read the books he is surrounded by, Borges subverts those same expectations with a description of a new form of writing and reading. Repeating the same word from before, he writes that blindness should not, in fact, be approached with the expectations of a pathetic story: “no se la debe ver de un modo patético.” Instead, he writes, it should be understood as one of the different ways that people live, a style of life with its own set of challenges, strengths, and creative opportunities.

16IS: The other six lectures in Seven Nights are all about passions Borges engaged in: The Divine Comedy, the Kabbalah, nightmares, poetry, The Thousand and One Nights, and Buddhism. “Blindness” is the only one about a condition. I have learned enormously from Borges’ impromptu style of lecturing. In old age, as a result of his blindness (but even when he was younger), he lets his mind “wander as it wonders” (the sentence line comes from Langston Hughes) in an associative journey nurtured by his voracious reading. The volume we have of Seven Nights is a transcription of those rendezvous, likely under the supervision of María Kodama, his second wife, in charge of his literary estate. The Fondo de Cultura Económica edition I have, which I bought in Mexico when it first came out (it is now in my archives at the University of Pennsylvania), features cross-outs and other editing, not from his hand though.

17 Anyway, throughout Borges’ life the act and art of lecturing is essential: Several of his most important nonfiction pieces began as lectures: “El escritor argentino y la tradición” (The Argentine Writer and Tradition, “La inmortalidad” (Immortality), “El enigma de Shakespeare” (The Enigma of Shakespeare), “El concepto de la academia y los celtas” (The Concept of an Academy and the Celts), and so on. It is far different to sit down to write a personal meditation on blindness than to sit in front of hundreds of people and improvise. To accomplish the latter, especially about such an intrinsically intimate topic, you need to be confessional, to bring down your defenses, to eliminate all kinds of subterfuges. It is astonishing what Borges accomplishes at the psychological level. He seems free of anger and recrimination, which are often side effects of our human limitations.

18MUA: When you read Seven Nights, do you think about your own practice of lecturing?

19IS: I do. It is an enormously stimulating exercise. I know roughly where I want to go but not how I will get there. As soon as I introduce the topic, I feel a rush of adrenaline. I find myself at the crux where memory and improvisation meet. I hear the clock ticking and that grants me rhythm. If I have notes in front of me, I get distracted. Comparatively, it isn’t that different than crafting an essay, except that in a lecture you’re thinking aloud. That, indeed, is the joy: mapping your thoughts in front of a large crowd.

20MUA: Borges, I think, brings down the defenses of his audience at certain moments, but also finds ways of challenging their expectations, desires, and ideas. Maybe he is doing the same thing with his own thoughts and feelings about blindness, which are by no means static. In a lecture at Boston University, Aravinda Bhat described Borges’ approach to blindness as a “wavering aesthetic,” which might move between acceptance, regret, celebration, and sorrow at different moments. Kevin Goldstein has written that Borges’ shifting ambivalence about his blindness allows him to present it as a path to knowledge in certain moments, while at others subverting the “blind seer” trope by expressing everyday bitterness, annoyance, and boredom. Goldstein suggests (and I agree) that it is important to frame these tensions within a social model of disability, which differentiates between physical impairment and disability, the latter being produced by the complex encounter between a society and an individual with specific impairments. This allows for the understanding that societies produce disabilities by how (and for whom) they are organized and built. It also points us in the direction of progress by focusing attention on barriers to be removed and questioning implicit ideas about who a ‘normal’ person is. This allows for a key shift: instead of always approaching blindness as a source of suffering or misfortune, it suggests that it can often be more helpful to identify the origin of that discomfort in buildings that are inaccessible, social practices that are exclusionary, and a lack of interest in complicating conventional normative thinking. I wonder if there was something special about the dynamic between Borges and a live audience that allowed some of these contradictions and tensions to emerge.

21In your book Borges, the Jew (2016), you write that Borges’ approach to blindness was informed by his love of Jews and their countless ways of turning suffering into insight. It makes me think of how Borges pushed back against the notion of his own peripheral position as a Latin American writer by asserting that the margin is simply a less-obvious center: he writes that the tremendous cultural impact of Jewish writers arises in part from being at once within the Western tradition and simultaneously at a (critical) distance from it. Borges’ relationship with blindness might involve a similar exploration of the possibilities that arise from a de-centered (or re-centered) position—his work often subtly explores the fault-lines of a culture built around seeing and sightedness. Especially in the dimension of literature—where no one can rely on eyes to directly perceive reality.

22IS: You remind me of Beatriz Sarlo’s argument, in her book Borges: A Writer on the Edge (1993), that Borges wasn’t only interested in orilleros, e.g., a 19th-century Argentine slum type living on the urban edge, surviving on criminality. Etymologically, the word comes from orilla, edge. Sarlo believed Borges de-centralized not only Argentine but Western culture by writing from Argentina, that is, from the most distant cosmopolitan metropolis vis-à-vis Europe, but also from an off-quilted location in Argentina itself, the Buenos Aires slums, where compadritos, orilleros, and tangueros shaped the nation’s culture. I empathize with this view. Borges’ blindness both confirmed and contributed to that off-centerness. The concept of the edge also related to Borges’ myopia. He therefore needed to be “close” to the action.

23MUA: One of the most dramatic examples of Borges’ relationship with visuality is his most famous story: “El Aleph” (The Aleph, 1945).

24IS: Almost everything in “The Aleph” is about seeing. At the beginning Borges arrives to Beatriz Viterbo’s house and sees old photographs hanging on the wall. He then reflects on a billboard about cigarettes on Constitución Plaza that has recently changed. His visit to Beatriz Viterbo’s cousin Carlos Argentino Daneri is quite visual. And, of course, Borges’ exposure to the Aleph itself, “a small iridescent sphere of almost unbearable brilliance,” its diameter “probably little more than an inch, but all space was there, actual and undiminished.” Then comes that extraordinary list of items he sees—concurrently—through the Aleph, and the word (I saw) are repeated time and again, as if to emphasize the act and art of seeing as an epistemological condition.

25MUA: For me, this story is about the tensions between sight and imagination: both are involved in vision, but in the context of literature I believe that Borges is most interested in our inner capacity to compose a complex, subtle reality (with room for contradictions or paradoxes) in relation to language. And sometimes an excessive attachment to seeing (and the conventions of everyday sight) can get in the way.

26For example, after the building, ecstatic celebration of seeing that the narrator describes, he is surprised to note the feelings of indifference that follow and worries that he will no longer able to experience surprise, or the sensation of newness. After a few sleepless nights, he is grateful and happy for the process of forgetting that begins to erase his experience. It is worth noting that the owner of the Aleph is an arrogant, unskilled poet who has used it all his life; an obsession with perfect, total sight fuels his less-than-appealing literary project. Perhaps the most striking (and confusing) rejection, however, is when the narrator states that this Aleph was a false Aleph.

27 The statement arrives with a list of mythical objects (from an invented manuscript) that are also rejected for being ‘mere optical instruments.’ It is not made clear why being optical would render this Aleph false, as it was only ever described as a visual instrument. One object mentioned in the list, however, is kept apart: a column in the Amr Mosque of Cairo that is said to contain the entire universe. Here, however, the Aleph buried in the stone column cannot be seen—its distant hum allows only for it to be indirectly imagined into being, through touch and through hearing. The narrator insinuates that this might be the true Aleph.

28 While there are many ways to work through this story, it is worth considering how Borges—understanding that he would one day be blind—fashioned an object that delivers perfect, total sight only to enigmatically mark it as false. We should notice that the person who views this optical Aleph does not have to expend any energy or effort: they are passive, instantly gratified consumers of the (visible) world. In fiction, however, everything must be created through effort, through the generative creativity of the reader who invests time and attention in the experience; nothing is ‘seen’ in an optical sense, only imagined, heard, or sensed internally. It is the Aleph in the column of the Amr Mosque which requires its visitors to actively and internally create a universe that corresponds to the distant rumble that they hear, or touch. In this way it is compatible with the context of fiction—and is marked true—in a way that stands in contrast to the falseness of the optical Aleph. While Daneri’s project was, truly, all about seeing, Borges points to a different aspect of visuality in literature: the way it is composed in the mind. Note how Daneri’s Aleph only works for the sighted; the Aleph in the Amr Mosque relies on touch, on hearing: the senses that blind readers of the story are using to read it.

29IS: Sight and imagination go hand in hand at all times. What we see with our eyes is what is in front of us, objectively, but what also what perspective, subjectivity add up. “The Aleph,” particularly given the narrator’s tension with Carlos Argentino Daneri, isn’t impartial; on the contrary, it is infused by what Borges wants to see.

30 Keep in mind that aleph is the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet, which is derived from its Phoenician and Babylonian counterparts. Calling the object with that letter—he could have called it in countless other ways, even though he states, in the appendix, that the Aleph isn’t his creation since there have been other sighing (sightings?) of Alephs elsewhere—points to both sight and sound, since a letter exists in those two dimensions. There is a beautiful anecdote in Sefer Yetzirah, one of the canonical books of Jewish mysticism. Its date of composition is the subject of debate: some trace it back to the Talmudic period, while others believe it was composed in the Middle Ages. In it we are told that before the world is created, the letters appear before the divine, requesting a place in the alphabet. Aleph and Bet, the first two letters, both make a convincing argument to be the first. God listens to them patiently and seems unable to decide. Finally, He places Aleph as the first letter of the alphabet and Bet as the first letter of the Torah, explaining His decision to each of them.

31 The image is inspiring. Letters, in the Hebrew tradition, have personalities. There is tension between them. They might be reactive or ambitious, bright or submissive.

32MUA: I agree. I think that Borges often evokes Jewish mysticism to open readers to the strange magic of language, to de-familiarize it, asking his readers to contemplate its letters, sounds, and powers with curiosity and awe. Using the word Aleph to name this aperture to the world (be it optical or not) brings its mystery in conversation with the words on the page, the letters used to form them. Language is his medium for investigating the world and inventing new ones; theologies that position language as preceding the universe, I think, hold special significance for him.

33Another name that Borges chose for this magical object was “mihrab”—it appears (instead of the word “Aleph”) crossed out in the original manuscript of the story. A mihrab is an object that, in a mosque, points in the direction of Mecca. Often it is a concave, empty space. Like the unseen Aleph in the mosque that Borges mentions at the end of the story, it invites contemplation without providing an image or an icon.

34 As it turns out, the Amr Mosque in Cairo was known for its mihrab. In a striking echo of Borges’ story, it was destroyed due to an architectural expansion in the year 711. (Daneri’s landlords Zunino and Zungri end up demolishing his house and burying his Aleph due to their own architectural expansion of a modern confitería.) The original mihrab, however, was not forgotten. Instead, the space in which it once resided was marked off by four columns with gilded capitals. In that sense, the ‘true,’ non-optical Aleph in Borges’ story is also (literally and figuratively) an unseen mihrab.

35IS: Intriguingly, perhaps with the exception of El hacedor (The Maker, 1960) in general almost none of Borges’ protagonists are blind, at least anatomically, although here and there a few passing figures—like the librarian in “El milagro secreto” (The Secret Miracle, 1943) and a passing character in “Utopía de un hombre que está cansado (Utopia of a Tired Man, 1975)—who are. But I want to go back to la sombra, the shadow, also rendered as darkness in Borges’ oeuvre. The motif, obviously, is ubiquitous. You mention the link between sight and imagination. In his poem “In Praise of Darkness” (1969), he expands on his portrait of what blindness is by relating blindness to memory. He also opens a psychological window. This is a translation by Hoyt Rogers:

My friends have no faces,
women are what they were so many years ago,
those corners could be other corners,
there are no letters on the pages of books.
All this should frighten me,
but it is a sweetness, a return.
Of the generations of texts on earth
I will have read only a few—
the ones that I keep reading in my memory,
reading and transforming.

36MUA: While in English it might seem contradictory that Borges would use the word ‘darkness’ to title this book of poetry after challenging its association with blindness, in Spanish the original word ‘sombra’ has a lot more luminous potential: one can imagine clouds creating shadows without necessarily removing all light and color.

37If there is always a balance between sight, memory and imagination in the everyday experiences of sighted people, Borges tips the balance in the poem you cite, pushing his readers to sense what they project onto the world (the faces of their friends, the familiar street corners that they walk past). It is as though, at the end of his life, he describes blindness as an invitation inwards, to explore and transform the depths of his life: everything that holds up the coherence (or incoherence) of his world and identity. This life is richer, in this telling, than one lived with the belief that the eyes faithfully transmit reality to those who see.

38 It directly recalls the argument of his story “El hacedor,” which describes a man who can see (but is unaware of the stories, myths, and histories that give his life urgency). When he becomes blind, the visible world recedes, but he slowly becomes aware of the stories that were always operating in the background of his life. The text hints that this man is Homer, positioning the generative power of blindness near one of the mythical origins of literary imagination.

39IS: Or “Las ruinas circulares” (“The Circular Ruins, 1940), about a magician who, through dreams, has a child. The story is about the power of seeing in one’s imagination and the capacity to dream one’s own descendancy. Clearly, Borges’ blindness opens up alternative forms of perception.

40 A confession: on occasion, I imagine him drinking ayahuasca, a hallucinogenic used by indigenous tribes in various places of Latin America. I was part of a mind-bending shamanic ceremony in the Colombian Amazon that featured it. I turned the experience into a one-man play, The Oven: An Anti-Lecture (2016), which I performed nationwide. It also came out in book form. Although Borges’ mind, in and of itself, is already extraordinarily malleable, it is delicious to think of him as not being in control of that elasticity.

41MUA: A few newspapers reported that María Kodama, in a 1993 lecture, shared how Borges had enjoyed ingesting hallucinogenic mushrooms called “pajaritos del monte”—though I am not sure if this is true. I wonder if any of us are that in control of our minds, with or without the influence of ayahuasca.

42 I love how “The Circular Ruins”—by borrowing key words and phrases— signals strong connections to Miguel de Cervantes’ 1605 prologue to Don Quixote. This text also describes (in contradictory fashion) how Don Quixote the character and Don Quixote the book (they are purposefully confused) are and are not the ‘child’ of the author. It is eventually suggested that the book (or its protagonist) have emerged out of a central rule of nature: that ‘like engenders like’—people are born of people and books are born of… other books. Cervantes soon presents himself as the stepfather of the book (or the character), who/which properly emerges out of a strange convergence of other texts, of language. Literary existence is, in this view, deeply contradictory: at once sensory and textual, artificial and intimate. The same questions echo within the pages that follow, as Alonso Quijano/Quesada/Quijada ‘becomes’ Don Quixote, ‘seeing’ through a literary lens (which is comedic at certain moments and revelatory at others given that he is, in fact, a character in a book).

43Both texts remind me of Robert Burton’s ideas about writing and influence in The Anatomy of Melancholy (another book that Borges turned to); he stated that all writers are thieves, borrowing words in ways that connect them to a vast tapestry of influence: an infinite series of writers and readers. At first, the dreaming magician might appear to suggest a writer of sorts who has ‘created’ a character in his mind… until we realize that the writer, too, is a strange creation of his tradition, of the books he has read. It is a story that welcomes us, in its way, into the circular ruins that it reveals. In the preface to El informe de Brodie (Brodie’s Report, 1970), Borges writes that “[p]or lo demás, la literatura no es otra cosa que un sueño dirigido” (literature, in other respects, is nothing but a directed dream). Maybe it could also be described as guided hallucination.

44IS: Borges on mushrooms—a perplexing image. Anyway, I agree that all writers are thieves: we steal in order to survive. Cervantes, in that sense, was a consummated burglar. Don Quixote, after all, is a parody of chivalry novels, e.g., he rewrites the tradition in order to subvert it.

45 Borges ends his lecture on blindness with a quote from Goethe: “Alles Nahe werde fern,” everything near becomes far. Although he says that Goethe is referring to the evening twilight, the image inspires him. In fact, he sees it as an image that refers to life: “All things go off, leaving us, Old age is probably the supreme solitude—except that the supreme solitude is death. And ‘everything near becomes far’ also refers to the slow process of blindness, of which I hoped to show, speaking tonight, that it isn’t a complete misfortune. It is one more instrument among the many—all of them so strange—that fate or chance provide.”

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47This written conversation appeared in Translation as Home: A Multilingual Life (University of Toronto Press, 2024), a collection of Ilan Stavans’s essays and collaborative texts edited by Regina Galasso.

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Ilan Stavans et Max Ubelaker Andrade, « A Dialogue on Borges’ Blindness: “Everything Near Becomes Far” »Amerika [En ligne], 29 | 2024, mis en ligne le 02 janvier 2025, consulté le 21 janvier 2026. URL : http://journals.openedition.org/amerika/20368 ; DOI : https://doi.org/10.4000/1330o

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Auteurs

Ilan Stavans

Lewis-Sebring Professor of Humanities and Latin American and Latino Culture, Amherst College, istavans@amherst.edu

Max Ubelaker Andrade

Associate Teaching Professor in Latin American Studies, University of Massachusetts Lowell, max_Ubelaker@uml.edu

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