Invocation to Joyce

by Jorge Luis Borges


Scattered in scattered capitals,
solitary and many,
we played at being the first Adam
who gave names to things.
Down the vast slopes of night
that extend into dawn
we searched (I remember it still) for the words
of the moon, of death, of the morning,
and of the other usages of man.
We were imagism, cubism,
the conventicals and sects
that the credulous universities venerate.
We invented the lack of punctuation,
the leaving out of capital letters,
the stanzas in the form of a dove
from the libraries of Alexandria.
Ash, the work of our hands,
and the glowing fire our faith.
You, meanwhile, forged
in the cities of exile
in that exile which was
your loathed and chosen instrument,
the weapon of your art,
you raised your arduous labyrinths,
infinitesimal and infinite,
admirably ignoble,
more populous than history.
We shall have died without having made out
the biform beast or the rose
which are the center of your labyrinth,
but memory holds on to its talismans,
its Virgilian echoes,
and so in the streets of the night
your splendid infernos survive,
your many cadences and metaphors,
the gold glints of your shadow.
What does our cowardice matter if there is on earth
a single valiant man,
what does sadness matter if there was in time
somebody who called himself happy,
what does my lost generation matter,
that vague mirror, if your books justify it.
I am the others. I am all those
whom your obstinate rigor has redeemed.
I am those you do not know and those you continue to save.

— Translated by Charles Tomlinson

From Elogio de la Sombra, 1969 (In Praise of Darkness).


Invocación a Joyce

Dispersos en dispersas capitales,
solitarios y muchos,
jugábamos a ser el primer Adán
que dio nombre a las cosas.
Por los vastos declives de la noche
que lindan con la aurora,
buscamos (lo recuerdo aún) las palabras
de la luna, de la muerte, de la mañana
y de los otros hábitos del hombre.
Fuimos el imagismo, el cubismo,
los conventículos y sectas
que las crédulas universidades veneran.
Inventamos la falta de puntuación,
la omisión de mayúsculas,
las estrofas en forma de paloma
de los bibliotecarios de Alejandría.
Ceniza, la labor de nuestras manos
y un fuego ardiente nuestra fe.
Tú, mientras tanto, forjabas
en las ciudades del destierro,
an aquel destierro que fue
tu aborrecido y elegido instrumento,
el arma de tu arte,
erigías tus arduos laberintos,
infinitesimales e infinitos,
admirablemente mezquinos,
más populosos que la historia.
Habremos muerto sin haber divisado
la biforme fiera o la rosa
que son el centro de tu dédalo,
pero la memoria tiene sus talismanes,
sus ecos de Virgilio,
y así en las calles de la noche perduran
tus infiernos espléndidos,
tantas cadencias y metáforas tuyas,
los oros de tu sombra.
Qué importa nuestra corbardía si hay en la tierra
un solo hombre valiente,
qué importa la tristeza si hubo en el tiempo
alguien que se dijo feliz,
qué importa mi perdida generación,
ese vago espejo,
si tus libros la justifican.
Yo soy los otros. Yo soy todos aquellos
que ha rescatado tu obstinado rigor.
Soy los que no conoces y los que salvas.


SOURCE: Borges, Jorge Luis. Selected Poems, edited by Alexander Coleman (New York: Viking, 1999), English, p. 287, 289; Spanish, 286, 288.


"James Joyce" (poem) by Jorge Luis Borges

The Cyclical Night: Irony in James Joyce and Jorge Luis Borges
by L. A. Murrilo

James Joyce: Special Topics: Bibliography, Links, Quotes

Jorge Luis Borges: Selected Study Materials on the Web

On other sites:

Invocation to Joyce” by Jorge Luis Borges,
translated by Norman Thomas di Giovanni,
with Hungarian translation by Ertl István


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