Jorge Luis Borges: El testigo (The Witness) / Incident at Spirit Lake

U.S. President-elect Donald Trump (C) smiles as he is applauded by his son Eric Trump (L) daughter Ivanka and son in law Jared Kushner (R) ahead of a press conference in Trump Tower, Manhattan, New York, U.S., January 11, 2017. REUTERS/Shannon Stapleton

U.S. President-elect Donald Trump (C) stands surrounded by his son Eric Trump (L) daughter Ivanka and son Donald Trump Jr. (R) ahead of a press conference in Trump Tower, Manhattan, New York, U.S., January 11, 2017: photo by Shannon Stapleton/Reuters, 11 January 2017

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Jorge Luis Borges: El testigo

En un establo que está casi a la sombra de la nueva iglesia de piedra, un hombre de ojos grises y barba gris, tendido entre el olor de los animales, humildemente busca la muerte como quien busca el sueño. El día, fiel a vastas leyes secretas, va desplazando y confundiendo las sombras en el pobre recinto; afuera están las tierras aradas y un zanjón cegado por hojas muertas y algún rastro de lobo en el barro negro donde empiezan los bosques. El hombre duerme y sueña, olvidado. El toque de oración lo despierta. En los reinos de Inglaterra el son de campanas ya es uno de los hábitos de la tarde, pero el hombre, de niño, ha visto la cara de Woden, el horror divino y la exultación, el torpe ídolo de madera recargado de monedas romanas y de vestiduras pesadas, el sacrificio de caballos, perros y prisioneros. Antes del alba morirá y con él morirán, y no volverán, las últimas imágenes inmediatas de los ritos paganos; el mundo será un poco más pobre cuando este sajón haya muerto.

Hechos que pueblan el espacio y que tocan a su fin cuando alguien se muere pueden maravillarnos, pero una cosa, o un número infinito de cosas, muere en cada agonía, salvo que exista una memoria del universo, como han conjeturado los teósofos. En el tiempo hubo un día que apagó los últimos ojos que vieron a Cristo; la batalla de Junín y el amor de Helena murieron con la muerte de un hombre. ¿Qué morirá conmigo cuando yo muera, qué forma patética o deleznable perderá el mundo? ¿La voz de Macedonio Fernández, la imagen de un caballo colorado en el baldío de Serrano y de Charcas, una barra de azufre en el cajón de un escritorio de caoba?

U.S. Honda biker Ricky Brabec races during stage 8 of the Dakar Rally between Uyuni, Bolivia and Salta, Argentina: photo by Franck Fife/Pool via AP, 11 January 2017

The Witness

In a stable nearly in the shadow of the new stone church, a grey-eyed, grey-bearded cowherd lies amid the stench of cattle and quietly seeks death the way a man seeks sleep. Obedient to vast secret laws, the day's shifting light and gloom play on the rough walls of the hovel. Close by are tilled fields and a dry ditch clogged with dead leaves, and in the black soil at the edge of the forest the tracks of a wolf. The man sleeps and dreams, forgotten. The bells for evening prayer awaken him. By now the sound of bells is one of evening's customs in the kingdoms of England, but as a child the man had known the face of Woden, the holy awe and loud exultation of his worship, the clumsy wooden idol laden with Roman coins and coarse vestments, and the sacrifice of horses, dogs, and prisoners. Before daybreak he will die, and with him will die -- never to come back again -- the final first-hand images of heathen rites. When this Saxon is gone, the world will be a little poorer.

Events that fill up space and reach their end when someone dies may cause us wonder, but some thing - or an endless number of things - dies with each man's last breath, unless, as theosophy conjectures, the world has a memory. In the past, there was a day when the last eyes to have seen Christ were closed; the battle of Junín and Helen's face each died with the death of some one man. What will die with me when I die, what poignant or worthless memory will be lost to the world? The voice of Macedonio Fernández, the image of a brown horse grazing in an empty lot at the corner of Serrano and Charcas, a sulphur candle in the drawer of a mahogany desk?

Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986): El testigo / The Witness, 1957, from El Hacedor / The Maker, 1960, English version by Norman Thomas de Giovanni

The Witness

In a stable that stands almost within the shadow of the new stone church a gray-eyed, gray-bearded man, stretched out amid the odors of the animals, humbly seeks death as one seeks for sleep. The day, faithful to vast secret laws, little by little shifts and mingles the shadows in the humble nook. Outside are the plowed fields and a deep ditch clogged with dead leaves and an occasional wolf track in the black earth at the edge of the forest. The man sleeps and dreams, forgotten. The angelus awakens him. By now the sound of the bells is one of the habits of evening in the kingdoms of England. But this man, as a child, saw the face of Woden, the holy dread and exultation, the rude wooden idol weighed down with Roman coins and heavy vestments, the sacrifice of horses, dogs, and prisoners. Before dawn he will die, and in him will die, never to return, the last eye-witness of those pagan rites; the world will be a little poorer when this Saxon dies.

Events far-reaching enough to people all space, whose end is nonetheless tolled when one man dies, may cause us wonder. But something, or an infinite number of things, dies in every death, unless the universe is possessed of a memory, as the theosophists have supposed.

In the course of time there was a day that closed the last eyes to see Christ. The battle of Junin and the love of Helen each died with the death of some one man. What will die with me when I die, what pitiful or perishable form will the world lose? The voice of Macedonio Fernandez? The image of a roan horse on the vacant lot at Serrano and Charcas? A bar of sulpher in the drawer of a mahogany desk?

Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986): El testigo / The Witness, 1957. from El Hacedor / The Maker, 1960, English version by Mildred Boyer