Jorge Luis Borges Issue 28, Summer-Fall I remember him I have no right to utter this sacred verb, only one man on earth had that right and he is dead with a dark passion flower in his hand, seeing it as no one has ever seen it, though he might look at it from the twilight of dawn till that of evening, a whole lifetime. I remember him, with his face taciturn and Indian-like and singularly remote, behind the cigarette. I remember I think his angular, leather-braiding hands. I clearly remember his voice: the slow, resentful, nasal voice of the old-time dweller of the suburbs, without the Italian sibilants we have today. I never saw him more than three times; the last was in
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Jorge Luis Borges Issue 28, Summer-Fall I remember him I have no right to utter this sacred verb, only one man on earth had that right and he is dead with a dark passion flower in his hand, seeing it as no one has ever seen it, though he might look at it from the twilight of dawn till that of evening, a whole lifetime.
I remember him, with his face taciturn and Indian-like and singularly remote, behind the cigarette. I remember I think his angular, leather-braiding hands. I clearly remember his voice: the slow, resentful, nasal voice of the old-time dweller of the suburbs, without the Italian sibilants we have today. I never saw him more than three times; the last was in I find it very satisfactory that all those who knew him should write about him; my testimony will perhaps be the shortest and no doubt the poorest, but not the most impartial in the volume you will edit.
My deplorable status as an Argentine will prevent me from indulging in a dithyramb, an obligatory genre in Uruguay whenever the subject is an Uruguayan.
Highbrow, city slicker, dude: Funes never spoke these injurious words, but I am sufficiently certain I represented for him those misfortunes. My first memory of Funes is very perspicuous. I can see him on an afternoon in March or February of the year My father, that year, had taken me to spend the summer in Fray Bentos.
I was returning from the San Francisco ranch with my cousin Bernardo Haedo. We were singing as we rode along and being on horseback was not the only circumstance determining my happiness. After a sultry day, an enormous slate-colored storm had hidden the sky. It was urged on by southern wind, the trees were already going wild; I was afraid I was hopeful that the elemental rain would take us by surprise in the open. We were running a kind of race with the storm.
We entered an alleyway that sank down between two very high brick sidewalks. It had suddenly got dark; I heard some rapid and almost secret footsteps up above; I raised my eyes and saw a boy running along the narrow and broken path as if it were a narrow and broken wall. I remember his baggy gaucho trousers, his rope-soled shoes.
I remember the cigarette in his hard face, against the now limitless storm cloud. He told me the fellow in the alleyway was one Ireneo Funes, known for certain peculiarities such as avoiding con-tact with people and always knowing what time it was, like a clock.
He lived with his mother, around the corner from the Laureles house. During the years eighty-five and eighty-six we spent the summer in Montevideo. In eighty-seven I returned to Fray Bentos. I was told he had been thrown by a half-tamed horse on the San Francisco ranch and was left hopelessly paralyzed. I remember the sensation of uneasy magic the news produced in me: the only time I had seen him, we were returning from San Francisco on horseback and he was running along a high place; this fact, told me by my cousin Bernardo, had much of the quality of a dream made up of previous elements.
I was told he never moved from his cot, with his eyes fixed on the fig tree in the back or on a spider web. In the afternoons, he would let him-self be brought out to the window. He carried his pride to the point of acting as if the blow that had felled him were beneficial. Twice I saw him behind the iron grating of the the window, which harshly emphasized his condition as a perpetual prisoner: once, motionless, with his eyes closed; another time, again motionless, absorbed in the contemplation of a fragrant sprig of santonica.
Not without a certain vaingloriousness, I had begun at that time my methodical study of Latin. Everything becomes public in a small town; Ireneo, in his house on the outskirts, did not take long to learn of the arrival of these anomalous books. His handwriting was perfect, very sharply outlined; his orthography, of the type favored by Andres Bello: i for y, j for g.
At first I naturally feared a joke. My cousins assured me that was not the case, that these were peculiarities of Ireneo. I did not know whether to attribute to insolence, ignorance or stupidity the idea that the arduous Latin tongue should require no other instrument than a dictionary; to disillusion him fully, I sent him the Gradus ad Parnassum of Quicherat and the work by Pliny. When I packed my valise, I noticed the Gradus and the first volume of the Naturalis historia were missing. I was astonished to find the evening no less oppressive than the day had been.
She told me Ireneo was in the back room and I should not be surprised to find him in the dark, because he knew how to pass the idle hours without lighting the candle. I crossed the tile patio, the little passageway; I reached the second patio.
There was a grape arbor; the darkness seemed complete to me. His voice was speaking in Latin; his voice which came from the darkness was articulating with morose delight a speech or prayer or incantation.
The Roman syllables resounded in the earthen patio; my fear took them to be indecipherable, interminable; afterwards, in the enormous dialogue of that night, I learned they formed the first paragraph of the twenty-fourth chapter of the seventh book of the Naturalis historia.
The subject of that chapter is memory; the last words were ut nihil non iisdem verbis redderetur auditum. Without the slightest change of voice, Ireneo told me to come in.
He was on his cot, smoking. It seems to me I did not see his face until dawn; I believe I recall the intermittent glow of his cigarette. The room smelled vaguely of dampness. I now arrive at the most difficult point in my story. This story it is well the reader know it by now has no other plot than that dialogue which took place half a century ago. I shall not try to reproduce the words, which are now irrecoverable.
I prefer to summarize with veracity the many things Ireneo told me. The indirect style is remote and weak; I know I am sacrificing the efficacy of my narrative; my readers should imagine for themselves the hesitant periods which overwhelmed me that night. Want to keep reading?
English Translations of Jorge Luis Borges’ ‘Funes the Memorious’
The strange thing about the obituary is that Borges barely refers to Joyce or his work and instead describes Ireneo Funes, the main character of the story he was writing at the time. Of the magical compadrito of my story I can state that he is a precursor to supermen, a suburban, incomplete Zarathustra; what cannot be denied is that he is a monster. In fact, toward the end of the story he mentions that Funes found sleeping difficult, because to sleep is to get distracted from the world. In a word that fragmentary hoodlum is me, or is an image I stole for literary purposes but which corresponds to my own insomnia.
Borges and Memory: Encounters with the Human Brain [Excerpt]
Jorge Luis Borges First published in book form in It is the fictional story of Ireneo Funes, who, after falling off his horse and receiving a bad head injury, acquired the amazing talent — or curse — of remembering absolutely everything. Jorge Luis Borges wrote of a protagonist who could remember everything — including the shapes of clouds on any particular day. Credit: F.